Jason didn't waste time. He called in a favor—a rented truck, two movers he trusted, and a promise of high-end whiskey when the job was done.
By the time midnight hit, he was standing in front of the vault, hands on his hips as the movers took stacks of crates.
Jason pointed. " We go straight to the studio. No stops. No detours. I don't care if Beyoncé herself asks for a ride—you don't stop."
Lex leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. "You couldn't wait until morning?"
Jason scoffed. "Latham, this ain't some corporate memo. This is music history. You think I'm gonna leave this sitting overnight? Hell no."
Jason hopping into the driver's seat. The engine roared to life, and within seconds, he was on the road, disappearing into the night.
Then it was Jonathan turn. He pulled out his phone, his fingers flying over his contacts. His mind was racing too fast to even consider sleep.
Lex smirked, watching him. "You're calling your people?"
Jonathan shot him a look. "Latham, I just stood in a room with lost Vermeers, undiscovered Picassos. I'm calling everyone."
Lex chuckled. "Try not to give them a heart attack."
Jonathan wasn't listening. The first call connected.
"Yeah, it's me. Wake up."
A muffled groan from the other end. "Jonathan? It's two in the morning."
"And you're gonna want to be awake for this."
Lex folded his arms, amused, as Jonathan launched into a low, intense monologue. Words like "unseen archives," "private collection," "biggest reveal of the decade" came flying out of his mouth.
Jason had his obsession. Now Jonathan had his.
By the time he hung up, his hands were already dialing the next name.
"Latham, I really don't think I can sleep."
Lex cracked his neck, exhaling slowly. "Might as well start the numbers."
Jonathan let out a low whistle. "You do realize some of these pieces are priceless, right?"
Lex's black eyes gleamed. "Nothing is priceless. Everything has a number. We just have to decide who's willing to pay it."
Jonathan sighed, shaking his head. "Remind me never to play poker with you."
Lex leaned against the desk, already scribbling notes. "While you handle the art, we also need to plan tomorrow's tea session."
Jonathan blinked. "Right. The Zhangs."
Lex smirked. "And the Chinese Embassy."
Jonathan let out a low groan, rubbing his temple. "You're really about to negotiate with billionaires and a government over tea, huh?"
Lex flipped a page in his ledger, completely unbothered.
"It's the civilized way."
Lex moved through the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, carefully selecting the right teas and snacks for tomorrow's meeting.
Jonathan watched from the doorway, still slightly dazed. "You're making the tea yourself?"
Lex smirked, not looking up. "If I'm inviting billionaires and diplomats into my house, the least I can do is make sure the tea is perfect."
He reached for a polished wooden box, flipping it open to reveal rows of carefully stored tea leaves.
Jason, who had just walked in after securing the last of the music crates, raised an eyebrow. "That's a serious setup."
Lex pulled out a specific pouch, inhaling lightly before nodding in approval. "This one's from my grandmother's collection. Aged pu-erh, over thirty years old."
Jonathan leaned in, impressed despite himself. "That's the good stuff."
Lex moved with effortless precision, measuring the leaves, setting out delicate porcelain cups, and arranging an assortment of handmade snacks—flaky pastries, sesame cakes, and a selection of seasonal fruit.
Jason smirked. "So let me get this straight. You're about to sit down with billionaires and government officials… and you're flexing on them with tea?"
Lex chuckled. "Flexing? No. Welcoming guest."
By the time the tea was steeped to perfection, Lex had arranged the sitting area in the tea room—a balance of elegance and subtle power.
The low lacquered table was set with fine porcelain, each cup carefully placed. The snacks were arranged deliberately, the fruit sliced with precision at the center.
Everything was designed to send a message—control, hospitality, and quiet authority.
Jonathan exhaled, crossing his arms. "You know, I don't think I've ever seen someone set a trap with tea before."
Lex chuckled, stepping back to survey the setup.
"Tomorrow isn't about selling art." His voice was measured, calm. "It's about making sure they understand what they're really bidding for."
Lex turned, smirking.
"This is heritages."
Lex moved with practiced ease, placing the final teacup with a steady hand. Every movement—measured, deliberate—a habit ingrained in him since childhood.
Jonathan, watching him with mild curiosity, finally asked, "Where the hell did you learn all this?"
Lex smirked, adjusting the porcelain lid of the teapot. "My grandmother."
Jonathan's brow lifted.
Lex nodded. "To her, art wasn't just something to be owned. It was philosophy. Life itself was art."
He poured a small stream of tea, watching the steam curl into the air.
"She believed that the way you serve tea, the way you hold a brush, even the way you treat a guest—it all reflects who you are."
Jonathan hummed, watching the care Lex put into every detail. "So this tea setup? This is more than just a meeting prep."
Lex eyes scanning the countless pieces that had been tucked away for decades. He rolling up his sleeves. Hoarding it all was pointless. It wasn't how the game was played.