When you meet your girlfriend’s father for the first time, and he asks if you’re nervous, how do you answer?
Nervous?
Why are you nervous?
Not nervous?
Why aren’t you nervous?
No matter what you say, it invites more questions, each harder to navigate. A single slip could make the entire encounter crash and burn.
Lance glanced toward Patricia in the dining room, then back at Mr. Lawrence. “Not nervous,” he said confidently.
“If you truly love someone, standing in my position gives you all the courage in the world,” Lance continued. “I’ll overcome every challenge to take her home with me.
“The only thing that could make me nervous is losing her. But even that thought fuels my resolve, because I know I’d fight to win her back.”
Mrs. Lawrence, watching from the sidelines, couldn’t stop smiling. She leaned over to Patricia and whispered, “Is he always this eloquent?”
Mr. Lawrence, however, raised an eyebrow. Lance’s answer felt too polished. “How many girls and fathers have you said that to?”
Without hesitation, Lance met his gaze. “You and Patricia are the first. I swear to God.”
In a nation where 80% of people were believers, swearing to God was no trivial matter.
Mr. Lawrence studied Lance, who remained calm and composed. His sincerity was disarming.
This earned Lance a slight thaw in Mr. Lawrence’s demeanor. “You can call me William,” he said.
A good sign.
Patricia, who had darted to the restroom to giggle in private, returned with rosy cheeks, happiness radiating from her.
—
Mr. Lawrence, curious to learn more, began asking about Lance’s background.
“I heard you were sold to a sweatshop as a child?”
As a civil servant, Mr. Lawrence had access to basic personal records. Privacy laws in the Federation? Those were mostly for show, meant to pacify taxpayers.
Lance recounted the familiar tale of hardship and perseverance, and Mr. Lawrence listened intently. “How do you plan to rebuild your relationship with your parents and sister?
“It’s been years. I imagine you’re more like strangers than family.”
Family mattered deeply in the Federation. It was a defining marker of character.
Maintain strong family ties, and even misdeeds might be excused as outliers. But a fractured family? No amount of good deeds could erase the suspicion it created.
“I’ll try to reconnect,” Lance replied earnestly. “I won’t force anything, but I’ll take responsibility where I should. That’s all I can do for now.”
A satisfactory answer, enough to move the conversation forward.
“I hear you’ve registered two companies?” Mr. Lawrence asked next.
“Yes,” Lance said, explaining the operations of his financial consulting firm and labor agency. He highlighted their legitimate revenue streams, softening Mr. Lawrence’s attitude further.
Though a Federation Party member, Mr. Lawrence understood the Socialist Party’s emphasis on industrial and economic modernization was correct. In this capitalist-dominated era, wealth was power, and Lance’s financial success wasn’t a bad thing.
—
Inevitably, the topic turned to the recent anti-immigration protests.
Lance avoided diving too deep but expressed measured sympathy for immigrants. Mr. Lawrence didn’t comment directly but appeared increasingly satisfied with Lance.
—
Dinner was soon served.
Mrs. Lawrence had opened the cognac, which, despite its reputation, tasted like any other top-tier brandy. But Mr. Lawrence loved it.
The meal was lavish, showcasing Mrs. Lawrence’s skill as a homemaker. Her cooking was impeccable.
Throughout dinner, Lance painted a vivid picture of himself as a self-made man: sold into hardship, enduring countless trials, finding his family again, and achieving success.
He described his meeting Patricia as “God’s arrangement,” a sentiment that resonated with the devout Lawrence family.
By the end of the evening, they could find no fault with Lance.
—
After dinner, Lance stayed only briefly before politely excusing himself.
As they waved him off, Mrs. Lawrence couldn’t hide her delight. “He’s charming, witty, intelligent, sharp—and handsome to boot. Are you still worried now?”
Mr. Lawrence let out a heavy sigh. “On the contrary, I’m even more worried.”
Too perfect, perhaps? He wasn’t sure how to process it, but he’d have plenty of time to mull it over with Mrs. Lawrence later.
—
The next morning, back at his office, Lance was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Got a minute?” Elvin asked, stepping inside.
Lance gestured for him to sit and offered him a cigarette. Lighting one for Lance first, Elvin finally spoke. “Guess who showed up?”
“Who?”
“Your old boss, Johnny. He’s here to borrow money.”
Lance was surprised. Elvin filled him in, recounting Johnny’s series of misfortunes.
Lance found it almost unbelievable. He had assumed Johnny’s apprentice would tolerate things indefinitely. Instead, it seemed the apprentice had turned on Johnny after Lance left—possibly even reporting Johnny’s tax evasion to the authorities.
Elvin shrugged. “What do you want to do?”
“I’ll handle him myself,” Lance decided.
—
Johnny sat dejectedly in the office’s waiting area, lost in thought. He had already visited multiple financial firms, all of which offered only $2,000 at exorbitant interest rates—far beyond what he could afford to repay.
His lawyer had brought bad news: the tax office was pursuing ten years of unpaid taxes, plus fines, totaling $10,000.
While the court might reduce the fines slightly, the tax office’s demand for back taxes would likely be approved in full. If Johnny didn’t pay promptly, his assets would be seized and auctioned, with additional penalties for late payment.
Desperate, Johnny had come here as a last resort.
He was jolted from his thoughts by the sound of the door opening.
Turning, he froze. “You…?”
Lance, dressed in a high-end suit that exuded success, smiled. “Good to see you again, Johnny.”
Stunned, Johnny stammered, “You… work here?”
“I’m the manager,” Lance said, taking a seat. “I hear you’re in trouble.”
Johnny hesitated. His pride warred with his desperation. “Yes. I need money.”
Lance picked up a small desk ornament, idly spinning it. “Money’s never the problem. But what can you offer as collateral?”
“Your bread-making skills? Worthless here.”
Johnny’s face flushed. His craftsmanship was his greatest pride, yet he had no rebuttal.
Lance pressed on. “How much do banks and financial firms value your skills? Five dollars? Ten? Twenty?”
Johnny finally snapped. “If you’re here to humiliate me, you’ve succeeded.” He stood, ready to leave.
But Lance wasn’t finished. “I’ll give you $3,000.”
Johnny froze. Slowly, he sat back down. “You’ll really lend me that much?”
“Yes,” Lance said. “But on my terms.”
—
Johnny eventually signed the contracts Lance prepared—one at the legal 22% annual interest rate and another labeled “consultation fees,” cleverly sidestepping the Usury Act.
After taking photos of Johnny holding the signed documents, Lance asked, “Cash or transfer?”
“Cash,” Johnny grumbled.
Lance handed over the money, but Johnny counted it twice before glaring. “It’s short by $18.”
Lance smirked. “You forgot. You owe me.”