Richest Man: It All Started With My Rebate System

Steven pulled into the Westchase training facility at nine twenty-eight, parked along the side of the lot, and walked through the entrance with the Arai tucked under his arm.

The classroom was already filling up when he stepped inside. A long rectangular space with folding chairs arranged in rows, a projector screen at the front, and an instructor standing beside it with the particular composed patience of someone who had run this session many times and was ready to run it again.

Steven found a seat toward the middle and settled in as the instructor called the room to attention.

The morning session ran for three hours. It covered the fundamentals — hazard perception, braking theory, counter-steering, the physics of what happened to a motorcycle under load and how the rider’s inputs affected all of it. The instructor moved through it without rushing, pausing to check understanding and answering questions without condescension.

Steven paid attention throughout. Some of it he had read in preparation. Hearing it explained aloud with context and consequence attached to it was different from reading it, and he absorbed more than he had expected to.

By the time the classroom session ended and the group moved out to the range, he had a clearer picture of what the afternoon was actually going to require.

The range work began after a short break. The instructor split the group and assigned machines — training bikes, not the participants’ own, which Steven had expected. He suited up fully before stepping onto the range.

The drills ran through the afternoon in progression. Low-speed balance and control first. Then braking, first gradual, then emergency. Cornering patterns on a marked course, each pass building on the one before.

Steven moved through them methodically. His reactions were quicker than he would have been without the Physique upgrades, his spatial awareness sharper than it had any right to be for someone who hadn’t ridden a bike before in his life. He didn’t push beyond what was asked. This wasn’t the Superleggera and the point of the day was competence, not performance.

By the final assessment, he was comfortable enough that the nerves he had half-expected hadn’t materialised in any meaningful way.

And just as he had expected, he passed cleanly.

The instructor confirmed it at the end of the session with the same matter-of-fact manner he had brought to the whole day. Steven shook his hand, collected his completion certificate, and walked back to the car.

He set the helmet on the passenger seat, started the engine, and pulled out onto the Saturday evening street.

***

He was back in the apartment by early evening. He set the helmet on the shelf, hung the jacket and trousers carefully on the rail, and sat on the edge of the bed to unlace the boots. He changed into a plain t-shirt and dark trousers and went to the living area.

He dropped onto the sofa and sighed in satisfaction at how the day had gone.

The course was done and the certificate was in hand. But he wasn’t fully cleared to ride the Superleggera yet. The MSF completion certificate waived the DPS riding skills test, which was the part most people struggled with, but it didn’t replace the DPS visit itself.

He still needed to go in on Monday, present the certificate, pay the endorsement fee, and have the Class M added to his licence before the Superleggera could legally leave the garage on a public road.

Two more days.

As his thoughts drifted, he remembered that he hasn’t called Lena, after promising her last night that he would call when the offer letter lands.

Without hesitation, he called Lena and she picked the call almost immediately.

"Hi. Been expecting your call," she said.

"Yeah. Sorry about that. I had been busy with my MSF test since morning. I just got back a few minutes ago," Steven said.

"Oh. I had no idea. How did it go?" Lena asked curiously.

"It went excellently well. I passed."

"Nice. So, what’s the name of the bike?"

"It’s a Ducati Superleggera."

"I honestly don’t know what bike that is but from the name, I can guess that it’s not something ordinary."

"It isn’t. For me to want to ride that level of bike as a newbie, one can said that I’m biting off more than I can chew and trying to get myself killed."

"I see... Now that you told me this, I’m worried. Don’t ride the bike if it isn’t necessary. And if you must stubbornly still want to go ahead, make sure you take more than enough safety precautions," Lena said, with a genuinely concerned voice.

Steven couldn’t help but smile. He do find it endearing that someone’s genuinely caring about him after so long.

"I promise," he said.

"Good. I will hold you to your promise

"The letter landed," Steven said.

"When?" Lena asked, her voice sharpening slightly with interest.

"This morning. Rachel already had it couriered to Holt’s registered address. She expects an initial response within two to three days."

"That’s the right timeline," Lena said. "At that premium with the due diligence package attached, his team won’t sit on it. Someone will escalate it to him the same day it arrives."

"That’s what Rachel said," Steven said. "We’ll see."

"You’ll hear back quickly," Lena said. "I’d put money on it."

There was a brief pause on her end, then she asked, "How are you feeling about it?"

"Calm," Steven said. "Everything that needed to be done has been done. All that’s left is waiting."

"Good. That’s the right way to be." The warmth returned to her voice.

"That’s enough about me. How are you? How’s work going?"

"Work is fine," Lena said. "The file I mentioned last night is moving. I had a call this morning with the owner’s representative and it went well. If nothing changes, I’ll have a formal recommendation ready by the middle of next week."

"The one with good bones?"

"The very one," she said. "It’s the kind of find that makes the slow weeks feel worth it."

Steven smiled. "I’m glad it’s moving. I’m sure it’s going to end up as another closed deal."

"I sure hope so."

"I know so."

"Sure. Whatever you say, you flatterer," Lena giggled.

"Like I always say, it’s not flattery if it’s the truth."

"You have your ways with words, you know that, right?" Lena asked, and Steven could sense the smile in her voice.

"I don’t understand what you mean by that. I’m just someone who speaks what they see as it is."

"Yeah, right."

There was a comfortable pause, as the two of them relished in the moment together.

"Lena," he said.

"Yes?"

"Are you free tomorrow evening?"

She was quiet for a moment, before she replied. "Why?"

"I want to take you out for dinner," he said. "I’ll make the arrangement. All you have to do is agree."

Lena laughed heartily without warning. "You make it sound very simple."

"It is simple," Steven said. "You agree, I handle everything else."

"And if I said I was busy?"

"Then I’d ask what time you finished," he said.

She laughed again. "I’m free," she said. "And yes, I’d love to go out with you."

An inexplicable feeling settled in Steven’s chest when he heard this.

"Good," he said. "Should I pick you up or do we meet at the restaurant?"

"Steven," Lena said, with a warmth that carried some playfulness underneath it. "We haven’t quite gotten to the picking-up stage yet... But you’re not far off."

"Good to hear."

"Don’t push your luck," she said, and he could hear the smile under it. "Send me the restaurant, the address, and the time. I’ll be there."

"I’ll text you later tonight," he said.

"I’ll be expecting it," she said. "Take care of yourself, Steven."

"You too, Lena," he said. "Good night."

"Good night, Steven."

The call ended.

Steven set the phone on the cushion beside him and lay back against the sofa, looking at the ceiling with a small smile on his face.

The day had moved well from start to finish. The course done, the licence was within reach, the letter sent, dinner confirmed for tomorrow.

Progress were being made on all fronts. They are slow but they are progress nonetheless.

Steven’s phone buzzed the next moment, breaking his line of thoughts.

He picked it up and saw it was a message from Marcus.

Sigh... I think I might actually get fired. Like genuinely.

Steven’s smile faded when he saw the message. He sat up slightly and typed back.

What happened?