Chapter 4 - The Shadow of Walter Martin
The name Walter Martin hung in the cold rainy air like a heavy, suffocating smog.
Richard’s face drained of all color, shifting from angry crimson to a sickly, translucent white. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again, but no sound came out. Anyone in the city’s upper crest knew the name Walter Martin. He was the elusive, legendary real estate titan, the majority shareholder of the Martin Global Conglomerate—a man who owned half the commercial properties in the district, including the very building L’Étoile Dorée operated in. He was a billionaire recluse who hadn't been seen in public for over eighteen months following the mysterious death of his eldest son.
"W-Walter... Martin?" Richard stammered, his arrogant composure crumbling into raw, unadulterated terror. "No... no, that's impossible. Walter Martin lives in a penthouse in the financial district. You're... you're just a homeless..."
The old man ignored Richard entirely. He lowered the phone, tapped the screen once to end the call, and smoothly slipped the multi-thousand-dollar device back into his coat pocket. He turned his gaze back to Clara, who was staring at him in absolute shock.
"What is your name, my dear?" Walter asked, his voice softening into a tone of profound, quiet respect.
"Clara..." she whispered, her hands shivering from the cold rain. "Clara Vance."
Walter’s eyes flickered slightly at the last name, a shadowy, complex emotion passing through his gaze so quickly it vanished before Clara could decipher it. "Clara. A fine name. A name that belongs to someone with an intact soul."
Within four minutes, the sound of heavy tires cutting through flooded asphalt echoed down the street.
A convoy of three massive, polished black Maybach sedans rounded the corner, their high-beam headlights slicing through the rain and fog like twin daggers. They pulled up smoothly along the curb, blocking off the entire front entrance of the restaurant.
Before the vehicles had even come to a complete stop, four men in sharp, rain-resistant dark suits stepped out, holding massive black umbrellas. One of them, a tall, iron-haired man wearing rimless glasses and carrying a heavy leather briefcase, rushed directly toward the bench.
"Mr. Martin!" the attorney gasped, opening a huge umbrella over Walter’s head while another security operative draped a thick, luxurious cashmere coat over the old man’s wet shoulders. "Thank God we tracked your signal! When you vanished from the hospital wing three days ago after the board meeting, we feared the worst!"
May you like
Walter stood up slowly. He discarded the dirty dark coat, allowing it to drop to the wet pavement. Beneath it, despite the rain, his frame was tall, imposing, and regal.
"I needed to see the world without my money, Arthur," Walter said quietly to his attorney, his eyes never leaving Richard’s trembling form. "I needed to see who would offer a hand to a dying old man when there was nothing to gain from it."
