Tony woke at 6:00 a.m., the morning sun spilling through his window, casting soft shadows across his room. Breakfast was smoother than yesterday's playful teasing, the air calm but still tinged with the faint weight of recent events. Olivia and Kiara sat at the table, their smiles tentative but growing steadier, while Emilia hummed in the kitchen, the sizzle of bacon filling the air.
After downing his eggs, he looked at Emilia. "Grandma, I'm heading to the NYC Lotto office to claim the prize. Olivia and Kiara can scout real estate while I'm there, and I need to register the companies."
Emilia nodded, her eyes warm with pride. "Good thinking, Tony. Saves us time."
"Oh, forgot to mention," Tony said, pulling out his Motorola MicroTAC 9800X, its sleek design glinting in the light. "I got this yesterday. You can reach me anywhere now. Also, I'm flying to Los Angeles tonight for some business." He scribbled his number on a napkin and slid it across the table for Emilia, Olivia, and Kiara. "Call me if you need anything."
Emilia tucked the napkin away, and Olivia gave a small nod, her gaze softer than before, like she was starting to trust the ground beneath her. Tony's heart tugged—They're tougher than I ever was in my last life. Like Grandma.
He grabbed his keys and hopped into the Mustang, its engine purring as he navigated Manhattan's gridlocked streets. The hour-and-a-half crawl to the NYC Lotto office tested his patience, but stepping into the cool, air-conditioned lobby, he felt a surge of anticipation. At the reception desk stood a woman who stopped him in his tracks—her name tag read Elizabeth. A cascade of natural red hair framed her face, and her blue eyes sparkled with a quiet intensity. Her white blouse clung to her curves, the black skirt hugging her hips, and sheer stockings traced the length of her legs, every inch screaming understated allure.
Tony, six-foot-one with piercing blue eyes and a confident stride, caught her staring, her gaze lingering a beat too long. He flashed a grin, his voice smooth. "Hey, miss, I'm here to claim the $18 million jackpot. Can I talk to your manager?"
Elizabeth's lips parted, her cheeks flushing as the word jackpot snapped her out of her daze. "Uh, one second, sir," she stammered, fumbling with the phone. After a quick call, she stood, smoothing her skirt. "Follow me, please."
As she led him down the hall, Tony's eyes drifted to the hypnotic sway of her hips, each step a tantalizing curve in her tight skirt, her movements fluid and maddeningly sensual. Is she doing this on purpose? he thought, a smirk tugging at his lips. Either way, damn, 'ladies first' never looked so good. Her blouse hugged her waist, the faint outline of her figure stirring a heat in him he hadn't felt in this new life. Unbeknownst to him, Elizabeth, a 22-year-old film production MFA graduate, wasn't consciously trying to seduce him. Single, her life consumed by study and the recession's brutal job market, she'd landed this receptionist gig despite her talent. But Tony's chiseled looks, easy charm, and that $18 million bombshell had her body betraying her, her walk unconsciously inviting his gaze.
At the manager's office, she paused, her voice softer, almost breathy. "Go right in, sir."
Tony nodded, stepping inside, but not before stealing one last glance at her retreating figure. Focus, Stark, he told himself, though his blood was still humming. A sixty-year-old man with a stack of papers greeted him. "Hello, I'm Lance Herber, manager of this NYC Lotto branch. Have a seat."
"Anthony Stark," Tony said, settling in. "I'm here for the jackpot."
"Alright, Mr. Stark, may I see the ticket?" Lance asked.
Tony slid the ticket from his bag, handing it over. "Right here."
Lance checked it three times, his eyes widening. "Congratulations, Mr. Stark. But after taxes, you'll net about $12 million, paid in installments over twenty years."
Tony leaned forward, his voice laced with playful confidence. "How about a deal, Mr. Herber? Pay me in one go, and I'll spill a secret about your lotto you don't even know."
Lance's eyebrows shot up. "First time I've heard that. Alright, deal, but the info better be worth it, and I'll need head office approval."
"Done," Tony said, grinning. "Your lotto's formula? It's cracked." He let the words hang as Lance's jaw dropped.
"What?" Lance choked out.
"Yup," Tony said, all business now. "Grab a pen, paper, and past winning numbers. I'll prove it."
Lance called Elizabeth back, asking for the draw records. As she entered, Tony caught the faint scent of her perfume—something floral and intoxicating—her skirt brushing her thighs as she handed over the files. Damn, she's trouble, he thought, forcing his focus back to Lance.
Over the next hour, Tony outlined the formula, weaving a story about overhearing a couple plotting to exploit it for four draws in September, inflating the jackpot. Lance's face paled—a cracked formula could shatter public trust in the lotto, especially in a recession. My job's on the line, he thought.
"Mr. Stark, keep this quiet," Lance urged, his voice tight. "I'll get the full amount in your account by Thursday—three days."
Tony nodded, then casually added, "Oh, and I've got 242 second-prize tickets, $35,400 each." He slid a thick stack across the desk. "Also, no press, alright? I want this under wraps."
Lance, too shaken to question Tony's honesty, barely glanced at the tickets. "Agreed. Elizabeth!" he called. "Help Mr. Stark file his winnings and tell the staff to move fast."
Elizabeth led Tony to a desk where a middle-aged Black woman, Ms. Ronsey, sat. "Manager's orders—process Mr. Stark's filings ASAP," Elizabeth said, her voice still carrying that soft edge, her eyes flicking to Tony.
Ms. Ronsey nodded. "Alright, Mr. Stark, let's see the ticket."
Tony handed over the jackpot ticket, then added, "And these are for the second prizes." He set down the 242 tickets, the stack thudding on the desk.
Elizabeth and Ms. Ronsey's jaws dropped, the sheer volume stunning them.