**Evening, on the way to Ridgehill Club**
Now, let me tell you about the Ridgehill Club. It's the top five-star club in X City. All the elites go there to close business deals, make enemies, kiss cheeks, and pretend they care about each other's grandchildren. You know, standard billionaire bonding rituals.
Shan and I left for the club in an expensive, exquisite car that looked like it could pay off the national debt. I was dressed in a designer suit so fancy I felt like I was cosplaying as a finance villain in a Korean drama. And behind us? A whole separate car loaded with bodyguards. Dozens. Like I was royalty. Or a target. Or both.
To be honest, this suit was uncomfortable. Not because it didn't fit. Actually it fitted me too well—like it was trying to cling to me. In my life before transmigration, I was so broke that my wardrobe consisted entirely of T-shirts. Black, blue, white—you name it, as long as they came in a budget twin pack. Today, when I opened Lucien's closet in search of a plain shirt, all I found were designer clothes. Everything looked expensive enough to file taxes independently.
"Mr. Moreaux, we're almost there," Shan said, pulling me out of my spiral. "Do you want to check the investment overview for a final touch?"
"Yeah. Give me the file," I said, sounding like I knew what I was doing.
"Here, Mr. Moreaux. Check if we need any slight adjustments."
It was about the Eastern Suburb Project. Fancy name. But their proposal had more holes than my ex's excuses. How did I know? I mumbled to myself, "Seems like I got Lucien's memories too." Brain fusion, baby. A combo of genius and mild delusion. Let's roll.
Shan stared at me. "Mr. Moreaux, you've been talking to yourself a lot lately. Should I book you an appointment with Dr. Arno Theryn Solace?"
Just hearing her name made my ears turn pink. I almost forgot about her—almost.
"Where is she now?" I asked, suddenly far too casual.
"Probably at the hospital. On duty," Shan replied with a chuckle. "Do you like her, Mr. Moreaux?"
I gave him a death stare—serious face, with an invisible smile. "You don't want this month's paycheck, do you?"
"Boss! Don't be cruel," he whimpered with the eyes of a kicked puppy.
"Mr. Moreaux and Assistant Shan, we're almost at the destination," the driver called from the front.
"Mr. Moreaux, here's your mask," Shan said, handing me a sleek dragon-shaped mask that covered the eyes and nose.
I stared at it. "Am I going to rob the hotel?"
Shan bit his tongue. "No, no! You said you don't like public appearances. You ordered this designer piece yourself. The public still doesn't know your reap identity, remember?"
Ah, right. That explained why Lucien's old man still had no idea that his 'nameless, unfilial son' is the richest man in the country. What a plot twist.
"Fine," I said, putting the mask on my face like some mysterious drama CEO. "Let's go."
The driver pulled the car to a stop, opened the door, and I stepped out in full slow-motion glory. All the bodyguards bowed like I was some ancient emperor. And there it stood—Ridgehill Club, in all its majestic, glowing, gold-trimmed glory.
We walked up the grand steps to the entrance—and then suddenly:
**POP! POP! POP!**
A symphony of party poppers exploded around me, showering the room in glittering confetti and slightly excessive enthusiasm. Laughter and applause followed.
"Welcome to the club, Mr. President!" said a line of polished staff, standing in two neat rows with the manager beaming at the front.
I blinked. Looked left. Looked right.
Then turned to Shan. "Where's the president? Why are they greeting me?"
Shan smiled with deep affection, like I'd just invented toast. "Mr. Moreaux… you becoming funnier each day...you are the president of Ridgehill Club."
"…I am?"
"Yes."
"Damn," I muttered. "I transmigrated into a whole tax bracket."
---
"Bring Mr. President to the penthouse," ordered the hotel manager, puffing his chest like he was about to knight me.
"This way, sir," said the assistant politely, bowing slightly like we were in some royal drama.
They led me into an opulent room—no, not just rich. It was rich rich. Plush couch, shiny marble floors, golden decor dripping from every corner like someone had spilled wealth everywhere. And then there they were: the major stakeholders and the CEO of the Luma Group. Oh, and randomly, a few women who seemed to have misplaced most of their clothing.
Wow, I thought. So this is what money looks like. Half-naked models included.
In my old life, the fanciest thing I ever did on a date was buy two cones of vanilla ice cream and pretend it was "minimalist dining." Now? Now I had women looking like they were auditioning for a Bond movie just... lounging. All because they wanted my signature on some project.
Everyone stood up when I entered, like I was the Pope. Shan stood tall next to me like my loyal knight, minus the sword and plus a tablet.
"Welcome, Mr. President. It's our great fortune to have you here," said one of them, flashing a smile that probably cracked at the corners from disuse. The room filled with the kind of fake laughter that makes your soul cringe.
"Take your seats," I said, channeling all the confidence I did not actually possess.
"Serve the drinks," the Luma CEO said, gesturing at a waitress who was balancing trays like an Olympic gymnast.
"Mr. President, about the Eastern Suburb project—why don't we go ahead and invest?" asked one stakeholder guy, practically salivating at the thought of my bank account.
"Yes, Mr. President," said the CEO, smiling like a child who just drew on the walls and wanted praise. "I won't disappoint you."
"We'll see a tenfold return on investment," another guy chimed in. They were piling it on like whipped cream on a rotten pie.
"What do you think, Mr. President?" They all stared at me, waiting for me to nod like a bobblehead.
I cleared my throat, which is CEO code for: Brace yourselves.
"It seems like the Luma Group doesn't have a decent proposal writer. Do you?" I asked, eyes locked on the CEO.
He blinked. "Is… is there something wrong with the proposal?"
"Oh no," I said with a polite smile. "Other than the fact it's full of loopholes, missing safety measures, and doesn't account for soil stability in an area known for landslides—no big deal."
Cue panic. I nodded at Shan.
Like clockwork, Shan stepped forward and handed out copies of the proposal like he was distributing report cards to students who definitely failed.
"I don't like incomplete proposals," I said. "And yet, you all approved this while I was away?" My voice had the calm rage of a disappointed father in a drama series.
And for once, I didn't feel like an imposter pretending to be some billionaire CEO. I felt like me. Lucien Malric Moreaux. In charge. Dangerous. Mildly dehydrated.
"Mr. President… have mercy. We didn't know," one stakeholder said with all the sincerity of a used car salesman. He spun to the Luma CEO and roared, "How dare you submit such a proposal with no safety precautions?"
And then. I swear. He winked. At the CEO.
Oh god, am I hallucinating already?
The Luma CEO dropped to one knee, cradling a wine glass like it was the last rose on The Bachelor.
"Mr. President, please accept this as an apology. It's a 100-year-old vintage. Specially ordered for you."
Now, was I suspicious? Yes. Did I still drink it? Also yes. I was parched, okay? CEO-ing is thirsty work. I downed the wine in one dramatic gulp before Shan could leap across the table like a bodyguard in an action movie.
"Mr. President," the CEO said with a groveling smile, "perhaps you should rest today. I'll rewrite the proposal myself."
"Yes, yes, rest," another one nodded so fast I thought his neck might snap.
Was that… a wicked smirk? My instincts screamed. My stomach agreed.
"Mr. President?" Shan asked, brows furrowed in silent panic. "Are you feeling unwell?"
"Shan," I leaned in. "Take me to the presidential suite."
"Mr. President, are you alright?" someone else asked, performing concern like he was auditioning for a hospital drama.
"This meeting is adjourned," I said, each word dragged from the bottom of my soul. "I'm going back to my suite. I'm… tired."
"Take care, Mr. President," they all echoed like creepy cult members.
As Shan helped me toward the door, I leaned in and whispered into his ear, dead serious:
"…The drink was tampered with."
Shan froze. "Tampered?"
I nodded grimly. "With an aphrodisiac."
He didn't say anything. Just blinked.
And I, the ex-mosquito turned CEO, regretted everything.
---