The events in Hemenway Gymnasium had been seismic. In a conflict the Elites had engineered to humiliate Michael Kingston, they were instead utterly decimated, both physically and symbolically. Michael's swift, brutal efficiency in the ring shattered the entire faction's sense of untouchable superiority.
For the remainder of the academic year, a fragile peace settled over the Harvard campus. The Elites, once aggressively contemptuous, now walked with careful deference. The unspoken conflict that had simmered beneath the surface of the student body had been resolved, not by administrative decree or social maneuvering, but by definitive, unambiguous combat.
The five young men Michael had defeated—Striker, Christian, and their three allies—recovered from their physical injuries within a week. Their collective pride, however, remained a casualty. Christian, particularly, carried the defeat like a brand, his previous arrogance replaced by a simmering resentment that dared not surface.
Michael finished his third year in May 1908 as the institution's most famous, and perhaps most feared, student. His name was known in every dormitory, lecture hall, and dining club. He had become an idol for most, a person who possessed the dangerous combination of intellect, wealth and physical power.
While Michael's presence at Harvard brought the old-money students to a standstill, the industrial empire he had built was moving at breakneck speed.
The Kingston Telephone Company (KTC) had integrated the revolutionary triode into their network. This vacuum tube technology enabled high-quality amplification, transforming long-distance telephony from a crackling novelty into a reliable, crystal-clear service uncomparable to any other competitor.
By May 1908, KTC boasted 800,000 connections across the American landscape. While this might not have seemed monumental in isolation, it was against the backdrop of the entire national market that KTC's success truly shone. The total number of telephone connections in the United States stood at approximately six million. The behemoth, AT&T, maintained a controlling interest with around three million connections—a solid 50% market share. The remaining three million were distributed among hundreds of independent, mostly regional companies. KTC was the only other company besides AT&T that was growing aggressively and threatening AT&T's dominance, propelled by the quality and clarity of its long-distance calls.
The financial arm of the empire, Kingston State Charter Banks, had shown remarkable resilience during the devastating Panic of 1907. While other institutions faltered and collapsed under the pressure of widespread bank runs, the Kingston Banks remained demonstrably liquid, honoring every withdrawal without hesitation. This stability earned Michael's banks the deep trust of state governments.
Consequently, by the end of Michael's third year, Kingston Bank had grown to 70 branches through the strategic acquisition of banks that had gone under during the panic. The state approvals were granted primarily because the Kingston name had become synonymous with reliability and responsibility during a time of national financial crisis.
The most explosive growth, however, belonged to Kingston Motors. Leveraging the perfected assembly line techniques and the massive scale Michael had engineered, production costs plummeted even as output soared. The strategy of vertically integrating the supply chain—producing many parts in-house—further drove down expenses.
By May 1908, Kingston Motors had sold approximately 200,000 automobiles, making it an industrial giant . Due to this unprecedented volume and the efficiencies of the assembly line, Michael had successfully reduced the price of the Kingston automobile to $575.
The combination of low cost, robust construction, and high performance made the Kingston car the undisputed best cost-to-performance vehicle on the market, fulfilling Michael's vision of putting the nation on wheels. As his third year at Harvard concluded, Michael Kingston was silently reshaping the American industrial landscape.
***********
May 1908.
The lights were coming up in the grand Boston Theatre, and the audience was offering a standing ovation for the latest production of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. Outside, the spring air was cool, but inside the theatre, the residual excitement of the performance lingered in the plush, velvet-lined halls.
Backstage, in the star dressing room, a man in his forties stood waiting. He was exceptionally well-dressed, his suit bespoke and his demeanor radiating the confidence of having money. His face was round with slightly thinning hair, and there was a certain tightness around his eyes that suggested impatience and entitlement.
He checked his pocket watch for the third time just as the door opened, admitting the leading lady.
Evelyn Richards was twenty-three, and in an era where the dominant aesthetic was the soft, voluminous look of the "Gibson Girl"—a beauty ideal defined by a full, rounded figure, a high, pale forehead, and a towering mass of soft, artfully piled hair—Evelyn was an anomaly. She possessed a striking, angular elegance that seemed ahead of her time.
Her dark auburn hair was styled not in a soft, elaborate pompadour, but in sophisticated waves that framed strong, defined cheekbones. She possessed a natural hourglass figure, but her curves were subtle and proportionate, feminine without being overtly prominent, standing in stark opposition to the popular, full-figured ideal. In an era that favored the demure and the romantic, Evelyn's beauty was one of cool, sharp intelligence and impeccable style. She carried herself with an easy, magnetic grace, completely untroubled by the opinions of others.
Evelyn, still flushed from the applause and wearing the remnants of her Elizabethan stage costume, entered the room. She immediately assessed the stranger with a suspicious, level gaze.
The man snapped his attention to her, momentarily disarmed by her poise, and managed a quick, charming smile. "My sincere apologies for the intrusion, Miss Richards. The staff were kind enough to let me wait here." He executed a slight, formal bow. "My name is Richard Brown. I am a great admirer of your work."
Evelyn gave him a small smile. "Thank you. That's kind of you."
She made a mental note to have a serious word with the stage manager about the security of her dressing room.
Richard moved closer. "I was wondering, Miss Richards, if I might have the pleasure of taking you out for dinner tonight? To celebrate a truly flawless performance."
Evelyn gathered a silk shawl from the back of her chair and draped it over her shoulders with unhurried care. "That is very kind of you, Mr. Brown, but I'm afraid I already have a commitment for this evening."
Richard's smile didn't falter, but his eyes hardened slightly. He mistook her refusal for a negotiating tactic. "A previous engagement. I see. Well, perhaps I could persuade you to change your plans. I assure you, I can make it very much worth your while."
Evelyn turned, her expression suddenly cool and direct, cutting through the pleasantries. "Mr. Brown," she said, spacing her words precisely, "I am an actress not a prostitute."
He recoiled as if struck, but only for a second. He recovered with a superior, dismissive wave of his hand. "No, no, of course not! My dear, you misunderstand me. You are a talent. But I am a rich man, Miss Richards, and a very influential one. I can offer a life of complete comfort and security. I would look after you properly, give you every advantage you deserve."
Evelyn stood her ground, her gaze steady. "I am sorry, but that is not possible, Mr. Brown. I am already in a relationship."
Richard's patience finally broke, his voice dropping to a low, angry register, the veneer of civility shattering completely.
"Lies," he spat.
Evelyn returned his stare with a cool, cutting look. "I don't need to lie to you, Mr. Brown. And even if I am not in a relationship, I am not obligated to accept your offer." She tried to move around him, seeking the safety of the room's inner corners.
He reacted instantly, grabbing her hand. His grip was surprisingly tight and determined. "I don't believe you," he insisted.
"Release my hand, Mr. Brown," Evelyn commanded, her voice hardening.
"Not until you accept my offer," Richard countered, his eyes shining with possessive anger. "At least have dinner with me."
Evelyn struggled to pull her hand free, but he was stronger than she anticipated. She opened her mouth, intending to reason with him, when a sharp, cold voice cut through the air from the doorway.
"What the hell is going on here?"
They both spun their heads toward the sound. Richard found himself facing a tall, well-built man whose presence dominated the narrow doorway. The stranger's face was set in a cold, assessing look, and his eyes immediately dropped to Richard's hand clamped around Evelyn's wrist.
Richard released her instantly, the instinctive fear of meeting a superior threat overriding his anger. He felt, deep down, that he was no physical match for this newcomer.
On the contrary to Richard's immediate, fearful recoil, Evelyn's face lit up with unreserved happiness at the sight of him. "Michael," she breathed. She moved swiftly, embracing him in a tight hug, and gave him a quick, loving peck directly on the lips.
Though she was perfectly capable of handling Mr. Brown herself, she welcomed the sight of him.
He wrapped his strong arms around her, returning the embrace, and leaned down to kiss her.
As Michael raised his head, he looked directly at Richard, his eyes icy. "What's the issue?"
"Nothing darling. Merely a patron who got a trifle over-excited. It is quite settled now," Evelyn cut in smoothly, stepping fractionally away from Michael but maintaining the contact of his arm around her.
Michael looked down at her, a silent question in his intense gaze. She offered him a small, genuine smile, and he left it at that, trusting her assessment while his posture remained rigidly uncompromising.
Michael returned his attention to Richard Brown, whose face was now a sickly white. He called out, "Ace. Clark. "
"Escort this gentleman from the premises," Michael commanded, his voice utterly devoid of emotion. "And ensure he understands that for his own safety, he should never return."
"Hey, kid, who are you?" Richard demanded, his voice shaking with a mix of fury and fear. "What right do you have to stop me from coming here? And do you know who I am—"
Michael cut him off instantly, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Don't complete that sentence." Richard's words stopped, his mouth hanging open.
Michael took one measured step closer. "One: Don't call me 'kid,' especially when you're trembling in fear." His eyes narrowed. "Two: I own this theatre, which means I have the right to bar anyone I choose, permanently."
Michael paused, letting that fact sink into the silence.
"And third," Michael continued, his voice dropping further, "it is in your best interest that I remain uninformed on who you are. Because you truly do not want to be on my bad side."
Richard was silent now, his internal rage warring with the immediate, crushing presence of superior force.
The guards escorted him out of the room and from the premises. As they released him onto the dark cobblestone alleyway, Clark leveled a gaze at the shaken man.
"You've heard the instruction from our employer," Clark stated flatly. "I strongly advise you not to return."
Ace stepped forward, his voice a low, chilling sound. "And don't waste time on inquiring who he is. His name is Michael Kingston."
The name hit Richard like a physical blow. Michael Kingston. All remaining anger drained out of him, replaced by a profound, chilling dread. He knew immediately who the young man was: the heir to one of the largest fortunes in the country. Richard was a man of wealth, but he was nothing compared to the Kingstons in wealth or influence.The sudden, terrible realization of the massive, insurmountable power he had just brazenly offended left him utterly shocked, paralyzed in the cold night air.
Meanwhile, Michael turned back to Evelyn, his expression softening instantly. "Are you ready for dinner, Eve?"
She smiled, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Give me fifteen minutes. I need to change. Don't go."
"Never," he promised, kissing her forehead before she slipped behind the screen.