Chapter 1: The Stolen Dream

The notification chimed on Leo Vance's phone just as he was wrapping up the quarterly analysis for Croft Industries. His heart skipped—not from the spreadsheet in front of him, but from the hope that this might be the message he'd been waiting for all week.

Maybe they finally arrived.

Leo had been checking his mailbox religiously since Monday, each empty visit a small blow to his chest. The San Francisco Titans were heading to the Championship for the first time in fifteen years, and those tickets—Julian Croft's incredibly generous gift—were his golden ticket to witness history.

But the notification wasn't about tickets. It was a reminder about tomorrow's client presentation.

"Vance!" Marcus Thorne's voice cut through the office ambiance like nails on a chalkboard. "I need those projections in my office in ten minutes. And make sure you double-check the formatting this time. Can't have our biggest client seeing amateur work."

Leo gritted his teeth and saved his file. At twenty-nine, he'd clawed his way from a middle-class background into the elite world of Apex Consulting through pure intelligence and relentless work ethic. His tech sector analyses were considered some of the best in the industry. Yet Marcus—who'd inherited half his status and schmoozing skills to maintain the other half—still treated him like a junior associate.

"Of course, Marcus. I'll have them ready."

Marcus didn't even look up from his phone. "Good. Oh, and Vance? Julian Croft specifically requested you handle the follow-up analysis on their Q4 expansion. Seems you've made quite an impression."

That was something, at least. Julian Croft wasn't just any client—he was the client. CEO of a Fortune 500 tech empire, the man who could make or break careers with a casual recommendation. More importantly, he was a fellow Titans fanatic who understood what Sunday's game meant.

Leo gathered his materials and headed to Marcus's corner office, trying to push down his disappointment about the tickets. There had to be a reasonable explanation. Mail delays, maybe, or Julian had sent them to the wrong address. These things happened.

As he entered Marcus's office, he noticed something that made his stomach clench. There, casually tossed on Marcus's mahogany desk between a crystal paperweight and a half-empty tumbler of whiskey, were two tickets.

Championship tickets.

Leo's eyes fixed on them, and his world tilted slightly. The tickets were unmistakable—premium seats, Section 108, Row 5. Exactly what Julian had described when he'd mentioned the gift with that characteristic playful grin of his.

"Marcus?" Leo's voice came out steadier than he felt. "Are those... Championship tickets?"

Marcus glanced over, and Leo caught something—a flicker of guilt, maybe, or annoyance at being caught. But it vanished so quickly Leo wondered if he'd imagined it.

"Oh, these?" Marcus picked up the tickets with studied casualness. "Yeah, got them from a client. Pretty sweet seats, actually. Taking my brother-in-law. He's been bitching about never seeing a championship game."

The words hit Leo like a physical blow. From a client. The phrasing was too careful, too evasive. Leo knew Marcus's client list—mostly smaller firms that dealt in manufacturing and retail. None of them had the kind of connections or budget to secure premium Championship tickets.

"Which client?" The question slipped out before Leo could stop himself.

Marcus's eyes narrowed slightly. "I don't see how that's relevant to your work, Vance. Now, about those projections..."

But Leo barely heard the rest. His mind was racing, connecting dots he didn't want to connect. Julian had specifically mentioned giving tickets to "someone on the team handling our account." Leo was the primary analyst on Croft Industries. Marcus was the senior partner who took credit but rarely did the actual work.

The tickets were supposed to be his.

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur. Leo nodded at appropriate intervals, made notes he'd never remember, and somehow maintained his professional composure. But inside, a cold fury was building—not the hot, explosive kind, but something crystalline and sharp.

Back at his desk, Leo stared at his computer screen without seeing it. Fifteen years. The Titans hadn't made the Championship in fifteen years, and he'd been there through every heartbreak, every near-miss, every devastating playoff loss. His apartment was practically a shrine to the team—signed jerseys, vintage posters, ticket stubs from games dating back to his college days when he could barely afford nosebleed seats.

And Marcus—who probably couldn't name three players on the roster—was going to watch history unfold from seats that should have been Leo's.

His phone buzzed. A text from his buddy Mike: Dude, you still coming to McGrady's to watch the game Sunday? Place is gonna be INSANE.

Leo stared at the message. McGrady's Sports Bar, with its sticky floors and overpriced beer, surrounded by other fans who couldn't afford tickets. It would be fine. It would be fun, even. But it wasn't the same as being there, feeling the stadium's energy, being part of something legendary.

He typed back: Yeah, definitely. Wouldn't miss it.

But the words felt hollow.

Sunday came and went in a blur of crushing disappointment. The Titans lost by three points in overtime—the kind of heartbreaking defeat that would haunt fans for decades. Leo watched it all from McGrady's, surrounded by groaning fans and the smell of defeat mixed with stale beer.

By Monday morning, he'd almost convinced himself to let it go. Maybe he'd misunderstood Julian's gift. Maybe the tickets really had gone to someone else on the team. Maybe—

His phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: Leo, this is Julian Croft. We need to talk. Tonight, 8 PM, rooftop bar at the Meridian Hotel. Come alone.

Leo's blood went cold. Julian had his personal number—they'd exchanged contact information months ago for urgent project communications. But this wasn't about work. The tone was too personal, too urgent.

And that phrase: Come alone.

Leo read the message three more times, his heart hammering against his ribs. There was only one reason Julian Croft would want to meet privately, urgently, after the Championship game.

He knew about the tickets.

The rest of the day crawled by like molasses. Leo tried to focus on his work, tried to convince himself that the meeting might be about something else entirely. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw those tickets on Marcus's desk, heard the careful evasion in his boss's voice.

By 7:30 PM, Leo was pacing the sidewalk outside the Meridian Hotel, his palms sweating despite the cool San Francisco evening. The hotel's rooftop bar was exclusive, expensive—the kind of place where business titans made deals that moved markets.

The kind of place where careers were made or destroyed.

Leo straightened his tie, took a deep breath, and walked through the gleaming lobby toward the elevator. Whatever Julian wanted to discuss, whatever he knew or suspected, Leo would face it head-on. He'd built his reputation on integrity and competence.

But as the elevator climbed toward the rooftop, carrying him toward a conversation that would change everything, Leo couldn't shake the feeling that his comfortable, predictable world was about to explode.

The doors opened with a soft chime, revealing the glittering cityscape and the silhouette of one of the most powerful men in Silicon Valley waiting in the shadows.

It was time to learn the truth.