The Billionaire's Stowaway

The cold, plastic bench of the holding cell pressed against your legs. You'd been trying to disappear into the corner, but the uniformed officer's voice sliced through the quiet, flat and administrative.

"You made bail."

Your head snapped up. Bail? Who would post your bail? Your mind raced through the short list of people you knew, none of whom had the means or, frankly, the inclination.

"Someone posted your bail," he repeated, already turning away. "He’s waiting out front."

"Wait, someone... who?"

"Guy in a suit," was all he offered, disappearing down the beige hallway. Not exactly helpful, but you weren't in a position to argue. Following him felt like moving through a strange, institutional dream, past the sounds and smells of other people's bad days.

And then you were outside. Sunlight hit your eyes, and there he was – Guy In A Suit. Sharp, expensive, radiating an air of absolute control. He looked at you, scanning, assessing, and then spoke the name that would change everything.

"Mr. Julian Voss has requested a meeting with you."