Dividends Of Dust

Elon Reagan’s study smelled like dying roses and betrayal. The curtains were drawn, slicing sunlight into prison-bar stripes across the Persian rug. Brian’s left knee wouldn’t stop bouncing—tap-tap-tap—against the Chesterfield sofa.

Jake focused on the oil painting behind their father’s desk: a 17th-century warship, sails billowing, cannons blazing. “The Reagan Legacy”. It had hung there since they were kids, back when “disappointment” still stung like a fresh slap.  

Elon didn’t sit. He never sat. He “loomed”, his shadow stretching over them like a gavel. “A police chase!” His voice was soft. Dangerous. “Through SoHo. Live-streamed by influencers.”  

Brian snorted. “Since when do you watch TikTok?”  

The decanter shattered before Jake even saw Elon move. Crystal shards skittered across the mahogany desk, bourbon bleeding into the rug. Jake flinched; Brian didn’t.  

“You think this is a joke?” Elon’s knuckles whitened on the chairback. “The board is demanding answers. Our stock dipped eight percent(8%)  overnight. Eight. Because my sons think they’re auditioning for “Grand Theft Auto”.”  

Jake’s throat tightened. He could still taste the harbor’s salt, feel the trawler’s deck swaying beneath him. “It wasn’t our fault. The DA’s kid—”  

“—is a methhead who can’t hold his needle,” Elon snapped. “But “you”? You’re Reagans. You don’t get excuses.”  

Brian slouched deeper into the sofa, picking at a loose thread in his Balenciaga blazer. “We handled it. Igor’s dumping the car in Jersey. The boat’s scrap metal by now.”  

“Handled it.” Elon’s laugh was hollow.

“Like you handled the Shanghai merger? Or the Berlin lab scandal?” He straightened, tugging his cuffs—a nervous habit he’d deny to his grave.

“Nathan Vanguard closed the Brunei deal last night. Solo. No parties. No bullets.”  

Jake’s molars ground so hard his jaw ached. “Nathan fucking Vanguard.” Their father’s favorite ghost. Twenty-nine, Harvard MBA, face like a toothpaste ad. He’d been haunting them since prep school, when Elon started framing his “Wall Street Journal” interviews beside their suspension notices.  

Brian’s smirk died. “Here we go. Saint Nathan, patron saint of sucking corporate d**k—”  

“Language,” Elon hissed.  

“—while we’re out there actually “living”—”  

“Living?” Elon’s palm hit the desk. A paperweight leapt, clattering. “You’re “children”. Spoiled, reckless children.”  

The air crackled. Jake’s pulse roared in his ears.  

“Nathan’s a robot,” he muttered. “You’d trade us for a spreadsheet that smiles.”  

Elon froze. For a heartbeat, Jake thought he’d swing. Then his father’s face settled into that cold, familiar mask—the one he wore at shareholder funerals.  

“Nathan understands legacy. Sacrifice.” Elon’s voice frayed at the edges. “You think I wanted this? To spend my life cleaning up your mess?”  

Brian stood abruptly, the sofa screeching. “Then stop. Let us sink. See how long Saint Nathan lasts when your precious board realizes he’s got the charisma of a tax audit.”  

Elon’s eyes narrowed. “Sit. Down.”  

“Or what? You’ll cut the trust fund?” Brian’s grin was all teeth. “Go ahead. I’ll sell my kidney on I*******m. Jake’ll pawn his hair gel. We’ll be fine.”

Jake’s stomach churned. This was their dance: Brian needling, Elon seething, Jake choking on the silence.  

“Get out.”  

The words hung, sharp as a cleaver.  

Elon turned to the window, shoulders rigid. “Get out before I say something we’ll all regret.”  

Brian was already at the door, hand on the knob. “Wouldn’t want to tarnish the legacy.”  

Jake lingered. The painting’s warship mocked him, cannons aimed at his chest. “Dad—”  

“Now, Jacob.”  

The hall outside was all marble and silence. Brian lit a cigarette, flicking ash onto a Ming vase. “You still owe me fifty grand for the boat.”  

Jake stared at the closed study door. “He’s getting older.”  

“And?”  

“And he’s scared.”  

Brian blew smoke at the ceiling. “Good. Maybe he’ll finally drop dead.”  

The elevator dinged. A maid scurried past, eyes downcast.  

Jake’s phone buzzed—a “Times” alert: Vanguard Group Secures Brunei Energy Deal, Outbids Reagan Conglomerate. He swiped it away. “What now?”  

Brian grinned, all reckless edges. “Now we find Nathan and key his Tesla.”  

Brunei City

Meanwhile, back at Brunei Nathan had already finalized the deal with the energy company and was preparing to travel back to Eden City. Nathan Vanguard’s cufflink snagged on the car door as he slid into the Mercedes, a tiny rebellion against the otherwise seamless morning.

The driver, a wiry man with a name tag reading “Hassan”, nodded too eagerly in the rearview. Nathan adjusted his sleeve, the platinum links catching Brunei’s amber sunrise. A gift from his father after the Tokyo acquisition. "For the man who never misses detail," the note had read. Now the clasp felt like a shackle.  

The hotel’s air conditioning still clung to his suit, but outside, the humidity was a living thing—thick and syrupy, pressing against the windows. Nathan rolled down the glass a fraction, letting in the tang of diesel and durian fruit from street vendors. His phone buzzed: Flight crew confirmed. Wheels up in 90.

"Faster, please," he said, though Hassan was already weaving through traffic like a motorbike courier.  

On the expressway, Nathan scrolled through the finalized Brunei contract on his tablet. Clause 8.2 glared back: Force Majeure excludes "acts of corporate negligence." His thumb hovered.

The Reagan Conglomerate’s bid had been sloppy, desperate—their refineries outdated, their lobbyists heavy-handed at the Sultan’s cocktail parties. Yet their name had lingered in the negotiation room like a bad smell. Because of the sons, he thought. Always the sons.

His finger twitched, deleting a redundant comma in the digital margin. Perfection wasn't a habit; it was compulsion.  

At the airport, a security agent waved him past the queue, eyes skittering away from his face. Nathan’s reputation preceded him: the 34-year-old who’d outmaneuvered Shell in Jakarta, who’d turned down Forbes interviews, who’d never once been photographed with a drink in hand. The Vanguard heir didn’t “relax”. He optimized.  

The Gulfstream’s cabin hummed with sterile calm. Nathan declined the steward’s offer of espresso—too acidic before takeoff—and opened his encrypted email. “Board Memo: Reagan Stock Plummeting. Acquisition Potential?” Attachments bloomed: police reports, paparazzi shots of Brian Reagan’s Maybach fishtailing past cop cars, Jake’s bloodied knuckles gripping a dock railing. Nathan zoomed in. Jake’s Rolex was counterfeit. Of course.  

He typed a reply: Leverage their debt-to-equity ratio. Prepare bid draft by 9 AM EST. Send.  

Somewhere over the Pacific, turbulence jolted the plane. Nathan’s pen streaked across a margin. He stared at the line, jagged and defiant, before ripping out the page.  

Eden City greeted him with sleet and a text from Lina: Car 2A. No press.

The Escalade’s heater roared, fighting the November chill. Lina handed him a dossier. "Reagan’s creditors are panicking. Three banks are ready to jump."  

"Good." Nathan’s breath fogged the window. "Set up a call with Citadel’s CFO. Quietly."  

"Already done. 4 p.m. They’re expecting terms."  

He almost smiled. Lina was the only person who’d ever matched his rhythm, her efficiency a mirror he both relied on and resented.  

His phone rang. **Unknown Number.**  

He rejected it.  

It rang again.  

"What?"  

"Mr. Vanguard." The voice was synthetic, warped. "Check your inbox."  

The line died.  

Nathan’s thumb trembled—just once—before steadying. He opened his email.