Bitcoin Billionaire: I Regressed to Invest in the First Bitcoin!-Chapter 161: College Reunion (3)

Both Darren and Charles turned around, and unsurprisingly, the person standing behind them was none other than Tyler Mooney.

There was an infuriated look on his face. The blue-glinting suit he wore, earlier meant to scream wealth, now looked almost laughable against the dark anger rolling off him.

Tyler looked at Charles. "I understand that you're a nice guy, Charlie. Having a cozy little chat with... this fiddle. But you don't have to do it. A man of your level shouldn't talk to street dogs like him."

Darren's mind thundered at the sound of that name. He almost exploded in his seat, ready to shoot out a clenched fist at Tyler.

Few heads had already been drawn from nearby tables, so Darren knew to stay cool headed.

Charles, composed as ever, gave Tyler a slight nod but clearly turned his full attention back to Darren, refusing to engage.

Darren, in contrast, didn't move a muscle. He merely lifted an eyebrow, amused. "Relax, Tyler," he said. "I'm not going to steal your boyfriend from you."

Snickers erupted from nearby.

Tyler's face flushed red.

"Fucking Death Wish Darren," Tyler spat. "You're just the same as you were in highschool and college. Running your mouth with no fear for the consequences."

"But..." he tilted his head. "Something HAS changed about you, hasn't it? You have money now." He chuckled condescendingly. "Would you look at that?!"

Charles sighed. "What are you doing, Tyler?"

"No, hold on. No need to come to the aid of Steele Investments over here."

Darren jerked a brow.

Tyler grinned at him. "That's right. I looked you up. I came back to LA and everyone is apparently talking about how big you've become. All that talk about digital currency in college and now you're interested in Bitcoin! Bwa— ha! Ha! Ha!"

"So what?!" His face instantly turned evil and cold. "Yeah you have money now, but a dog with a bone is still a dog. Only a very happy one."

"No one buys your little success story. Small-time investors pop up every day. Doesn't make you royalty."

Darren sipped his drink lazily. "Is that what you tell yourself when you wake up in that leased Audi R8 of yours?"

A ripple of laughter — sharper this time — shot through the crowd.

"Seriously, Ty. What was that entrance? What did you think this was? Wrestlemania?"

More laughter.

Tyler's hand twitched at his side.

"You always had a smart mouth," Tyler growled. "Maybe it's time someone reminded you where you belong."

Darren tilted his head thoughtfully. "And where's that? Above you if I was to guess, right?"

Another round of barely concealed chuckles followed.

Tyler's nostrils flared. His pride could only take so much battering in public.

He gave Darren a furious once-over. This bastard looked way different now. That suit, that chiseled face, that aura.

Was it all that that gave him the audacity to speak this way? Did taking down Smithers Group get to his head that much?!

"So you think you're better than me now, huh?"

"Never said that, but it could be true."

"I make ten times what your company makes a week."

"And you get a 5% cut of it," Darren retorted, winning laughter and humorous reactions. "In case you didn't know why, it's because it's not really your money. It's your dad's."

"Oohhhhh!"

At this point, everyone's attention was on the altercation. And everyone turned to instigators.

"Ay! Ty, my man! You gonna let him speak to you like that?!"

"Come on, Tyler! Say something."

The Mooney heir glared at Darren with pure angst in his face while Darren glared back like he was daring him to try.

Charles pretended to not be part of this, sipping his wine in silence.

"Not my money, huh?" Tyler snarled, stepping closer. "Since you have so much more than me, why don't you put some of it on the line, huh?"

Darren looked away uninterestedly. "Pass. I'm not in the mood for a gamble."

Tyler chuckled. "There it is, the scared little puppy—"

Darren's eyes shot open.

"—too scared to play a little pool."

"I'll play."

He finished the large amount of whiskey in his glass in one gulp then rose to his feet, Charles and everyone else staring at him.

"Good," Tyler grinned. "How about 200 hundred thousand on the line?"

"I don't care. Let's just get this over with."

Gasps whispered across the room. Two hundred thousand dollars wasn't pocket change even for some of these elites.

Charles raised an eyebrow at Darren, silently asking if he was going to waste time.

Darren assured him with a nod and walked past Tyler who snarled something under his breath and stomped toward the hotel's private billiards lounge, a crowd eagerly following like sharks scenting blood.

Inside the lounge, the luxury expected of a place like Golden Hay was well visible.

Dim sconces cast soft golden halos across the dark mahogany paneling. Shelves of aged scotch lined the back wall, and the scent of leather and tobacco lingered in the air like memory.

In the center of it all, the emerald felt of the pool table gleamed under a single overhead light, its polished rails catching glints from polished brass fixtures.

Tyler Mooney strode forward first, his jaw tight, movements sharp. He snatched a cue from the rack with a jerk and spun it once in his hand before dragging it through the chalk with short, furious strokes.

His lips were pressed into a thin line, his eyes locked on the table like a battlefield. Everything about him screamed tension.

Darren, on the other hand, moved like he belonged to the room — or rather, like the room belonged to him.

He walked with that quiet economy of motion that came from absolute control or absolute determination.

He picked a cue casually from the wall, gave it a glance, then stepped up beside Tyler without a word.

"Standard eight-ball," Tyler said curtly.

Darren gave a slow nod, barely looking his way. "Sure. You break."

Tyler planted his feet with purpose, exhaled, and lined the shot with militaristic precision. Then— crack.

The cue ball thundered into the triangle, shattering the formation. Stripes and solids scattered like startled birds.

One striped ball spun into the side pocket with a clean click. Tyler straightened and rolled his shoulders, cocky smirk returning like a mask he'd been aching to wear.

He circled the table, sizing up his next shot, leaned low — and fired.

The ball missed entirely, clattering off the far rail and rolling back to mock him. Tyler hissed a curse.

Someone murmured, "That was a bloody awful shot."

Darren approached with the nonchalance of a man out for a morning walk in a garden. No puffed chest. No bluster. Just fluid confidence.

He lowered himself, aiming at his first shot like it was a matter of rhythm, not effort.

Click. One solid ball slipped cleanly into the corner.

He straightened, paced once to the left.

Tap. Another sank into the side.

Then another. And another.

His shots were precise, his cue action graceful, not a hint of wasted motion. The balls moved like they knew where they were meant to go — like they were obeying, not just being struck.

The lounge grew quiet except for the satisfying thunks of sinking balls.

Whispers stirred from the men leaning on polished counters and leather-backed chairs around the room.

"Shit. He's good."

"How are you surprised?"

People glanced at who just spoke. "Did y'all forget that Darren was like a mathematician back in college. What are mathematicians good at? Angles!"

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhh..."

"Well, Tyler's fucked."

'Fucked' Tyler watched from the edge of the table, shoulders slowly rising with each sunk ball. His eyes darted nervously. His grip on the cue tightened.

That cocky grin was gone now — replaced by a clenched jaw and a furrowed brow. Sweat beaded along his hairline despite the cool air.

"They were just lucky shots," he mumbled.

Darren didn't reply.

He lined up for the final shot. The eight-ball sat just off-center from the corner pocket. He didn't pause. No adjustments. Just a single motion — swift, efficient.

The black ball rolled with obedient elegance and vanished into the pocket.

Game over.

A moment of silence passed — reverent, heavy — before the room erupted into a wave of low chuckles, applause, and knowing laughter. Some clapped slowly, others just smiled and shook their heads.

Tyler didn't move.

He stood there, cue hanging limp from his fingers like a useless branch. His face was blank, but the tight line of his throat betrayed the storm beneath.

Darren didn't spare him a glance. He turned, stepped to the side table where the signed checks of 200 hundred dollars were.

He threw his signed check into the fireplace and pocketed the one Tyler had signed.

Disgraced, silenced and left speechless, Tyler watched as Darren left the lounge without a single word.

Reaching Charles, who had watched the whole scene from a leather armchair, Darren gave him a ghost of a smirk. "Now, where were we?"

Charles laughed. "Fuck business partners. We're going to be best friends, Darren Steele."