A $50 million margin call? I'll short Wall Street.

Thursday, March 20, 2008, 9:20 PM.

W Hotel, Business Suite 2317.

Two people.

A bottle of wild turkey bourbon whiskey, casually taken from the hotel's mini-fridge—without even ice—was poured into two sturdy glasses.

Isabella threw her coat on the back of the sofa, took off her high heels, and stepped barefoot onto the carpet.

She sat at one end of the sofa, tucked her legs under her body, held a wine glass in both hands, and looked out the window at the brightly lit Manhattan skyline.

Lu Ze sat at the other end of the sofa, unbuttoned his suit jacket, and loosened the top button of his collar.

He held the wine in his hand, but didn't drink it. He just swirled it gently, watching the amber liquid in the glass swirl.

The room was very quiet.

Only the occasional car horn from the distant street sounded extremely distant and blurry through the triple panes of glass in the floor-to-ceiling window.

They sat there quietly, and no one spoke.

This was the first time in the past two weeks that the two of them didn't have to do anything or think about anything; they could just sit there.

Isabella took a big gulp of bourbon, feeling the burning sensation of the liquor as it burned down her throat, and then slowly exhaled.

"Boss,"

She spoke, her voice languid and slightly tinged with alcohol.

"I'm going to ask you a question, and you have to answer honestly."

"Um."

Are you really not worried?

Lu Ze turned to look at her: "What?"

"Well..." Isabella swirled her wine glass.

"From the very beginning. The moment we staked our last five million, the moment we tore up the liquidation documents in front of everyone in the Goldman Sachs conference room, the moment the court's freezing order was issued..."

She looked directly into Lu Ze's eyes:

"Did you ever, even for a single second, feel that you might really lose?"

Lu Ze did not answer immediately.

He took a sip of whiskey, savoring the familiar smoky flavor spreading in his mouth, and then looked out the window.

"have."

Isabella paused for a moment, somewhat surprised.

This was not the answer she expected.

"When?" she asked.

"The night Goldman Sachs issued the freeze order."

Lu Ze's voice was calm, as if he were stating an objective fact.

"I read that legal email from beginning to end, and then..."

He paused for a moment:

"Then I watched it again."

"Then what?"

"Then I realized that the path they were taking—'the contract is invalid from the beginning'—could actually work."

Lu Ze said, "Under the framework of US contract law, if Goldman Sachs' lawyers are ruthless and shameless enough, there's about a 30% chance they can stand up in court."

Isabella held her breath.

"Thirty percent," she repeated softly, "which means, if..."

"If Greenberg's nuclear weapons hadn't succeeded in forcing Goldman Sachs to compromise, if his old connections with the SEC hadn't been enough, if the Wall Street Journal reporters hadn't been bold enough..."

Lu Ze turned his head and looked at her:

"We might not get a single penny."

Isabella looked at him, unsure of what to say.

"So you asked me if I was panicking."

Lu Ze said, "I panicked. That night, I recalculated all the deductions until 3 a.m.."

"Then...then why..." Isabella's voice trembled slightly, "Why don't you seem flustered at all?"

Lu Ze was silent for a moment, then said something:

"Because on Wall Street, once you let your opponents see your fear, you've truly lost."

He picked up his glass and took a sip:

"Fear is necessary. But fear should only remain in your mind at 3 a.m. It should not be present where anyone can see you."

Isabella stared at him for a long time.

She suddenly remembered the scene from that night when she rushed into that apartment and saw Lu Ze standing in front of the Bloomberg terminal.

His head was wrapped in black bandages, and he was toying with the heavy M1911 in his right hand, his eyes as cold as a stagnant pool.

Her first thought at that moment was—

This person wasn't in despair; he was preparing to hunt something.

"So," Isabella took a sip of her drink, a slight smile playing on her lips, "you've been acting all along, just like that, in front of me?"

Lu Ze looked at her and paused for two seconds.

"Do not."

His voice was calm:

"I have no need to put on an act in front of you."

Isabella was stunned.

This is probably the closest Lu Ze has come to speaking "truth" in the past two weeks.

She lowered her head, looking at the bourbon in her glass, concealing a fleeting emotion in her eyes.

After a long while, she looked up and changed the subject:

"Boss, what are your plans next?"

"What? What should we do?"

"Five hundred million." Isabella looked at him. "Is this money just going to sit there and let it depreciate?"

A very faint smile appeared on Lu Ze's lips.

What do you think?

"Commodities?" Isabella thought for a moment. "Oil?"

Lu Ze neither denied nor confirmed, but simply swirled the wine in his glass.

As Isabella looked at his expression, a certain string in her heart trembled slightly.

She remembered what Lu Ze had said three weeks ago, right here in this suite, standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling window—

Bear Stearns was just an appetizer.

She took a deep breath:

"I suspect the next three weeks will be even tougher."

"Yes."

Lu Ze nodded, his tone extremely calm, "It's rare."

"Then do you still need me?"

Even Isabella herself was taken aback when she asked the question.

The alcohol made her finally voice the question she had been holding back for so long.

She raised her eyes and looked directly at Lu Ze:

"What I mean is... the next battleground—commodities, oil futures, global macroeconomics... those aren't my areas of expertise. I work in financial engineering and corporate finance, not futures. The team you're recruiting will include true commodities experts."

She paused for a moment:

"Will I... become a superfluous person?"

Lu Ze did not answer immediately.

He put down his wine glass, stood up, and walked to his desk.

He took a file folder from the drawer, walked back, and placed it on the coffee table in front of Isabella.

"Open it and take a look."

Isabella gave him a suspicious look, then picked up the file folder and tore open the seal.

Inside is a contract.

She lowered her head and glanced up—

Farstar Capital Management Co., Ltd.

Chief Operating Officer (COO) Employment Agreement

Isabella's finger stopped on the contract.

She looked up at Lu Ze.

Lu Ze stood in front of her, his hands in his pockets, his expression calm, as if he were waiting for an ordinary contract to be signed.

"This is……"

"Your new contract."

Lu Ze's voice remained calm, but every word was extremely clear:

"I don't need a senior assistant anymore. I need an COO. Someone responsible for the company's day-to-day operations, team management, compliance oversight, and making decisions on behalf of Farstar Capital in my absence."

Isabella stared at the contract, turning to the page on salary terms.

Annual salary: $2,000,000 (two million US dollars).

Excess profit dividend: 2% of Yuanxing Capital's annual net profit.

Her fingers trembled slightly.

Her annual salary of two million US dollars is nearly six times what she earned at Farstar Capital.

But even more significant than that number are those two words—

COO.

Chief Operating Officer.

Not an assistant.

Not an analyst.

He is a core senior executive at the partner level.

On Wall Street, this meant she could finally look at those who had told her in various ways that "Asian women don't belong here" on equal footing.

Isabella lowered her head, feeling a lump in her throat.

She is not someone who cries easily.

But at this moment, she couldn't hold back.

A tear fell onto the paper of the contract, spreading out in a faint circle.

She took a deep breath, raised her hand to wipe the corner of her eye, and then looked up at Lu Ze.

Her eyes were still red, but the vulnerability was gone, replaced by an extremely firm, hunter-like ambition:

Isabella picked up the ballpoint pen from the coffee table and forcefully signed her name on the last page of the contract.

Isabella Chen

She pushed the contract back to Lu Ze, then picked up the glass of bourbon whiskey, raised it, and looked at Lu Ze.

Lu Ze picked up his glass and gently clinked it against hers.

The glasses clinked together, making a crisp, light sound.

In this hotel suite filled with financial statements and legal documents, bathed in the lights of Manhattan late at night, the two sat there, slightly tipsy.

That's all.

But some things have quietly changed.

Outside the window, the lights of the Empire State Building were still on.

The city that never sleeps, never sleeps.