World Domination Begins With Getting a System in a Modern World-Chapter 143: The Suffocating Atmosphere Of The Elitist World

As James drove through the quiet, tree-lined streets of Beverly Hills. As a neighborhood synonymous with wealth, prestige, and generational legacy, the silence of the night felt unusually calming to James.

Unlike downtown LA or Hollywood, where the buzz of nightlife spilled into the streets even at midnight, Beverly Hills slept like an old king.

It’s understandable when one understands the status of those living in the neighbourhood. There’s naturally no way that any loud nightlife would be close to the vicinity.

The Maybach glided smoothly across the polished road, headlights catching the shimmer of mansions, marble statues, and perfectly sculpted hedges.

James rested one hand loosely on the steering wheel, the other lazily on the gear lever. The streets were nearly empty, and that suited him just fine.

As he drove, his mind circled back to the events of the evening and he started replaying everything in his head.

He thought about the structure of the dinner — the five courses, the hand-picked wines, the way every plate looked like it had been curated by a perfectionist obsessed with aesthetic symmetry.

But that wasn’t what lingered in his mind. It was the faces, the silent evaluations, the measured nods, the subtle checks for pedigree and poise.

Even though it was his first time in such a setting, James felt it, every moment in that ballroom was one person silently measuring and testing another.

And then came the interlude with the old money faction. He hadn’t expected to cross paths with both Celeste Worthington and the woman Leslie had slapped on Rodeo Drive.

But there they were, standing with carefully disguised hostility, their expressions brittle behind polished facades.

James recalled asking Elliot later that night — subtly, while sipping his final glass of wine — about the identity of the woman Leslie had slapped.

"Oh, her?" Elliot had replied casually, his voice low.

"That’s Vivienne Harrow. She’s the youngest daughter of Bernard Harrow."

"The name sounds vaguely familiar," James had said.

"Of course, it will. Political lobbyist," Elliot clarified.

"Her family used to have minor pull with state governors. They still pretend they do, but most of their influence dried up after a few bad campaign cycles and a scandal involving a Senate aide."

James had nodded, slightly surprised — not by her background, but by how underwhelming it actually was.

He had expected someone with real pull, someone whose family name opened doors on Capitol Hill or make way into UN corridors.

Yeah, he was expecting too much. There’s naturally no way that someone who has such influence will be at the gathering.

As for Vivienne Harrow? She was nothing more than a loud, spoiled brat who’s insufferably proud of a bloodline that barely qualified as upper crust anymore.

She isn’t a threat. And her words are nothing more than just noise.

A few minutes later, James finally pulled into the mansion’s circular driveway. The massive gate recognized his approach and slid open with a smooth, mechanical grace. Bright overhead lights lit the stone path, casting sharp shadows on the ground.

The Maybach eased to a stop, and James stepped out, loosening his tie with one hand while letting out a deep breath.

The moment his soles touched the first step of the entryway, the sound of faint voices from inside the house reached his ears.

He frowned lightly. It was already past midnight and he didn’t expect anyone to still be awake.

He unlocked the door and stepped inside, only to find both Patty and Leslie seated in the living area, bathed in soft light. A movie was paused on the TV, and the smell of peppermint tea lingered in the air.

They both looked up immediately.

"You’re back," Leslie said, standing slowly.

Patty rose more quickly and approached him with concern evident in her eyes.

"Sweetheart," she said softly, stepping into his space and wrapping him in a warm, maternal hug.

"We were getting worried."

James returned the hug with a tired smile.

"Sorry. It went longer than I expected."

Patty didn’t need to hear the details. She read the weariness in his posture, hiw heavy his eyes look, and the way his voice lacked its usual calm sharpness. She gave a soft nod and stepped back.

Leslie walked over next, her eyes holding both affection and concern. She didn’t say anything — just looped her arms around him in a gentle embrace. James pulled her in without hesitation.

They stood like that for a few quiet moments — all three of them connected, grounded in each other.

Eventually, James pulled back and gave them a small, appreciative look.

"I’m okay," he said. "Just need some sleep."

Patty smiled knowingly and waved him upstairs.

"Go. Take a shower. Get some rest. We’ll talk in the morning."

Leslie touched his chest lightly before stepping back.

"Goodnight, James."

James gave her a tired smile as he turned and made his way up the stairs.

With James back home, Patty and Leslie decided to also go to bed.

By the time he entered his room and peeled off his jacket, he felt the exhaustion settle deeper in his muscles.

He undressed quickly, tossing his clothes into the hamper, and stepped into the bathroom.

The moment the warm water hit his skin, he sighed — a long, slow exhale that carried the weight of everything from the night. The tension in his shoulders, the stiffness in his back, even the dryness in his eyes — all of it began to fade.

He stood under the water longer than usual, letting it wash away the residue of the suffocating atmosphere of the event and empty conversations.

When he was done, he stepped out, dried off, and dressed in a loose black T-shirt and cotton joggers. He climbed into bed, pulled the covers over himself, and sank into the mattress with a sigh.

And sleep claimed him almost immediately.

***

The next morning, James was woken by the soft vibration of his phone.

His hand reached out groggily, fingers fumbling for the device. He blinked at the screen.

Unknown Number.

He stared for a moment, considering whether to ignore it.

Then he sighed, slid his thumb across the screen, and answered with a low voice.

"Hello?"

A clear, confident, and unfamiliar voice replied on the other end.

"Mr. Zolomon, good morning. I hope I didn’t wake you."

James sat up slowly in bed, with his mind sharpening.

"Who is this?"

"Richard Anthony from SouthPark Group."