As Cal's consciousness slowly emerged from the depths of sleep, he found himself grappling with the remnants of a dream -- fleeting images of a beautiful Russian woman in a gold dress. The dress on the floor. Shared laughter, clinking wine glasses. But like sand through his fingers, the details slipped from his grasp, leaving longing in their wake. With a sigh, Cal silenced the blaring alarm, resigning himself to the reality of another day.

It was a Saturday, a day of leisure for most, but for Cal, it was just another day of work. He pushed himself away from the bed of his suite, rubbing tiredness from his eyes and tugging at his beard as if trying to shake off the remnants of sleep. Quickly donning fitness attire, he stuck a toothbrush in his mouth and swiped through his text messages, ignoring most of them as he grabbed his gym bag and headed to the hotel's fitness room.

Along the way, he exchanged pleasantries with the hotel staff and any guests who recognized him, his charismatic charm never faltering even in the early hours of the morning. In the fitness room, he threw himself into a vigorous run on the treadmill, the rhythmic pounding of his feet serving as a counterpoint to the whirlwind of thoughts swirling in his mind. 

During a break between sprints, he glanced up at the TV mounted on the wall, and saw a headline flashing in bold red letters: "Billionaire Dead in Arms-Deal Gone Wrong." A sense of satisfaction washed over him as he realized that everything had unfolded exactly as planned. Charles Vanderbuilt was no more, and Cal's carefully orchestrated plan had come to fruition.

After showering and grabbing a quick breakfast, Cal dressed in more casual attire -- a fitted t-shirt and dark jeans -- before he would make his way into the city. At the front desk, he gathered the collections from the charity gala the night before, intent on personally delivering the proceeds to the Los Angeles Humane Society.

Normally, such tasks would be delegated to an assistant, but this year's record contributions warranted Cal's personal touch. He anticipated the presence of the press at the humane society, eager to spin a humanitarian angle on the story, and he intended to be front and center in the resulting coverage. 

Slipping into his sleek BMW i8, Cal let the GPS guide him to his destination. As he pulled up outside the humane society building, his assumption was confirmed -- several news vans were parked outside, their satellite dishes pointed skyward in anticipation of the day's events. With a sense of satisfaction, Cal stepped out of the car, ready to bask in the spotlight once more.