Royal Ascot gleamed under the June sunshine, a sea of bespoke suits and elaborate hats. Liam Torres adjusted his cufflinks—solid gold with small emerald accents, part of his growing collection of status symbols—as he surveyed the exclusive Royal Enclosure from behind designer sunglasses.
One month into his financial ascension, and here he was, rubbing shoulders with British aristocracy and international elite at one of the world's most prestigious horse racing events. His invitation had cost him €25,000, a donation to a charity patronized by a minor royal. Money well spent for what he had planned.
"Champagne, sir?" A server appeared at his elbow with a silver tray.
"Thank you." Liam accepted the flute, sipping the Dom Pérignon while consulting the race card in his other hand. The fourth race—the Gold Cup—was thirty minutes away. It would be his moment.
His phone vibrated discreetly in his pocket. A text from his primary financial manager in Zurich: *Transfers complete. All accounts verified. Macau position established.*
Liam smiled slightly. His corporate structure was now fully operational: Torres Financial Consulting in Madrid served as the public face, with subsidiaries in Switzerland, Singapore, and Macau creating a labyrinthine path for his funds. The Financial Times had recently published a small profile about him as an "emerging advisor to private clients"—a carefully planted story that had cost him €50,000 but provided invaluable legitimacy.
Current liquid assets: €12.4 million.
But today's races could double that.
"Liam Torres? Is that you?"
Liam turned to see Javier Alonso, a former assistant coach from his Liverpool days. The Spaniard looked genuinely surprised, taking in Liam's bespoke suit and obvious affluence.
"Javier. What a pleasant surprise." Liam extended his hand, maintaining his composure despite the unexpected encounter.
"I almost didn't recognize you! What are you doing here?" Javier gestured around the exclusive enclosure. "Last I heard, you were still looking for work after Liverpool."
"I made a career change. Financial consulting."
Javier raised an eyebrow. "From football analysis to finance? Quite a leap."
"You'd be surprised how similar they are. Both require pattern recognition, predictive modeling, understanding human psychology." Liam took another sip of champagne. "And you? Still with Atletico Madrid's coaching staff?"
"Technical director now." Javier stepped closer, lowering his voice. "But here on a scouting mission, if you can believe it. Sheikh Mohammed's racing manager doubles as a football investor. I'm hoping to arrange a sponsorship deal."
Liam nodded, filing away the information. Connections like these could be useful later.
"We should catch up properly," he said, extracting a business card from his wallet. "Perhaps your club could use some financial advising."
Javier took the card, visibly impressed by the embossed logo and heavy card stock. "I'll call you. And listen, if you ever want to come back to football, I could put in a word."
"I appreciate that." Liam excused himself as an announcement indicated the horses for the fourth race were approaching the paddock.
He made his way to the parade ring, positioning himself where he could clearly see the horses circling. This was the moment of truth—the largest bet he'd ever planned.
The Gold Cup was Ascot's most prestigious race, contested over two and a half miles. Twenty-four horses were entered, with odds ranging from 3/1 for the favorite to 100/1 for the outsiders.
Liam had been researching for days. Not just form guides and racing data, but the logistics of placing massive bets across multiple platforms simultaneously without triggering alarm bells.
As the horses circled the paddock, he activated his ability. "Window Five."
The vision came instantly: he saw the race unfolding, the first few minutes of the contest. The horses thundered down the straight, positioning for the first turn. But five minutes wasn't enough to see the finish of a race this long.
He waited until the horses were loading into the starting gates, then activated Window Five again.
This time, he saw the middle part of the race. The favorite was well-positioned, but a horse in blue and white silks—number 15, Phantom Whisper at 33/1—was making a move on the outside.
As the actual race began, Liam moved quickly to a private betting booth reserved for high-rollers. He placed his first bet: €50,000 on Phantom Whisper each-way through his personal account.
Then he pulled out his phone and opened his dedicated betting app, placing five more bets through different corporate accounts: €100,000 each on Phantom Whisper to win.
As the race progressed exactly as he had foreseen, Liam activated Window Five one final time with two minutes remaining in the race. The vision was crystal clear: Phantom Whisper surging in the final furlong, overtaking the favorite to win by two lengths.
Liam allowed himself a small smile as he watched the actual race unfold. When Phantom Whisper crossed the finish line first, the crowd around him erupted in a mixture of groans and cheers. He remained perfectly still, calculating his winnings: approximately €5.5 million from a single race.
He repeated the process for the fifth race, though with smaller stakes. Another €900,000 profit.
By the time the day's racing concluded, Liam had added nearly €7 million to his fortune. More importantly, he'd placed the bets in a way that appeared legitimate—large, yes, but not suspicious enough to trigger immediate investigations.
As he made his way toward the exit, satisfied with his day's work, a woman's voice called out from behind him.
"You must be the luckiest man at Ascot today."
Liam turned to find himself face-to-face with one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen. Tall, with dark hair falling in loose waves past her shoulders, she wore a cream-colored dress that perfectly complemented her olive complexion. He recognized her immediately: Valentina Reeves, the Italian-American supermodel who had recently become the face of Burberry.
"Luck is just probability taken personally," he replied, maintaining his composure despite his surprise.
"Is that why you bet on a 33/1 outsider in the Gold Cup? Probability?" Her eyes—a striking amber—studied him with unmistakable curiosity.
"You've been watching me." It wasn't a question.
"I was standing behind you at the betting booth. Hard not to notice someone putting €50,000 on a longshot." She extended her hand. "Valentina Reeves."
"Liam Torres." He took her hand briefly, noting the perfect manicure and complete absence of rings.
"Spanish?"
"Born there. Worked in England for many years."
"Let me guess—finance?"
Liam allowed himself a small smile. "What gave it away?"
"The watch, the suit, the casual attitude toward betting amounts that would give most people a heart attack." She gestured toward a nearby champagne bar. "Buy a lady a drink with some of your winnings?"
Warning bells rang in Liam's mind. Beautiful stranger taking interest in him immediately after a massive win? This could be a setup—press fishing for a story, or worse.
"Window Five," he thought automatically.
The vision showed them at the bar, champagne in hand, her laughter at something he said, genuine interest in her eyes. Nothing suspicious.
"I'd be delighted," he said, leading the way.
Over champagne, Valentina revealed she was at Ascot as a guest of a British fashion designer. She was intelligent, articulate, and unexpectedly knowledgeable about horse racing—her father had owned thoroughbreds in Kentucky.
"So, Mr. Torres, what's your secret?" she asked after their second glass.
"Secret?"
"Nobody bets that kind of money on a longshot without inside information."
Liam maintained his practiced smile. "Just thorough research and a tolerance for risk."
"Hmm." She didn't look convinced. "And is thorough research also how you made your fortune? Because I looked you up while you were ordering drinks. Torres Financial Consulting didn't exist six months ago, yet now you're handling millions."
The warning bells returned, louder this time. "You're very direct, Ms. Reeves."
"Valentina, please. And yes, I am. Life's too short not to be." She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Don't worry, I'm not a journalist or a corporate spy. Just a curious woman who appreciates a good mystery."
"And what makes you think I'm a mystery?"
"Because I've met every type of wealthy man, Mr. Torres. Old money, new tech, finance bros, corrupt politicians, trust fund babies. You don't fit any of the categories."
Liam considered his options. Complete honesty was impossible. A total lie would be easily discovered if she was already researching him. He opted for a partial truth.
"I developed a proprietary algorithm for predictive market analysis. It's been... remarkably effective."
Valentina studied him for a long moment, then smiled. "That sounds both plausible and deliberately vague. I like it." She took out her phone. "Your number?"
Liam hesitated only briefly before providing it. As she entered it into her contacts, she asked, "Are you staying in London?"
"The Connaught."
"Perfect. I have a charity gala there tomorrow night. You should come as my guest." She stood, gathering her clutch. "Unless, of course, your algorithm predicts it would be a poor investment of your time."
Liam found himself smiling genuinely for the first time in weeks. "I'll be there."
After she left, Liam remained at the bar, contemplating the unexpected encounter. Valentina Reeves was dangerously observant and obviously intelligent. Getting involved with her would create complications he didn't need.
And yet...
He finished his champagne and checked his phone. Multiple notifications from his betting apps confirmed his winnings were being processed. His financial manager had sent another text: *Unusual activity flags on Betfair account. Recommend no further transactions today.*
Liam sent back a one-word response: *Agreed.*
As he walked toward the exit, he passed the parade ring where attendants were preparing for the next day's races. A security guard nodded respectfully—his substantial betting had already earned him recognition.
In less than twelve hours, he had nearly doubled his fortune. At this rate, he would have the funds to acquire Nottingham Forest within another two weeks, far ahead of schedule.
The sunshine felt good on his face as he left the Royal Enclosure. In his pocket, his phone vibrated with a text from an unknown number:
*Still think it's just probability? -V*
Liam smiled despite himself. Perhaps some complications were worth the risk.