World Domination Begins With Getting a System in a Modern World-Chapter 139: New Money Faction

James followed Elliot toward the long, elegantly set dining table nestled under the open-air Veranda Pavilion.

The breeze carried a subtle scent of fresh lavender and citrus, blending with the faint aroma of baked bread and wine.

Each seat was perfectly arranged with crisp name cards written in elegant cursive.

James scanned the table until he found his — "Mr. James Zolomon" — nestled between two names he didn’t recognize.

He pulled out his chair and sat down gracefully, careful to adjust his blazer and remain composed.

The fabric of the chair was soft, the legs weighted to prevent even a squeak. Everything here — from the silverware to the angle of the wine glasses — screamed curated perfection.

Across the table, eyes occasionally drifted toward him. Some curious. Some dismissive. Others blank, practiced expressions of social neutrality.

Elliot sat a few seats down, casually chatting with a woman in her forties who wore a beige dress and diamond tennis bracelet. He gave James a subtle nod, and James gave a small smile in response.

A moment later, a staff member moved silently to James’ side, poured chilled water into his glass, and asked, "Still or sparkling for your wine pairings today, sir?"

"Still," James answered smoothly, without hesitation.

The next moment, the luncheon began.

The guest chef, Marcel Duclerc, emerged briefly to introduce the menu — a three-course Provençal tasting designed to showcase balance and freshness.

His accent was thick and elegant, and his presence was brief, as he left immediately after the introduction.

The first course arrived: a delicate zucchini blossom stuffed with goat cheese mousse, drizzled with lavender honey and finished with a dash of lemon oil. Paired with a crisp white wine — a Sancerre that danced on the tongue.

James took a bite, chewing slowly, eyes flicking around the table as quiet conversations began to ripple in earnest.

To his right, a man in his fifties with a shock of silver hair was discussing private aviation routes to Aspen.

To his left, a younger woman in her late twenties — blonde, tall, and barely interested in her plate — talked about complaints about hotel renovations in the Maldives.

No one talked loudly. Voices were calm, confident, and cloaked in undertones of wealth and polished upbringing.

James sat silently for a moment, taking it all in and silently paying attention.

This is it, he thought. This is where proximity is the real currency. Where meals aren’t eaten, instead they’re observed.

The second course came: sea bass atop a bed of heirloom tomato risotto, garnished with crispy basil and saffron foam. The wine was a pale rosé, dry and floral.

James took his time eating, adjusting to the rhythm. He spoke a little, only when spoken to. Sipped a little. Compliment the chef and laugh, but not too loud.

To his surprise, the woman beside him turned slightly and offered a gentle smile.

"You must be new," she said. Her tone was polite, but curious.

"I am," James replied with calmness and ease. "James Zolomon."

"Clarissa Monroe," she replied. "My husband and I run a few energy companies out of Nevada. Welcome."

"Thank you," James said. "It’s a beautiful club."

"You think so?" She asked with a smile.

"Yeah," James nodded slowly.

"It’s a curated cage. But once you learn how to fly in it, it opens doors." Clarissa said and turned her attention back to her meal.

Before he could reply, Elliot leaned in across the table from a few seats down.

"James," he said, "after the dessert, I want you to meet a few people."

James nodded.

By the time the third course arrived — a tart made of black figs, mascarpone cream, and a drizzle of balsamic reduction — James felt the subtle change in the table’s energy.

Conversation grew more relaxed. The wine had worked its charm. Smiles came easier. Laughter flowed a little freer.

When dessert was done, no one rushed to leave.

Instead, servers refilled glasses with either espresso, wine, or chilled sparkling water. A faint melody of string instruments began to play from a nearby speaker system, ambient enough to not distract but just rich enough to elevate the tone of the moment.

This was the real purpose of the luncheon — the afterglow. The unspoken hour of connections.

Elliot stood from his seat and gestured to James.

"Come on. Let’s take a walk."

James followed him out from the table toward the periphery of the pavilion, where a few smaller social clusters had begun to form.

Elliot began the introductions.

"James, meet Richard Lin, a software patent king in San Diego."

The man gave James a measured nod and welcomed him to the club.

Elliot moved again.

"This is Ava Grayson. She’s old-school new money — IPO exit five years ago. Biotech."

Ava was in her thirties, wore no makeup, and looked like she could write algorithms in her sleep.

"I like your energy. Welcome to the club," she said to James bluntly.

"Thank you," James replied.

Over the next forty minutes, Elliot introduced James to no less than ten individuals, all of them new money and successful.

But unlike Celeste Worthington and her cold-blooded venom, these people didn’t condescend.

They evaluated and studied him.

And James played his part. He listened when he should, spoke only when only when he feels it added value — though it didn’t amount in his opinion. He gave subtle nods and made sure to controlled his posture.

He spoke about his involvement in real estate and other vague ideas he has in his head. He made sure to keep everything vague enough to keep mystery, and enough to pique interest.

By the time the luncheon’s final hour wound down, the clusters began to break apart.

Some left with casual goodbyes, others exchanged business cards discreetly. One or two simply vanished without any announcements.

As the valet brought his Maybach around, James stood with Elliot near the steps.

"You did well," Elliot said.

"I was just myself," James replied.

Elliot smiled and clapped his shoulder.

As the Maybach pulled up, James extended a hand.

"Thanks for the introductions."

"It’s nothing. We, new money, should look out for one another," Elliot said.

"Yeah, we should," James chuckled and stepped into the car.

As the door shut and the engine purred to life, he leaned back against the soft leather seat and stared out the tinted window, looking very tired and exhausted.

He had spent more than half of the time, roleplaying in there and it really took a toll on him. But he was happy as it wasn’t for naught.

The luncheon wasn’t about food. It wasn’t even about conversation. It was about presence, proximity, positioning.

And today, he had made his first mark.