Bitcoin Billionaire: I Regressed to Invest in the First Bitcoin!

An hour later, the elevator hummed softly as it descended through the gleaming heart of the Steele Complex.

Inside, Darren stood with a quiet, commanding presence, hands clasped in front of him, steel-blue eyes fixed on his own reflection. It was like he hadn't just engaged in a madness of lustful romance a mere hour ago.

Thankfully, the suit was not stained. It had been slightly rumpled from their clash of desire but Rachel gave it a quick ironing and it was suitable once again.

On his body, it was grand, like it was made just for him. The suit was a Brioni Vanquish II, crafted from the finest Super 150s wool. The single-breasted jacket featured peak lapels, hand-stitched with surgical precision, hugging his broad shoulders and tapering to a fitted waist.

Beneath it, a Tom Ford dress shirt, pristine white, with its French cuffs secured by platinum cufflinks engraved with the Steele crest. A black silk Zegna tie, knotted in a perfect double Windsor, sat snug against his throat.

A Patek Philippe 5970P chronograph hung on his wrist and on his feet were John Lobb William loafers, hand-polished to a mirror finish, gleamed like obsidian.

Rachel was beside him, adjusting her skirt while finding it difficult to hide her happy smile.

Of course she was happy. After months of being cold to her, she had finally broken through to Darren, and he'd taken her like he once used to.

It had been wonderful.

She bit her lip just thinking about it, even accommodating the fleeting thought of doing it again in this elevator.

She took a peek at him, and he instantly caught it, causing her to look away, smiling nervously.

The doors slid open, revealing the grand lobby of the Steele Complex, its marble floors gleaming under the chandelier's golden light.

They stepped through it and out of the doors, meeting the cool evening breeze in Mauravard Street once they got outside.

"Are you taking your Reventón?" Rachel asked him.

He parted his lips to answer. Then, from the shadowed curve of the street, a sleek black Rolls-Royce Phantom limousine glided into view.

Darren paused, tilting his head.

The elongated car, polished to a liquid sheen, shimmered under the streetlights, its chrome Spirit of Ecstasy hood ornament catching flecks of the setting sun. The vehicle purred to a stop before the Complex's entrance, its presence as commanding as the man it had come to collect.

A liveried driver stepped out and opened the rear door. Then, Olivia Sinclair emerged.

Her attire caused Darren to lift both brows— a reaction that Rachel caught.

Olivia was breathtaking. Elegant through and through: the type that stopped the air in its tracks. She wore a Carolina Herrera gown from the recent 2011 collection, a floor-length, off-the-shoulder masterpiece in midnight black silk that clung to her figure impeccably before cascading into a subtle train.

The gown's clean lines were accentuated by a delicate row of pearls stitched along the neckline. Her emerald hair was swept into a loose chignon, with soft tendrils framing her face, and silver drop earrings gleamed against her porcelain skin.

On her feet were Manolo Blahnik heels that cost around $3000 a pair. They clicked softly against the pavement as she approached, her green eyes sparkling with confidence and a hint of mischief.

"You weren't going to show up to the castle of the lion in your Reventón, were you?" Olivia said,

kissing her teeth. "I knew it. Which is why I did you a favor by hiring this."

Darren turned to Rachel, his expression softening. "We'll talk later. Thank you for getting me the suit."

Rachel nodded, her gaze lingering on him, as he headed towards Olivia. She watched them share a hug, a more formal one though Olivia had a less-than-formal smile on her face.

She saw Olivia glanced at her briefly, her lips curving into a faint, knowing smile before she turned her attention back to Darren.

Rachel frowned slightly, turned around and entered back in the Complex.

"Aren't you supposed to be broke?" Darren asked her.

She laughed, a low, melodic sound. "My parents forgot to cancel the black card they gave me for emergencies. I don't know about you, but this seems like an emergency to me."

Darren scoffed amusingly as he slid into the limousine after her. His security guard— a tall, broad-shouldered man in a tailored black suit— following and taking a seat near the partition.

The interior was a study in opulence: butter-soft black leather seats, polished mahogany paneling, and a crystal decanter in the mini bar casting prisms of light across the cabin.

A discreet panel overhead mimicked a starlit sky, its soft glow bathing the space in a quiet, celestial calm. A faint trace of sandalwood lingered in the air, mingling with the hum of jazz from hidden speakers.

Darren settled beside Olivia, eyeing her gown which pooling elegantly around her.

Looking away, he adjusted his cufflinks, exhaling a slow, deliberate breath as he leaned back against the leather.

"Nervous?" Olivia asked, eyes probing as she studied him.

"Maybe," he replied, eyes ahead.

She tilted her head, her earrings dangling. "Good. It'd be smarter to be nervous. It means you know what you're walking into. Archibald Mooney isn't a man to take lightly."

Darren's jaw tightened, but his voice remained steady. "I'm not taking Archibald likely."

She stared at him, then smiled. "That's good to hear, handsome."

Darren glanced at her, but she pretended like she hadn't just said anything.

So, in the silence, with soft jazz playing, the limousine glided through the city.

Moments later, Le Château de la Lune came into view.

It was a grand estate perched on the northern edge of Los Alverez like a crown jewel. As they arrived, the wrought-iron gates parted slowly, revealing a driveway lined with garden torches and marble columns draped in ivy.

Cascading waterfalls flanked the entrance, their gentle rush mingling with the scent of lavender and aged oak that hung in the night air.

The building itself was a study in old-world grandeur, made of stone and steel with tall windows spilling warm, golden light onto the manicured lawns below.

The limousine came to a stop, and a valet in a crisp black uniform opened the door. Darren stepped out, the invitation letter in his hand.

He handed the invitation to a steward in a tailored tux who handed it to security.

Olivia stepped out beside Darren, her gown shimmering as she adjusted her shawl. Their two security guards flanked them, silent and vigilant, as the steward approached. "Mr. Steele, Ms. Sinclair, this way, please."

They were led through the grand foyer, a breathtaking expanse of polished marble and soaring ceilings.

Golden sconces gave light to beautiful rooms full of tapestries hanging beside rosewood panels. Waiters moved like shadows, carrying trays of delicate amuse-bouches— caviar tartlets, truffle-dusted scallops, and crystal flutes of vintage champagne.

A jazz quartet played in the corner, the smooth notes of a saxophone weaving through the hum of conversation.

The air was rich with the scents of roasted pheasant, aged wine, and the faint musk of power. A few heads turned as Darren passed, their whispers trailing in his wake, but most of the elite gathered here were too absorbed in their own machinations to notice.

The steward guided them through a corridor lined with velvet drapes and flickering candelabras, the noise of the main dining room fading into a distant murmur. They paused at a gilded door, its surface etched with a crescent moon.

This must lead to Mr. Mooney's private lounge. Darren recognized the logo.

The steward opened it, revealing a quieter chamber— a private lounge that felt like stepping into another world.

It had the name; Eldar Lounge inscribed in calligraphy on the wall.

An opulent place, it was. Velvet-lined chairs surrounded a circular ebony table set for three, its surface gleaming under a chandelier of smoked glass. A fireplace crackled behind a wall of reinforced crystal. The air was cooler here, scented with cedar and the faint tang of aged scotch.

There were men in suits everywhere, standing at attention with mean and military expressions on their faces.

And in the center of it all, there sat Archibald Mooney.

The Lion himself.