The Super-rich Gerald Arnold

Chapter 10

Gerald’s feet hit the pedals hard as he sped down the quiet streets, the cold night wind whipping against his face. His jaw was clenched, eyes sharp with a rage that was simmering just beneath the surface. The party was over. At least for him. He had no interest in watching people toast Steven like some kind of savior while mocking him behind his back. Let them laugh, he thought. It wouldn’t last long.

He could still hear Steven’s words echoing in his head—"You, an Arnold? What a joke." Gerald chuckled darkly. ‘If only you knew how right you were, Steven.’

Then came the memory of Amara’s smug grin, Freddy’s cowardice, the way they had mocked Juliet and pushed her into humiliation. They had gone too far. They had crossed a line they could never uncross.

Gerald parked his bike outside and stepped off, brushing dust from his pants, he immediately pulled out his phone as he headed up to his apartment. He had only one person to call—Uncle Sam.

The phone barely rang once before the old man picked up.

“Gerald, how did it go?” Uncle Sam’s voice was calm, expectant.

“No time for pleasantries,” Gerald stated, his voice low and firm. “I’ll go straight to the point. I’m still a long way from forgiving you all. After what you all did to my parents... what you did to me. But… I’m not letting the Arnold name fall apart because of them.”

There was a pause, then a deep, relieved sigh.

“You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear you say that, boy,” Uncle Sam said, and Gerald could practically hear the proud smile forming on the man’s face.

“I’ll help you save the family, but I have something I'd like you to do for me first,” Gerald continued.

“Whatever you need, Gerald.”

“When I clear my fortune tomorrow, I want you to help me acquire the Pentagon Talent Agency.”

Sam whistled softly. “That snake pit? Are you sure?”

“Dead sure. No new contracts are to be signed. No talent recruited. Put everything on hold until I assume full control.”

Another pause. Then, Uncle Sam's voice softened, becoming steadier, wiser.

“Now you're thinking like a true Arnold.”

Gerald gave a cold smirk. “Good.” The call ended.

“Because Amara is going to learn the hard way to never mess with my best friend.”

************

Back at the estate, the music played on, but the air had shifted. Professor Dalton had retired to his inner chambers with his close associates, leaving the party in the hands of the younger guests. He sat behind his large oak desk, swirling a glass of wine as he flipped through a file his assistant had handed over.

The door opened slowly, and Juliet walked in. Her head was bowed, shame written all over her face.

“Dad,” she said, voice quiet, “I came to apologize... for the situation with Gerald. I assure you he meant well. He definitely didn’t mean to cause you any—”

Before Professor Dalton could respond, Steven stepped in, interrupting Juliet, a smirk on his arrogant face as he leaned casually against the doorframe.

“There’s no need to dwell on that embarrassment,” Steven cajoled in a soft voice meant to comfort Juliet. “Let’s just bury the name Gerald and move on. I already saved the night, didn’t I?”

Professor Dalton nodded. “Yes. You did. Thank you for that, Steven.”

He gave Juliet a look that said she should be grateful to Steven instead of still bringing up Gerald’s name.

Then, as if it was the most casual announcement in the world, he added, “You know, this night has proven to me how much of a man you are. Be assured I’ll speak to Juliet, and we’ll begin to make arrangements for the engagement to be official soon. It’s long overdue.”

Steven’s eyes lit up with satisfaction. “I’ll let my parents know, sir. They’ll be thrilled.”

Murmurs of congratulations resonated through the room amongst Professor Dalton’s associates.

Juliet stared at both men, her stomach turning. Engagement? She had resisted that idea her entire life. Steven was the embodiment of everything she despised—entitled, condescending, and blind to his own cruelty. He and Amara deserved each other, she thought bitterly. Not me. How could her father speak of her own engagement as though she were not even in the room?

Suddenly, a servant knocked on the door and stepped in. “Sir, there’s someone here to see you. He says it’s important.”

“Send him in.” Professor Dalton said.

The door opened to reveal a well-dressed older man with sharp eyes and a calm, commanding presence. He carried a small case in his hands and wore a lapel pin shaped like a spiral scroll.

“Dr. Wallace K. Rainier,” he introduced, offering a firm handshake. “Vice Chairman of the Institute of Antiquarians and Archaeologists.”

Professor Dalton stood up, surprised. “I’ve heard of you, Doctor. What an honour to have you here.”

“I’m not here for pleasantries, professor,” Dr. Rainier stated. “I came for the boy. The one who gave you the Ring of the First Scribe. Gerald, I believe?”

Juliet stiffened. Steven let out a mocking laugh. “Ah, yes. Gerald. You mean the con artist who brought a fake ring and tried to pass it off as real? You are right to seek him out, Doctor; he should be punished for presenting a forged version of something so sacred to the artifact community.”

“I apologize on his behalf, Doctor Wallace,” Juliet added quickly, scared that Gerald was about to be slapped with criminal charges. “I know for a fact that Gerald wouldn’t willingly patronize counterfeiters. I’m sure it was a misunderstanding—”

But Dr. Rainier raised his hand. “No need. I’m not here for that. I’m here to ask how he came to possess the real artifact. As we all know, last it was heard of, it was presented to the Arnold family. The young man might have some affiliation with the family.”

Dead silence.

“The what—?” Professor Dalton blinked.

Steven’s laughter faltered. “What? That thing broke; I smashed it myself. The real one doesn’t break! And sir, with due respect, there is no way that Gerald could be affiliated with the Arnolds; he is a poverty-stricken wannabe.”

“On the contrary,” Dr. Rainier began explaining, setting the case on the table. “The ring Gerald presented is the real one. The ring was meant to be fragile. It was crafted from fossilized coral and Mesopotamian palm wood. Materials that splinter with ease. The centerpiece is a glowing ammonite fossil, wrapped in electrum threads from Lydia. The entire design honors the institute’s founder, Enki-Lar, who saw knowledge as fragile.”

He opened the case and carefully poured out the shattered remnants of the ring onto the table. “This is the Ring of the First Scribe. And it is... irreplaceable.”

Mr. Dalton stumbled back into his seat, eyes wide, hands trembling.

Everyone else in the room was shocked speechless.

Dr. Rainier continued, “Its value? Technically, priceless. But in a situation where it had to be sold, it would be retrieved by the Institute and done by auction, with the bidding price starting at a hundred million.”

Steven swayed where he stood; he was pale as a sheet now. “That... that can’t be.”

“Oh, it can,” Dr. Rainier said coldly. “And because you destroyed it—in the presence of witnesses no less—the Institute is revoking your family’s rights to collect or hold artifacts. Effective immediately. Any artifacts currently in your family’s possession will be retrieved without compensation, and the Wes family is banned for the next hundred years from being affiliated in any way with the institute.”

He turned to Professor Dalton. “And professor... you failed to defend the sanctity of the artifact. It’s safe to say that unless you can produce Gerald, you will face the same punishment.”

Without another word, Dr. Rainier closed the case, gave a nod, and exited the room.

The silence left behind was shattered by a thunderous slap—Professor Dalton’s hand across Steven’s cheek. The young man stumbled backward.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done!” Professor Dalton screamed.

“Sir—I—” Steven stuttered, holding on to his cheek and trying to snap out of the haze he was in; he still couldn’t believe what had just happened.

A punch to the stomach followed. Steven doubled over, gasping. A kick to the ribs. Blood spurted onto his designer suit. Professor Dalton couldn’t control his anger.

“Get out!” He yelled. “You’ve ruined everything! I sever all ties with your family! You are done!”

Servants rushed in, dragging Steven out by his arms as he groaned in pain.

Guests gasped as he was hauled out through the outer hall—where the party was still in full swing—bloodied and weak, embarrassment and shame written all over his face. Amara covered her mouth. Freddy and Alex stared, confused. What could have gone on in there? They all wondered.

Back inside, Prof. Dalton turned to Juliet, desperation in his eyes.

“Please, Love. Call Gerald. Beg him to come back.”

Juliet pulled out her phone and called once... twice... three times. No answer.

“Continue,” Prof, Dalton whispered. “Keep trying!”

But Gerald wasn’t picking up.

He had already made his decision.

And the world was about to remember the name they had mocked for so long: Gerald Arnold.