World Domination Begins With Getting a System in a Modern World-Chapter 127: Meeting With Mr Donovan

A few minutes later, James arrived at the Bel-Air Country Club.

The towering hedges, pristine walls, and tastefully understated signage marked it as no ordinary place. The very air around the entrance felt polished.

He drove up to the gate and saw a security guard already walking toward his window.

James rolled the window down as he brought the vehicle to a smooth stop.

"Good afternoon, sir. This is a private club. May I ask your name and who you’re here to see?" the guard asked, his tone polite but firm, and his professional posture told James that he means business.

"James Zolomon. I have a 2 PM appointment with Mr. Donovan," James replied coolly, maintaining eye contact.

The guard gave a curt nod and glanced down at a tablet in his hand, scrolling briefly.

"Yes, Mr. Zolomon. You’re cleared," he said after a second. "Head straight down the drive, the south practice range is at the far end past the clubhouse. Enjoy your visit."

He stepped aside, motioning toward the gates, and with a slight beep, they began to open smoothly.

"Thank you," James nodded and pressed lightly on the accelerator, easing the Range Rover past the threshold.

***

The moment he entered, it was like stepping into another world.

The outside world faded behind him as the gates shut silently. Inside, the roads were freshly paved and lined with precisely trimmed hedges and towering trees that arched overhead, creating a canopy of green.

To his right, a glimmering water feature ran alongside the main path — a long reflecting pool with artfully placed stone fountains that splashed gently into the water, the sound barely audible through the closed windows.

James passed rows of vibrant green lawns that looked almost too perfect to be real. The grass was cut to perfection, and not leaf out of place, not a single stray patch.

Several golf carts zipped along designated lanes, carrying elderly men in crisp polos and women in elegant visors, and their soft and composed laughter filled the air, trailing behind them.

Up ahead, nestled among manicured gardens, stood the main clubhouse — a stunning Mediterranean-style structure with terracotta roof tiles, beige stucco walls, and massive arched windows that gleamed under the afternoon sun.

It looked less like a clubhouse and more like a five-star villa in southern Italy.

Luxury cars like Bentleys, Aston Martins, Rolls Royces were parked in an orderly line under shaded awnings near the front, tended to by a silent team of well-dressed valets.

James drove past slowly, eyes scanning the sprawling scene.

Beyond the clubhouse, he could see glimpses of the main golf course — an endless expanse of rolling emerald hills, gleaming sand traps shaped like works of art, and flag-tipped holes that stood like beacons under the sun.

Every inch of the landscape looked curated and intentional, like it had been designed by hand, one blade of grass at a time.

Eventually, James followed the signs leading to the south practice range — a more private section of the club, set further back, partially shielded by a gentle rise of hills and trees.

As he rounded the final curve, he saw it: a wide, open driving range bordered by lush trees, with a small shaded patio area nearby for guests to rest, talk, or observe.

There were a few members scattered across the green, practicing swings in rhythmic silence, attended by professional-looking instructors in sleek uniforms.

James pulled up to a small, shaded parking area beside the range, reserved for special guests and senior members.

He turned off the engine and exhaled slowly, as he continued to take view in.

This place screams exclusivity! This is the kind of world where connections mattered more than wealth, and access was everything.

And today, he was on the inside.

James stepped out of the Range Rover, the soft crunch of the gravel beneath his shoes the only sound for a moment.

He grabbed his golf bag from the back, adjusted the strap over his shoulder, and looked around calmly.

Now, all that was left was to wait for Mr. Donovan.

While he waited, James decided to walk around, familiarise himself with the place and test himself.

He walked down the south practice range, his eyes scanning everything — the turf, the layout, the way others were swinging. He kept his posture relaxed but his mind was taking it all in, processing every little detail.

He passed a few members already immersed in their routine, some with instructors quietly correcting their stance, others focusing on their own rhythm.

There was a certain silence about the place, almost reverent. Like even sound had to dress up to be here.

After walking for a bit, James finally found a spot near the far edge of the range. It was quiet and away from the others, and also shaded slightly by a few tall trees.

He slung the golf bag off his shoulder and placed it down gently, unzipping the top and pulling out a mid-iron — one of the clubs he’d practiced with back home in his room.

James took a deep breath, stepped into position, and began to adjust his stance the way he remembered from the videos — feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, back straight.

He gripped the club tightly, then loosened it a little, just like the tutorials said.

Just as he was about to take his first swing, a calm, measured voice spoke from behind him.

"Relax your shoulders. You’re holding too much tension in your upper back."

James froze for a second.

That voice... it felt familiar. He’d only heard it once, through a brief call... but it was unmistakable.

He turned around, eyebrows lifting, and saw a man standing behind him.

He looked to be in his early fifties. Tall, well-built, with short, neatly combed silver hair and sharp grey eyes. His skin was tanned from years under the sun, and though his posture was relaxed, there was an unmistakable air of presence about him — the kind that couldn’t be faked.

He wore a clean navy blue polo, crisp white slacks, and a black Titleist cap, and even though his outfit was simple, he carried himself like the room belonged to him — or in this case, the entire club.

James didn’t expect him to arrive so early. This meant that if he had arrived late, then...

He didn’t even need to think about to know what will happen.

James smiled and stepped forward immediately, extending a hand.

"Mr. Donovan," he said respectfully, his voice steady, calm. "It’s good to finally meet you."

Mr. Donovan looked at James for a second — long enough for it to feel like an appraisal — then cracked the faintest smile.

He took James’ hand, shook it once, firm and deliberate.

"You’re early," Donovan said, with a slight nod of approval. "Good. Means you’re serious."

James held the older man’s gaze, offering a small, confident smile of his own.

"I don’t like wasting people’s time," he replied simply.

Mr. Donovan gave another short nod, with his expression unreadable.

"Let’s see what we’re working with," he said, motioning toward the spot James had picked.

"Go on. Swing."

James nodded and turned back toward the ball, gripping the club again and resetting his stance.

With Donovan watching now, he focused even harder, adjusting his feet, loosening his grip, keeping his shoulders in check.

He inhaled... and swung.

The club sliced through the air and struck the ball clean, sending it flying a decent distance. It wasn’t perfect but it wasn’t quite bad either.

Behind him, Donovan let out a quiet murmur, neither impressed nor disappointed.

"Not terrible," he said calmly. "Could be worse."

James smiled faintly. That should be a compliment coming from a man like him.

"But your follow-through’s weak. Your base is solid, but your arms are too stiff. Golf’s not about brute strength. It’s about rhythm. Precision. Flow."

He stepped beside James and, without asking, gently tapped his knee with the end of his club.

"Bend that more. Shift your weight with your hips, not your shoulders."

James listened, adjusted, and swung again.

This time, the ball flew smoother, straighter.

Donovan nodded once. "Better."

He stepped back, arms folded.

"Let’s keep going. I want to see what you can absorb before we talk."

James reset his stance with a nod, hiding the small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He knew that this wasn’t just a test of skill. It was a test of patience, discipline — character. And James was more than ready.