22. Maximum FOMO #2
The room was packed with rich people looking as if they’d just rolled out of bed.
Soft fabrics, sneakers, no ties . . . to Elias, they all had a look of studied disrespect that he was finding hard to ignore.
The screen on the wall displayed at least twenty more faces, all watching with the hungry patience of sharks circling a wounded seal.
Burke waited until everyone settled, then began.
“Gentlemen. Ladies. Thank you for joining us on such short notice.” His hands rested on the table, manicured and steady. “Ashton sends his regrets. He’s at an undisclosed location finalizing the security layers for our July Fourth demonstration. The work is . . . delicate.”
Elias watched Burke’s face, cataloging every micro-expression. The man hadn’t aged a day since Egypt. Since Frankie had handed over the linen with those hieroglyphics that promised immortality.
“Now then,” Burke continued, “as you know, CastR represents a paradigm shift in human capability. But paradigm shifts require capital. And capital requires narrative.” He nodded at Lexi and Kyle.
“Which is why we’ve asked our brand consultants to join us today.
Ms. Jones, Mr. Gordon—would you care to share your thoughts? ”
Oh, you bastard, Elias thought. You’re testing us.
Luna’s face—Lexi’s face—remained perfectly pleasant. “Of course. We’d be delighted.”
Elias stood and walked to the head of the table like he’d been made for this moment. Which, in a way, he had.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, and felt the old magic kick in.
Not Luna’s kind—the other kind. The kind that separated marks from money.
“Let me start with a question. What does CastR actually sell?” Someone on Zoom unmuted to answer, but Elias kept talking.
“No, it’s not magic. What CastR sells is agency.
The feeling—the unshakeable belief—that you, personally, can bend reality to your will. And that, my friends, is priceless.”
He grabbed a marker, idly wondering why chalk wasn’t good enough for future people anymore, and drew a triangle on the whiteboard. At each point: FEAR. DESIRE. ACCESS.
“The world is simultaneously terrified of magic and addicted to it. They want it desperately but believe it’s out of reach. Our job is not to convince them magic is real. Our job is to convince them they deserve it.”
An investor near the front nodded. “Go on.”
“As you all know, for centuries, magic has been . . .” he paused, trying to remember that word Vex had used back at the inn, “. . . gatekept. Through bloodlines, secret societies, apprenticeships that take decades. They say it’s necessary.
Well, I say it’s feudalism. But feudalism ended for a reason: eventually, enough people realized they didn’t need a king’s permission to build their own castles. ”
He tapped the whiteboard. “CastR is the next printing press. The next horseless carriage. The next telephone. It’s more than tech, it’s liberation.”
He drew a line connecting all three points of his triangle, forming a complete shape.
“July Fourth is more than a launch date. It’s Independence Day for human potential. Miss this round, and you’re not just behind. You’re irrelevant. You’re the investor who passed on the telephone because you thought telegrams were good enough.”
A woman near the front said impatiently, “Yes. We know all that.”
“What do you think I gave you the first million for?” added a man on the Zoom screen. “My health?”
Chuckles rippled around the table.
Nuts. He’d read this all wrong. These weren’t marks who needed convincing—they were already believers. The con wasn’t getting them in; it was getting them in deeper.
“Gentlemen, ladies. You’re absolutely right. You were smart enough to see this coming. But here’s the thing about being early—there’s early, and then there’s early enough to matter.”
He had their attention again. Barely.
“Right now, you own pieces of CastR. Good pieces. But when this thing explodes on July Fourth—and it will explode—those pieces are going to get diluted by every Tom, Dick, and Harry who suddenly realizes he missed the boat. The smart money?” He gestured around the room.
“Already here. The question is whether the smart money wants to own five percent of a revolution, or twenty.”
“We’re comfortable with our current positions,” someone said from the Zoom screen.
“Are you?” Elias kept his tone light, conversational. “Because I’m hearing from other investors—not naming names—that they’re looking to double down. And once Ashton takes this public after the demo, well . . .” He shrugged eloquently. “You can’t un-ring that bell.”
A man in one of those expensive-casual outfits stood up. “What’s the timeline on this?”
“Window closes Monday,” Elias lied smoothly. “After that, the price goes up. Way up.”
“Eh. Let’s see the demo first,” another investor said. “We’re not increasing our stakes based on a last-minute pitch, no matter how good it is.”
“Besides,” added the woman who’d spoken first, “these things take time. Due diligence. Partner approval. What’s your big hurry, anyway? July Fourth is just a few days away. We’ll talk after that.”
The energy was draining from the room. Elias could feel it—that careful, cautious retreat behind process and committees and all the machinery people used when they wanted to say no without saying it.
And then Burke cleared his throat.
“Excellent framing, Mr. Gordon.” The old man’s smile was as thin as any razor. “But I propose we let Ashton review these narratives before we finalize any additional commitments.”
“Of course,” someone agreed. “Prudent.”
“We’ll discuss at next month’s partner meeting,” added another.
Elias recognized that tone: it was the sound of money evaporating.
He opened his mouth to make one last push—some final piece of salesmanship that might tip the scales .
. . but then he glanced at Luna. She was turned slightly away from the group, one hand lifted to her mouth as if stifling a cough.
Her fingers moved in a pattern he understood: purposeful, precise.
Without really meaning to, Elias took careful note of every motion she made, filing the spell away in the back of his con man brain. One never knows, it may come in handy.
The leather satchel at her side pulsed once—a low, resonant hum like a subway train passing below. The glass walls of the conference room shimmered. For half a second, the light bent wrong, casting shadows that pointed in unnerving directions.
There she goes. He’d given it his best shot, and it hadn’t been enough. But that was fine. That’s exactly what the tokens were for.
A man on Zoom unmuted. “Actually . . . you know what? If the round’s closing Monday, my fund can wire additional capital immediately.”
“Same,” added a woman at the table. “We’ll double our position. No sense waiting for the next round at a higher price.”
Another voice from the giant screen: “Put us down for another two million. Send the paperwork.”
Elias recognized the shift: the telltale dilation of pupils, the relaxed shoulders, the sudden certainty that yes was the only possible answer. The usual investor hesitation would no longer be a problem; everyone, even Burke, was under the spell of the token.
The new vibe spread like fire through dry grass, one fund manager texting “we’re in,” another blurting “double us,” a third already forwarding wiring instructions to an assistant.
The Zoom chat lit up—SOFT-CIRCLE CONFIRMED, SENDING DOCUSIGN, PRIORITY ALLOC NEEDED—until the whole screen was a strobing ticker of greed.
Burke’s expression flickered, like he’d heard an old song he couldn’t quite place.
“Remarkable enthusiasm,” he murmured, and drew his phone from his pocket.
“Burke Capital increases its allocation by ten million. Legal, please circulate the A-1 extension documents.” His tone was smooth, civilized. The rest of the room was anything but.
“We can hold your allocation for today only.” Luna’s voice was a calm island in the growing storm.
She confidently recited every bit of industry lingo that Scarlett had taught her.
“Post-money SAFE, ten percent discount, MFN and pro-rata rights. Soft-circle by 5 p.m. today and you keep priority in the extension.” The words themselves were ordinary; everyone in the room had heard them a thousand times.
But the way they landed wasn’t ordinary.
The air felt charged, humming. Chairs scraped back.
Phones came out. People started calling partners.
Whispering, nodding, and—perhaps importantly—signing without reading.
“Commit today and you lead the round,” she urged. “Wait, and you’re buying your own FOMO. Of course.” She shrugged eloquently. “There’s always the next unicorn, right?”
The energy was frantic now, desperate, the fear of missing out overriding every rational thought.
Burke was staring at him. No. Not at him, at Kyle Gordon. But he was somehow looking through Kyle, searching for something underneath. “Mr. Gordon,” the old man said, his voice pitched for Elias alone. “Your eloquence borders on sorcery.”
Elias forced a grin. “Just a little razzle-dazzle, sir.”
“Mmm.” Burke stood, buttoning his jacket. He was watching Luna now, and Elias saw something flicker in the old man’s expression. Recognition? Suspicion? “The world of true magic is a very small one. So few of us, really. We tend to . . . sense each other.”
Elias kept his expression pleasant, professional, utterly devoid of the panic clawing at his throat. “I’m afraid I don’t follow, sir.”
“Don’t you?” Burke picked up his briefcase to depart. “In that case, forgive an old man’s ramblings.”
At the sight of Burke headed out the door, Elias allowed himself a beat to relax. The disguise had held; he hadn’t been recognized. Clever old Elias Shaw had gotten away with it, yet again.