The bond prices flicker across my screen—red, rising, alive. I lean back, smiling. Another twelve million today. Since Tuesday’s breakout, I’ve cleared fifty-five million. It’s been a hell of a week.

  /In the Ruby Republic's stock market, red indicates rising prices while green signals declining ones—the reverse of other markets. The superstitious leaders of the Red Party couldn't tolerate the notion that red would represent downward movement./

  The Shandong issue hit 101.2, and the ripple was instant. Investors who’d been sitting on their hands dove in. Then CITIC and Guosen swooped, pushing the price even higher. Bonds are hot again.

  And it started with me.

  I’m riding high. Taking oversized positions like I’m bulletproof. There’s this irrational conviction in me—that anything I touch turns to profit. I know it won’t last. Luck runs dry. Fifty-fifty trades flip. Certainties vanish. This job is a drug. Highs and crashes. Addictive? Absolutely. I'll enjoy the run while it lasts.

  I've been pulling late nights all week, but not tonight. It's Friday. And John Crawford's in town.

  I shut down the screens, nod to a few coworkers who toss me grins and congratulations. Then I walk over to Sonora’s desk.

  “Another great day, Prince of Trade?” she teases, eyes catching mine.

  I smile. I like it. Others call me Prince of Bonds. She knows it’s more than that—it’s how I move.

  “John Crawford’s in town. Want to meet him?”

  Her eyes widen, like I just said Justin Bieber. She’s visibly excited.

  “Yes! When?”

  I’m surprised. Last time I offered, she brushed it aside. Now I feel a flicker of jealousy.

  I’ve liked Sonora ever since she moved to the trading floor, though not in a romantic way at first. But Tuesday changed things. I took her to my favorite restaurant, ended up making a fool of myself. Drank far too much and woke up on her sofa. Things have been awkward since. She’s kept it professional, but I feel the tension—something electric when we’re near each other.

  She went home early the next day. Declined drinks last night. But when John said he’d bring a friend, I saw my chance.

  “In an hour,” I reply, glancing at my Rolex.

  “Oh,” she frowns. “No time to change.”

  “Why change?” I say, envy curling inside me. “You look amazing already.”

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  She wears a navy silk blouse tucked into cream high-waisted trousers—sleek, confident, and tailored to her tall frame. The neckline is modest, but the fit suggests curves beneath control.

  She smiles, and it hits me like a wave. Her eyes soften, curling at the corners with a kind of quiet magic—warm, knowing, a little dangerous. She’s breathtaking when she smiles. And I’m already leaning in, caught before I even realize it.

  “Where are we meeting?”

  “Club Room. We can head over now, grab a drink while we wait.”

  She pauses for a moment, then nods. “Give me five minutes.”

  … …

  We arrive at the Club Room just after half past six. The air is warm, and the city hums outside. We took a taxi, though walking might have been quicker. We chose comfort. Neither of us felt like rushing.

  Inside, the place is full—soft jazz playing, glasses clinking, conversations drifting like perfume. We settle at the lobby bar, tucked into a quiet corner.

  Sonora orders a Lychee Martini. I go with an Umeshu Spritz—light, refreshing, barely alcoholic. Something to sip, not chase.

  She turns to me, resting her elbow on the bar. “So,” she says, half teasing, “how much did you make for the Republic today?”

  “Twelve million,” I say, trying not to sound too proud. But I’d rather not talk about work tonight. “How do you like Shanghai,” I ask, “compared to London?”

  She takes a slow sip, then leans back slightly. "To be honest, Shanghai and London feel like opposites."

  “How so?” I am curious.

  "London is all about the system—regulatory layers, institutional memory, old money. You learn to respect the rhythm. Shanghai…" She pauses. "Shanghai feels fast and hungry. There's this raw energy, like everyone's chasing something just out of reach. On the surface, Shanghai has even more rules—stifling, rather—but they are designed to be broken."

  “I can see that.” I nod, agreeing.

  The Ruby Republic drowns in rules, but follow them too closely and you'll sink. Your rivals certainly won't play by the rules. Success hinges on who can bend the regulations without consequences, and how far they can push.

  “In London, people protect what they have. In Shanghai, people gamble on what they could be.” She adds.

  Then she tilts her head. “What about New York?”

  I think for a moment. “Somewhere in between. Loud. Relentless. Everyone’s selling something—even when they pretend not to. But it respects rules. And it doesn’t forgive when you break them.”

  She nods slowly. “I miss London’s quiet. The way the Thames looks at night. Here, even silence feels like it’s negotiating something.”

  I watch her as she speaks. There’s a softness in her voice now, something wistful.

  “Then why come back?” I ask, gently.

  She looks down at her glass. "For the money," she says. Then, after a pause, "To buy time. Real time. Not weekends or holidays. Time with people I love. Maybe somewhere like the Cotswolds. Or the Lake District. Where houses are built with bricks, not concrete. Slow mornings. A garden that actually needs tending."

  Her voice trails off. I feel something stir in me—not longing, exactly. More like recognition. A quiet ache I haven’t named.

  “I’d want my kids to grow up with space to think,” she continues. “To read. To argue politely over dinner. The British system teaches that. Structure. Debate. Independent thinking. A sense of history.”

  I nod, quietly. Her words linger. Not just the ones about gardens and children—but the way she said real time. It unsettles something in me. In a good way.

  I love the applause in Shanghai. The money. The velocity. But I’m not sure I love the tension—always taut, always urgent.

  I can imagine a life with Sonora. Mornings that begin with silence, not screens. Success measured not in bonuses, but in the way your child learns to ask questions at dinner. A river that doesn’t rush—just reflects.

  Sonora. I’ve never noticed before. Even the English name she chose sounds quiet. Like a small town in Spain.

  But as she said—money. First, enough money.