Bitcoin Billionaire: I Regressed to Invest in the First Bitcoin!-Chapter 319: Regrouping From Bad News

Away from the resort, in the bustling business world, the agents had already returned and relayed the news of their unsuccessful mission to Adam Scotland.

The millionaire had been disheartened by the news, but was more worried of how his sponsor, Richard Morrison would react to it.

The multi-billionaire doctor was already waiting for him in their designated location: the Hidden Sanctum.

That afternoon, laying hushed beneath the pulsing heart of Las Vegas, the Sanctum was a bit more reverent than before.

Crystal chandeliers were dimmed to a low, amber glow that dripped like liquid gold across the mahogany walls.

As always, the masked women were present and busy, moving in near-silence. No one came here to listen to them speak, their bodies were all that was required.

They performed slowly and hypnotically. Almost like a ritual.

One knelt at Richard Morrison's feet, her sheer silk robe slipping from a bronzed shoulder as she poured warmed oil into her palms and began to knead the arches of his bare feet with practiced, worshipful pressure.

Another stood behind his burgundy chair, her masked face tilted downward, long fingers working the tension from his neck and shoulders in a circular motion.

A third dancer swayed alone on the raised platform, hips rolling in a languid figure-eight, feathers trembling on her Venetian mask as though stirred by a wind only she could feel.

The air had the scent of incense and the faint sweetness of spilled champagne, yet none of it touched Richard.

He didn't seem happy. In fact, he had never felt truly happy ever since Darren Steele appeared in his world.

He was a bug. And it seemed like no insect spray could take him out.

It… infuriated him.

Richard sat motionless, staring into the middle distance, a crystal tumbler of Scotch balanced forgotten on his fingers. His sharp features showed his despondence, the only movement the faint tic at the corner of his jaw.

'Where the hell is Scotland?' he thought.

Almost like in an instant response, a knock came from the door, three measured raps that cut through the low thrum of the quartet.

One of the women catwalked to the door and opened it carefully.

Whoever it was hesitated. Richard grimaced. Hesitation only meant bad news.

A second later, Adam Scotland stepped inside, the bravado of their last meeting drained from him like blood from a corpse.

His ruddy cheeks were blotched, his expensive suit rumpled, tie askew. He hovered just past the threshold, shoulders hunched, eyes darting as though the very shadows might report back to Archibald Mooney.

Richard did not stand. He did not even turn his head at first. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, almost gentle, and therefore infinitely more dangerous.

"Whst are you waiting for, Adam? Come on closer."

Scotland obeyed, his body clenching slightly as the woman closed the door with a heavy click that echoed like a coffin lid.

The rest of them didn't even pause in their ministrations. It was their duty not to interrupt or listen. They were invisible. The tension was simply another scent to be absorbed by the walls.

Not them.

But of course they had ears. They could still hear what was being said even if they weren't trying to listen.

Richard lifted the tumbler at last, took a slow sip, and set it down gingerly. "So? Tell me. I've been itching for an update."

Adam swallowed hard, throat bobbing. He was a millionaire in his own right, but being before someone like Richard Morrison was terrifying at all levels. 𝒇𝓻𝓮𝓮𝙬𝙚𝒃𝒏𝓸𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝓬𝓸𝒎

"Well, Mr. Morrison, they countered us," he said.

Richard lifted a disappointed brow. Though he didn't look very surprised. "And how did they manage to do that? You said his team were all out for the weekend."

"Yes, sir. They definitely were, but it seems he had forgotten to take one of them with him, or he intentionally left her there."

Richard narrowed his eyes. "Who was it?"

Scotland blinked nervously. "Brooklyn Baker, his PR Head. We were seconds from signatures, twenty-two percent premium, cash wired, everything ready, and then she walked in and brought Jonathan Vance with her. It ended there."

Richard's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the armrest. The woman massaging his shoulders felt it; her touch lightened, became cautious.

"Brooklyn Baker," Richard repeated, tasting the name like poison. "I remember her. She's the same ambitious little viper who gutted Smithers last year, and handed Darren his first real scandal on a silver platter. I knew firing her wasn't going to be enough."

Adam shifted his weight, desperate to salvage something. "She was supposed to be at the resort with the rest of them. Our intel said the building would be empty except for junior staff. We didn't know she'd stayed behind."

Richard finally turned his head, dark eyes pinning Adam where he stood. "Your intel is apparently worth less than the silk these girls are wearing. Did they trace the shell? Morris & The Scottish Capital, will it hold?"

"It's clean," Adam insisted with a nod of his head. "Three layers of blind trusts, Cayman entities, nominee directors who've never met us. Even if they dig, it leads to a bankrupt Liechtenstein stiftung and a dead end. They might suspect something, but they can't prove it. Or connect it to us."

Richard exhaled through his nose, a sound like a blade sliding from its sheath. "Then we can't give them time to investigate." He thought for a while. "Let us accelerate this. We move to the part of the plan that cannot be stopped by one clever PR girl and a well-paid lawyer."

He looked at Scotland with a sharpened gaze. "The Bitcoin kill-shot. Your favorite part."

Adam's panic receded, replaced by the feral gleam Richard had cultivated in him for weeks. A slow, hungry smile spread across his face. "The FUD cascade is already primed. Bots are loaded, forged documents have been seeded on dark-web forums, shill accounts ready to flood every exchange, every subreddit, every Telegram group.

"At 3 a.m. UTC tomorrow night, with your order the first wave drops: 'Steele wallets compromised, 400,000 BTC at risk.' By Asian open tomorrow, the price will be in free-fall. Hedge funds are pre-positioned; my shorts are leveraged thirty-to-one." He licked his lips, practically vibrating. "And when he panic-sells to cover the margin… I buy. All of it."

Richard inclined his head, the barest nod of approval. "You've made all the moves to ensure that this is fail proof, right Scotland?"

"Indeed I have, sir," Scotland smiled like an excited kid. Then the smile vanished and he appeared worried for a moment. "But sir… I get ninety percent of his Bitcoin fortune as we agreed. Right?"

Richard gave him a monotone side eye. "Of course. That was our accord, wasn't it? Besides, I have no interest in digital fairy dust."

Adam's smile widened into something almost boyish, delirious with greed.

'My current holdings plus Darren Steele's? I'll be the single largest whale on the planet. Untouchable. The true Bitcoin Billionaire.'

He laughed under his breath, a low, triumphant sound.

Richard lifted his glass in a mocking toast. "To your ascension, then. Just make sure the body is cold before you start measuring for the crown."

Scotland scoffed. "Body? By the time we're done with Steele, he would be decapitated and burnt to ash. There will be no body."

Richard chuckled. "And they say that I'm grim."

Hours later and a thousand miles away, in the exclusive penthouse tier of the Aurelius Tower in Los Alverez, the city glittered like scattered diamonds far below.

Mr. Caldwell, bald, round, and perpetually red-faced, fumbled with the keycard to his private suite, one arm slung possessively around the waist of a stunning escort he'd picked up in the casino's VIP lounge.

She was all long legs and laughter, her red dress clinging to every manufactured curve.

"Sweetheart, you are not gonna believe this view," he slurred, kicking the door shut behind them.

"Fifty-fifth floor, baby. Whole damn city's my footstool." He shrugged off his jacket, letting it fall to the marble. "Lights are over there, somewhere by the, yeah, the panel on the wall. Hit the big one."

The woman swayed forward, her fingers searching the wall in the darkness. She found the switch and clicked it on. The suite flooded with warm recessed lighting.

But she suddenly froze and gasped in fear.

Caldwell turned, annoyed. "What the hell's wrong with, oh, Christ."

There, in the center of the sunken living area, on Caldwell's own cream leather armchair, sat a man.

Tall, broad-shouldered, immaculately suited in charcoal gray. Legs crossed, hands resting calmly on the armrests.

Darren Steele narrowed his cold, unblinking eyes.

"Hello, Caldwell."