"I’m the one they call Master Streak. The gifts last night, the two hundred million, that was me. I did it because I’ve admired you for a long time."

Sophie’s expression didn’t change. Not a flicker of warmth. Not a trace of surprise.

Her gaze moved over Damien with the slow, clinical assessment of a woman who had seen this exact performance before and found it even less convincing the second time around.

Her eyes shifted briefly to the row of bodyguards behind him. Then to his watch. Then to the practiced smile that was starting to look more strained with each passing second of silence.

"Get lost," she said. "Imposter."

The word landed like a slap.

Damien’s smile froze. His eyes darted sideways, past Sophie, through the car’s interior, and landed on Stan for the second time. This time he completely disposed the thought of Stan being a driver...

"Who is this kid?"

He studied Stan for a moment. Young. Well-dressed. Sitting in the driver’s seat of a limited-edition Lamborghini Huracán with the relaxed posture of someone who belonged there.

"Did he beat me to it?"

Damien’s mind raced. His first instinct was not, as a reasonable person might expect, to consider the possibility that the young man beside Sophie was the actual Streak.

That thought didn’t even register as a possibility. In Damien’s worldview, a tycoon wealthy enough to drop two hundred million on a livestream couldn’t possibly be a twenty-something in a leather jacket. The idea was absurd on its face.

No, the conclusion Damien arrived at was far simpler:

"This kid is another impersonator. A younger, better-looking impersonator who got to Sophie first."

"But how? And why does she believe him and not me? It’s more reasonable for an older guy to be tycoon"

He gritted his teeth as he studied Stan more closely. The Huracán was the limited edition, the real thing, not a rental knockoff with swapped badges. Damien’s jaw tightened.

"Don’t tell me this kid actually owns this car. No. Impossible. He must have rented it. It would cost a fortune, but someone young and reckless enough to pose as Streak might be crazy enough to rent a supercar to sell the lie."

"I have to respect the commitment, though. That’s serious dedication to the grift."

Stan, for his part, sat quietly in the driver’s seat and observed the entire exchange with the detached amusement of a man watching a nature documentary about a particularly unsuccessful predator.

"So this is what my two hundred million dollars set in motion," he thought. People are impersonating me now. In person. With bodyguards.

He’d anticipated that the gift would generate attention. He hadn’t anticipated that it would spawn an entire cottage industry of middle-aged men in expensive suits showing up at clubs with hired security, claiming to be him.

Damien, sensing that the direct approach had failed but unwilling to walk away entirely, made one final play, the emotional guilt card.

"Is this how you treat someone who spent a fortune on you last night?" His voice hardened into something meant to sound wounded and indignant. "I pour my heart and my wallet into your stream, and you won’t even give me five minutes?"

He watched Sophie’s face for any sign of wavering.

There was none.

Sophie looked at him the way a woman looks at a fly that has landed on her food, with absolute certainty about what needs to happen next and zero emotional investment in the fly’s feelings about it.

Damien held the pose for another three seconds. Then, calculating that further pressure would risk blowing his cover entirely, and the Streak identity still had other uses, other targets, other women who might prove less discerning, he straightened up, adjusted his jacket, and retreated toward the club entrance with his entourage in tow.

As he walked away, his eyes drifted one final time to the Huracán.

"Lucky kid," he thought bitterly. "Probably maxed out three credit cards to rent that thing for one night. But I have to hand it to him, it worked."

The bodyguards fell into formation behind him, and Damien disappeared through the club’s entrance without looking back.

Sophie exhaled softly and leaned back against the headrest.

"I’m sorry you had to see that side of me," she said quietly.

"It’s fine."

"That man was disgusting. The age gap alone." She shook her head. "And after what you did last night, people everywhere are crawling out of the woodwork claiming to be you. Online, in person, everywhere. It’s gotten completely out of hand."

Stan nodded. He’d seen the reports, the fake accounts, the copycats, the forum threads dedicated to debating which of the self-proclaimed Streaks was the real one. His gift to Sophie hadn’t just made her famous overnight. It had turned Streak into a contested identity, a blank mask that any man with enough money and audacity could try on.

And somewhere in the background, behind all the imposters and attention-seekers, actual hackers were hammering at his TikTuk account, drawn by the same logic that drew thieves to unlocked vaults.

A whale with two hundred million in spending power almost certainly had a loaded platform wallet and, more critically, linked banking credentials. Anyone who cracked Streak’s account wouldn’t just gain a famous identity, they’d gain access to his bank account!

Stan wasn’t worried however. The system’s protection had already proven itself impenetrable, his accounts, his identity, his transaction history, all of it wrapped in whatever invisible architecture the system used to keep its host untouchable.

But it was worth noting how quickly his actions were rippling outward, attracting attention he hadn’t sought and couldn’t fully control.

"I don’t care what the world thinks," he said, his voice easy and unhurried. "It doesn’t matter how many people claim to be me, as long as you know the real one is sitting right here."

Sophie turned her head toward him.

The evening light caught the edge of her jaw, the curve of her smile, the quiet certainty in her eyes. She looked at him the way a person looks at something they’ve decided to hold onto, gently, firmly, with no intention of ever letting go.

"I know," she said softly. "I’ve always known."

The blush that followed was warm and real, and she didn’t try to hide it.

Stan held her gaze for a moment longer than necessary, then shifted the car into park and opened his door.

"Come on. We’ve got a karaoke suite waiting."

Sophie gathered her clutch, checked her reflection in the visor mirror, touching up the corner of her lipstick where the kiss had smudged it, and stepped out into the neon-lit evening.

They walked toward the entrance side by side, close enough that their arms brushed with every step.

Behind them, the Huracán sat gleaming under the streetlights, matte black, impossibly sleek, the kind of car that made grown men slow down and stare.

And somewhere inside the club, a middle-aged man in a too-flashy suit was nursing a drink and wondering how a college kid in a leather jacket had beaten him to the most beautiful woman in the city.

He would never find out.