The Billionaire's Game

All characters are over the age of 18.

We almost didn't go to our 10-year class reunion.

When we first got the invitation, we were excited about seeing our old high school classmates again. We sent in our reservation along with a check and marked the date on the old-fashioned calendar we keep hanging on the kitchen wall. Then fate decided to play a trick on us.

Meg had a good-paying job at an up-and-coming technology company. Her income combined with mine from a job at a big accounting firm meant we earned enough to give us a nice middle-class lifestyle. We did, that is, until the company Meg worked for abruptly declared Chapter 11 without even paying its employees their last month's wages.

Suddenly, we were caught in a vise-grip of a new mortgage on a house we'd stretched to buy in the pricey San Diego market, and two student loans we likely wouldn't be able to pay off before our 80's. Overnight, our comfortable lifestyle was transformed into a struggle to keep our financial heads above water.

So as the date for the reunion neared, we seriously considered writing off the tickets and staying home. Neither of us wanted to admit to our probably successful classmates that a) Meg was between jobs right now, or b) Meg lost her job and we were currently living on beans and ramen noodles, or c) we might have to sell our house at a loss because we couldn't afford the mortgage any more.

But Meg is a very positive person (one of the things I really love about her), and she convinced me that we could keep any reunion conversations focused on the good old days rather than our uncertain future. "Besides," she reminded me, "we haven't been able to do anything fun in weeks. It'll be nice to get out of the house at least for one evening."

So there we were, pulling up in front of an older Holiday Inn near the highway, hoping to recapture our "glory days" at our 10th reunion. Once inside, we made our way to the reservation table in the "ballroom" -- conveniently converted from the hotel dining room. The crepe paper and strings of LED lights festooned along the walls were a little tawdry, but who were we to be snobby?

"Martin!" came a feminine scream, and then Sandy Mosley was reaching across the table to hug me enthusiastically. "I'm so glad you came," our former class president gushed, "and you too, Megan." She quickly got us signed in and presented us with cheaply printed name tags to wear. "I'll find you later," she yelled as another couple arrived to check in. "We have so much to catch up on."

As we walked away from the registration table, Meg looked back askance at Sandy, who was wearing her old cheerleading skirt and sweater. "What was all that about?" she asked, a mix of irritation and jealousy in her voice.

"Damned if I know," I swore. "I haven't seen or heard from Sandy since we graduated from dear old JFK high."

Of course Meg knew that Sandy and I had dated after Meg and I broke up our senior year. We'd agreed that since we were headed to different colleges, it didn't make sense to stay together our last year in high school. I'd been pretty down about it at the time, but gradually I saw the logic and began to re-engage socially. I'd dated Sandy our last semester, but it hadn't been anything serious. Two years later, when Meg transferred to my college, we'd had our own reunion that ultimately led to our marriage.

Before Meg could make a snarky comment about Sandy, one of her old girlfriends came over and grabbed her. They wandered off to reminisce, leaving me to my own devices. I went over to the bar table and bought a beer, mentally reminding myself to stretch it out as long as possible. Then I began the process of "re-uneing" with my old classmates.

I found the conversations only mildly interesting. Meg and I had been pretty popular back then, so quite a few of the people I saw had been friends. But frankly, after going over the same "Do you remember when's" and admiring other people's photos of their kids (of which we had none, thank heavens), the conversation grew fairly boring fairly quickly. In addition, between all the people milling around and the oldies piped-in over the sound system, the room was fairly noisy -- not really conducive to reconnecting with people.

Then something odd happened. Both doors to the ballroom were pushed opened and a tall African-American man with a shaved head strode into the room. Once inside, he stopped and began carefully scanning the room arrangement and everyone within. Finally, apparently satisfied, he went back outside and the doors closed.

What was that all about? I wondered.

Before I could find someone to ask, the ballroom doors opened again, and the big man re-entered. This time, however, he stepped aside to reveal a white guy of average height and appearance. But when I looked closer, I saw he wasn't average at all. From his $200 haircut, professionally bleached teeth and perfectly tailored Armani suit, I realized this guy had money. He reminded me of a network newsman or a congressman, except for the black Converse Allstars he wore on his feet.

The minute the new guy made his appearance, the drone of the conversation in the room changed to a buzz of excitement. Then Sandy was beside me, gripping my arm tightly. "This is so awesome," she enthused. "He said he might come, but I really didn't believe he would!" With that she dashed toward the newcomer so quickly that the tall bodyguard intervened to make sure she kept a safe distance.

Unfazed, Sandy gushed, "Oh, Bernie, I'm so glad you decided to come." Then she turned to the rest of us. "Look, everyone, it's Bernard Mansion! We're so glad you made it -- come on over and let's get you registered."

I realized Meg was now beside me, and I turned to her in puzzlement. "Who did she say that was? I don't recognize him."

"Don't you remember?" she prodded. "That's Bernie Mansion -- Nerdy Bernie."

"The geeky guy with wild hair and the bad acne? Wow, he's really changed."

"And it's not just his appearance," Meg went on. "He's our high school's first billionaire!"

"Nerdy Bernie? You're kidding me."

Meg abruptly pinched my arm, shot me a warning look, then peered over my shoulder. When I turned around, the celebrity himself was standing there. "Megan, Martin -- I'm so glad you're here. It's been a long time." He reached out to squeeze our shoulders. "Listen, I need to see some of the others now, and I've got an announcement to make, but I want to talk to the two of you later, okay?"

"Um, sure, Bernie, whenever you'd like."

"Excellent," he smiled, and then turned to plunge into the crowd of classmates clamoring to see the famous man.

I turned back to Meg. "What was all that about? Why would Bernie want to talk to us? I don't really remember having much to do with him back when we were in high school."

She shook her head. "I have no idea. I tried to be nice to him back then, but he was always so geeky and obsessed with computer games that I just never had anything in common with him."

"Yeah, me too. And that horrible acne he had didn't help."

"I'm going to go talk to some of the other girls to see if I can find out anything else about him."

"Okay, I'll probably do the same. Let me know what you come up with." With that, we split up again.

As I wandered back through the crowd, I came upon our former class president sipping on a bottle of water. "Hey, Sandy," I called, "What's the story on Bernie? You seem to know a lot about him."

She eagerly pulled me to her side as though to impart hush-hush information. "What I heard was that he went off to college at Stanford but dropped out his sophomore year to develop games. You know Spring-Sprung?"

I did a double-take. "That's a fun game -- I've got it on my phone. Wait, are you telling my that's Bernie's?"

She nodded vigorously. "That's right, and he made a fortune off it. There've been several spin-offs, and I think the Cartoon Network developed a kids' show based on it.

"Anyway," she went on, "he leveraged the Spring-Sprung money to develop a role-playing game that became an even bigger hit. Three years ago he sold that to Microsoft for several billion. Then he used some of that money to form Electronic Mansion Games, the big video game developer. I read in Wikipedia that EMG's bestseller, "WarFarers," is the most downloaded game in history. As a result, EMG's stock has a current market cap of $157 billion on the NASDAQ. Guess who the majority stockholder is?"

I just stood there stunned. Yeah, like everybody else, I'd read about guys like Bezos and Musk and Zuckerberg, but I never expected to come in contact with anyone from that level of the economic stratosphere. And especially not for him to be an old classmate.

Sandy squeezed my arm and then hurried off to assume her place of honor beside Mansion. I spotted Meg talking animatedly with some girlfriends, but I decided to leave them be. Looking around the rest of the room, I noticed the big bodyguard standing at parade rest by the entrance. That gave me an idea.

After a quick stop at the bar table, I walked over to the big man and extended the glass I'd brought with me. "It's pretty warm in here -- I bet you're thirsty."

"That's kind of you, but I don't drink when I'm working."

"No worries: it's just ice water."

He accepted the glass with his left hand, took a small sip, then a large gulp. Afterwards, he extended his right hand. "Very thoughtful of you. I'm Carter Everton, by the way."

"No problem. I'm Martin..."

"Martin Campbell," he finished for me.

I raised my eyebrows. "How do you know my name?"

He gestured at the crowd. "I know everyone's name here. It's part of my research to make sure Mr. Mansion is safe."

I stared at him in disbelief. "You researched everyone here?"

He nodded.

"So, find any potential threats?" I asked flippantly.

"Sure. You're on my list, for example."

"What! I'm not..."

He held up his hand to stop me. "Your current financial situation raises a red flag. But I also know you're a law-abiding citizen with a spotless record, so I have you as a low risk."

I started to get angry, but caught myself. He was right, at least from his viewpoint. It would be easy to covet Mansion's riches; maybe in another life I'd be envious enough to try something. But not in this world. I decided to change the subject.

"Ex-military?" I asked.

He nodded.

"Can you talk about it?"

He shook his head.

"I figured. So how long have you been working for Mansion?"

There was no hesitation. "Twenty-three months, twenty-nine days, eleven hours and (he checked his watch) twenty-three minutes."

Before I could figure out what to say to that, we heard tapping on a microphone. I turned to see Mansion standing on a chair. "Can everyone hear me?" he asked. In response to the cheers from the crowd, Bernie cleared his throat.

"First, I want to salute Sandy Mosley for organizing everything." The crowd dutifully applauded, and a blushing Sandy waved gaily.

"Having said that, I must say I find our accommodations a bit mundane, especially for such an illustrious group. Accordingly. I've reserved the penthouse floor of the Palais San Diego Hotel, and I want to invite all of you to join me there to continue our revelry."

Gasps went up from the crowd, followed by excited conversations. The Palais San Diego was the most expensive hotel in town.

But Bernie wasn't finished impressing us. "You don't need to worry about transportation: I've engaged a fleet of Ubers to take everyone over to the hotel. You can leave your cars parked here; the Ubers will be available to bring you back whenever you wish."

As the babble began to rise again, he hurried on with his closer. "I realize, of course, that this change of location may be inconvenient for some of you. Babysitters may need to be extended, other plans rearranged, etc. Therefore, to compensate you for your trouble, every guest who goes to the hotel will receive a payment of one thousand dollars. So please come, even if it's only for a little while. I think you'll definitely find it's worth it."

As he stepped down from the chair, the group erupted into cheers and excited conversation. We were all going to a party thrown by an actual billionaire at one of the ritziest venues in the city! Everton tugged open the double doors to the Holiday Inn ballroom, and people began to surge out.

I started to look for Meg only to spot her hurrying in my direction. "We're going, aren't we?" she urged when she reached my side.

"How can we say no?" I asked rhetorically. "I've never even been in the Palais San Diego's lobby, much less in the penthouse. Plus that $2 thousand will go a long way to covering our expenses this month."

At that moment, Mansion appeared at our sides, grabbing our arms emphatically. "You two are coming, aren't you?"

"Of course," Meg replied. "It sounds wonderful, Bernie. You're so nice to do something like this."

He bowed his head in mock humility. "It's no big deal, really. But listen, after we get over there, I need to speak to the two of you, okay?"

"Sure, Bernie, no problem," I said, and when Meg nodded as well, he smiled.

"Excellent! Don't forget." Then he hurried off, leaving us as curious as before.

The top floor of the Palais San Diego, we saw when we arrived, featured a large central meeting room flanked by what I assumed were bedroom suites. When we stepped out of the special express elevator into the penthouse lobby, Meg and I were greeted by an attractive young woman holding a box of envelopes. Carter Everton was standing behind her, overseeing the proceedings impassively.

The young woman handed each of us an envelope, and when we checked inside we found a crisp packet of ten $100 bills. As we hastily tucked the money away, Meg rolled her eyes at me. "I read where F. Scott Fitzgerald said, 'The rich are different from you and me.' I think he was right."

I could only nod in agreement.

When we walked through the doors to the meeting room, the truth of Fitzgerald's assessment was even more obvious. Gone were the conference tables and office chairs. In their place were small round tables like you'd find in a nightclub, each with sleek chairs positioned around them. The tables in turn were grouped around a dance floor. Behind the dance floor was a small platform on which a jazz trio was performing.

Along the walls were sofas and loveseats grouped in conversation nooks. Elaborate floral arrangements filled coffee tables, and end tables featured art deco-style lamps that gave each nook an intimate feel. All of this luxury was framed by a view of San Diego that wrapped around three sides of the room. In short, the conference room had been transformed into an elegant nightclub, like something out of an old movie.

As we stood there trying to take it all in, the music suddenly swelled to a fanfare, and a spotlight picked out Bernie Mansion, following him as he strode to the stage. "Welcome everyone," his voice boomed out over his lapel mic. "I'm delighted so many of my fellow classmates could come.

"Please help yourselves to all we have to offer. To my right you'll find an open bar. Our three lovely bartenders (I spotted the girl who had passed out the envelopes, along with two other equally attractive companions) will be glad to serve you the liquid refreshments of your choice.

"If you feel yourself in need of nourishment, help yourself to the hors d'oeuvres from the tables on my left." I looked and saw three tables heaped with a smorgasbord of food and snacks.

"And with that brief announcement," Bernie went on, "let the reunion continue." He quickly descended from the platform and made his way out the door, with Carter Everton right on his heels. The crowd cheered their thanks.

As soon as he was gone, the trio resumed playing and the lighting dimmed. One of the pretty bartenders came over with champagne on a tray. "Compliments of Mr. Mansion," she said, and I gratefully grabbed flutes for Meg and myself. After toasting each other and our host, we made our way over to the windows to admire the lights of the city. From this viewpoint, San Diego looked like a sparkling tiara resting on the shore of the Pacific Ocean.

After finishing our glasses, we turned back to our surroundings, admiring the lavishness of the arrangements. "This is turning out to be a fantastic evening," Meg enthused. "I'm so glad we came. The way they've done this place is very romantic." She nudged her hip against me. "And when we get home, you're going to enjoy a little extra-special romance, because I'm really getting in the mood, Mr. Campbell."

"Can't wait, Mrs. Campbell," I replied, squeezing her to me. "May I bring you some more champagne to keep you properly motivated?"

At her nod, I went over to the bar and got us refills. After I returned, Meg suggested we check out the food table. As we got closer, I saw that my initial impression hadn't done the array before us justice. Fruits, crudites, trays of nuts, sliced prime rib, a huge salmon filet, bowls of shrimp on ice and much more lay before us. I found myself regretting I'd had a quick bite at home before we left for the reunion.

"Is that caviar?" Meg asked, pointing to a large crystal bowl beside a plate of toast points. Neither of us had ever tried any, so we decided now was our chance. As I swallowed my bite, I looked over at Meg, only to find her staring at me with a questioning look.

I made a face and shook my head. "I guess I just don't have rich taste buds," I said, and she laughed. "Me either -- we're just too middle-class."

"On the plus side, isn't caviar supposed to be an aphrodisiac -- because I'm definitely getting in the mood as well."

Meg laughed again. "I think that's oysters, but it doesn't matter. Between the night and the company (she gave me a meaningful look), it's definitely gonna be a good night."

"Enjoying yourselves?" a voice from behind startled us, and when we turned, Bernie was standing there.

We hastened to assure him that everything was perfect, and he nodded with a pleased smile. Then his expression grew serious. "Let's go somewhere less crowded so we can talk without being disturbed." He led us over to an alcove appointed like a parlor on one side of the room. When we entered, I noticed Carter Everton take up a position outside to ensure privacy.

Bernie looked thoughtfully at each of us, then turned to Meg. "Megan, I have a confession to make: when we were in high school, I had the biggest crush on you. I thought you were the most attractive woman I'd ever seen." He took her hand and kissed it. "I still do."

Meg actually blushed. "That's so sweet, Bernie," but he wasn't finished.

"So now that we're back together, I'd like to make up for lost time. Megan, I want you to spend the night with me."

I was stunned. Did he really say that? Did he mean what I think he meant?

"Of course I'll bring her back to you tomorrow, Martin," he went on calmly.

I glanced at Meg for support, then gave Bernie an angry stare. "I don't care how nice your little party is, Bernie, you've got a lot of nerve coming on to my wife like that." I turned to her. "Come on, Meg, we're leaving."

Mansion was unfazed. "Hold on, you two, you haven't even heard my proposition yet."

Something in his tone made me pause.

"Of course I wouldn't expect the two of you to accept such a proposal without something in return," he went on. "So how does this sound? If Megan agrees to spend the night with me, I'll pay off your student loans."

I started to reject him again when the import of what he'd just proposed hit me. "That's crazy," I shot back. "Do you know how much our loans are?"

He smiled and gestured to Everton, who handed him an IPad. "As a matter of fact I do. The two of you currently owe a combined total of $77, 823.15."