Quinn was about to say something when her phone suddenly rang.
"Hello… oh, cousin… I can only sympathize… with your situation… the older generation is like that… don't take it to heart…"
Quinn spoke sympathetically for a moment, then hung up.
"Captain, who was that?" a grinning boy sidled up to ask.
"My cousin," Quinn said, opening a bottle and taking a sip.
"Your cousin—is that the tall beauty who drove a white Ford to see you last time? The one with the elegant air?"
"Mm-hmm."
"What was up?"
Quinn glanced at him as if to say, "Why are you acting like a woman?" but still replied, "Nothing much. My cousin's not that young anymore, and our family keeps urging her to settle down, but she's still single. My aunt and uncle have been pressuring her again, so she called me to complain. I can only comfort her."
"Hehe, really? Then why not set me up with your cousin?" the boy jabbed.
"With you?" Quinn snorted. "My cousin has high standards. Your father's just a department manager at some company. There's no way she'd look your way."
"Sigh—if your cousin keeps those standards up, she'll only end up with someone like Grayson."
"Scram—want to die?" Quinn arched an eyebrow, and the boy scurried off.
Poor Grayson, even he got dragged into their jibes…
"My cousin would never look at a loser like him," Quinn shook her head, then stretched and sighed. "So boring. Lauren, where should we go now?"
Before Lauren could answer, a black Audi Q7 rounded the corner and pulled up at the court gate. A young man in a striped shirt, pink slacks, and sunglasses stepped out—looking flashy.
"Brandon, you got a car!" Quinn exclaimed, running over.
The tennis‑club members crowded around.
"Brandon really is our top rich kid—already driving an Audi, so boss!"
"That car must cost five or six hundred thousand dollars," one girl gushed.
"No way—that's the base model. It's only three‑hundred thousand or so. I just got my license and wanted to practice. I'll sell it in two years," Brandon said proudly.
Naturally, they all ooh'ed and aah'ed again.
"Who is he?" Lauren and Grayson, still seated, watched the scene. Lauren asked.
"He's Brandon Carter, vice‑president of the tennis club. His family's loaded," Grayson replied.
Brandon was indeed wealthy—driving an Audi Q7 as a student put him well above ordinary wealth.
"I was wondering where to go. Brandon, take us for a spin!" Quinn batted her eyelashes at him.
"Sure," Brandon said. His very purpose in bringing the car was to woo Quinn, whom he'd coveted for months. He knew she was materialistic but with high standards, so he'd joined the tennis club, climbed to vice‑president, and now used his car to impress her.
"Lauren, come on—we're going for a drive!" Quinn called, and the two dashed off.
"Where are we going to hang out?" Matthew asked. He and the others also liked Quinn, but knew they weren't in Brandon's league. Still, spending time together was fun—especially now that Quinn had brought the beautiful Lauren.
"Let's do this: after their spin, our club will go to that Michelin‑starred restaurant for dinner, split the bill—but the girls don't pay!" Quinn proposed.
"Okay!" Matthew cheered. The others echoed "okay!" Even if they weren't as rich as Brandon, a Michelin meal was no big deal for them.
"Bring Grayson too," Lauren said, noticing him alone and forlorn.
"Him? I think not," Quinn shook her head. "He never comes to dinners."
"He's in the management school—I heard his family's poor. Once I saw him wait tables at a restaurant," Matthew chimed in.
"He's not on our level—don't invite him; he'll spoil the mood."
"Yeah—if we didn't need a ball‑boy, we'd have kicked him out of the club ages ago."
Even Quinn looked down on Grayson; the others followed her lead. Lauren, an outsider, felt awkward and said nothing more.
"Grayson—clean up the court and put the rackets back in our storage, got it?" Quinn called as she climbed into the Audi.
Grayson finished tidying the court and his phone buzzed with a message:
"Young Master Grayson: the matter is settled."
It was Grandpa Jenkins. Grayson nodded with satisfaction—family efficiency was real. In just under an hour, it was done.
Ten minutes later, his phone rang again—it was Jace.
"Grayson, hurry up! Lila's treating us!" Jace's voice bubbled with excitement, a stark contrast to the morning.
"Where's the treat?" Grayson already guessed, but feigned ignorance. Though he'd helped Lila, he didn't want her to know. He didn't wish any more contact—besides, if he'd never shown up at Bar Nineteen, none of this would've happened… and this was just making amends.
"Lila's situation's resolved—perfectly. Sterling Gate not only compensated for emotional distress but also apologized. Sounds like Lila's family has deep connections," Jace said. "She's super happy and wants to treat us at The Ivory Room. You have to come—hurry!"
"I'm not going," Grayson replied. No desire to see Lila again; he wanted it over.
"Come on—let's all get together. Miles, Tyler, and I are here. Just have a drink with your brothers," Jace coaxed. Miles and Tyler chimed in.
"All right, fine—I'll come," Grayson finally agreed. After all, it was his doing; he might as well eat the meal he'd earned.
---
On the third floor of The Ivory Room, Grayson arrived to a table already halfway full. He recognized Jace, Miles, and Tyler from his dorm, plus Indie and Lila's three roommates. The others were likely Lila's friends.
Lila beamed with delight. "Everyone, order whatever you like!" She waved her hand and passed out menus. Gone was the tearful, terrified girl Grayson had seen that morning; now she was radiant, her grief washed away.
"Oh—so you showed up? Here to mooch again?" Lila sneered at Grayson—her signature contempt returning.
Jace quickly grabbed her arm. "Okay, enough. I'm in a good mood—eat if you want."
Lila glared at Grayson but let it go. A friend asked, "Who's this?" pointing at Grayson.
Lila whispered something in their ears—obviously recounting the Dicos incident. Their eyes went wide in shock.
Grayson shook his head. He'd come to spare Jace and Indie from discomfort; as intermediaries, they'd have blamed themselves if he'd stayed away.
Dishes began arriving—everyone ate and chatted about school and online gossip. Young people have no shortage of topics.
"By the way, Lila, about that Sterling Gate affair—who fixed it? Victor Langston personally apologized and compensated fully. Your family's connections must run deep," Avery said, sparking everyone's curiosity.
"Right—who saved the day?"
"Lila, you're not just a rich kid but a powerful‑family kid!"
"Tell us who helped you!"
Intrigued, Lila smiled proudly—now was her moment to boast.
"I'm not entirely sure. Let me call my dad."
She dialed. "Dad, who helped our family?"
"Honestly, I don't know," Charles Bennet replied, perplexed. He'd felt cornered when Sterling Gate threatened SilverStream—he'd even considered conceding. He'd begged every contact for help, but no one dared get involved. Just when all hope was lost, Langston himself had come to apologize. Who was this savior? Bennet had scoured his network but found no answer.
"Oh, you don't know either?" Lila was stunned.
"But I did hear something: someone saw Tax Director Prescott at Sterling Gate this morning," Charles added.