Richest Man: It All Started With My Rebate System-Chapter 37: Hyperbike Delivery

Steven was eating breakfast when he remembered something related to the bike delivery.

"Wait... Will that be a problem?" He muttered to himself, wondering if parking the hyperbike in the underground garage would cause any issues.

He decided that instead of overthinking it, he should simply call Andrew and ask. Without hesitation, he made the call.

It was picked up on the second ring.

"Good morning, Mr. Craig. Andrew speaking. How can I help you?"

"Morning, Andrew. Quick question. I have a motorcycle being delivered this morning. I wanted to confirm there’s no issue with storing it in the underground garage."

"Not at all," Andrew said. "The garage accommodates motorcycles without any restrictions. You’re welcome to use your assigned space or, if you’d prefer a dedicated bay away from the cars, I can arrange that with building management this morning. It won’t take long."

"The assigned space is fine," Steven said. "As long as there’s no issue."

"None whatsoever. I’ll make a note with the front desk so the delivery team has smooth access when they arrive. Do you have a rough window?"

"Ten to twelve," Steven said.

"Perfect. I’ll have it sorted before then. Anything else I can help with?"

"That’s everything," Steven said. "Thanks, Andrew."

There was a brief pause on Andrew’s end.

"I hope you don’t mind me asking," Andrew said, with a slight shift in his tone that suggested the professional manner was still there but something more personal had crept in alongside it. "What kind of motorcycle is it?"

"A Ducati Superleggera V4," Steven said.

The silence that followed lasted exactly one second.

"Mr. Craig," Andrew said. "That is an exceptional machine."

Steven smiled. "I know."

"Enjoy it," Andrew said, with genuine warmth. "Good morning and have a wonderful day, Mr. Craig."

"You too, Andrew."

The call ended.

He was glad he had sorted that out. It would have been troublesome if the garage didn’t accept bikes.

He put it out of his mind, finished his meal, and went to take care of the dishes.

A few minutes later, he was back on the sofa, gaming. As he played, his thoughts drifted to the incoming deliveries. He would have loved to sort out the licence today, but the deliveries came first.

Something occurred to him. He paused the game and opened the browser on his phone.

He pulled up the Texas DPS website, navigating to the motorcycle licence endorsement section. He read through the requirements quickly. He already had a valid Texas driver’s licence, which meant he didn’t need to start from scratch. What he needed was the Class M endorsement, and the fastest route to it was through an approved Motorcycle Safety Foundation Basic RiderCourse.

He found the MSF course locator and searched for providers in Houston.

Several came up. He went through them one by one, checking availability. Most had courses scheduled weeks out. The third one he checked, a provider in the Westchase area, had a weekend slot opening the following Saturday and Sunday.

He read through the course details. Classroom session on Saturday morning, range work Saturday afternoon, full practical assessment Sunday. Completion of the course waived the DPS riding skills test, which meant he could walk into a DPS office Monday morning and have the endorsement added to his licence the same day.

Saturday to Monday. Seven days from now.

He booked the slot without deliberating, filled in his details, and completed the payment.

[You spent $350. A 5.5x rebate was triggered.]

[You received $1,925. The money has been transferred to your account.]

He checked the confirmation email that arrived within seconds, noted the address of the training facility and the Saturday start time, and set the phone down.

"Seven days," he muttered.

He went back to gaming. About an hour later, his phone rang. He checked the screen and saw it was the delivery team.

He picked up immediately.

"Mr. Craig, this is the delivery team from Marcus’. We’re about thirty minutes out. Just wanted to give you the heads up as promised."

"Appreciated," Steven said. "Access has been arranged with the front desk. When you arrive, let them know you’re here for Mr. Craig and they’ll direct you to the garage."

"Perfect. We’ll see you shortly."

The call ended.

Steven set the phone down and looked at the paused screen for a moment. Then he stood up, went to the bedroom, and changed into something cleaner. A plain white t-shirt and dark trousers from the new wardrobe. He checked his reflection briefly and left it at that.

He went back to the living area and sat down but didn’t pick the controller back up. His attention had shifted entirely.

He checked the time. Just under thirty minutes.

He waited without much difficulty, which surprised him slightly. Patience had never been one of his stronger qualities. But the anticipation sitting in his chest was the clean kind, the kind that came from knowing something good was on its way rather than from uncertainty about whether it would arrive at all.

Twenty-five minutes later, his phone rang again.

"Mr. Craig, we’re downstairs."

"I’ll be right there," Steven said.

He picked up his key card from the side table and took the elevator down to the garage level. The doors opened and he stepped out into the cool underground air.

A white van was parked near the entrance ramp, its rear doors already open. Two men in branded workwear were unloading a crated transport frame with careful, practiced hands. Between them, partially visible through the protective wrapping, was the white bodywork of the Superleggera.

Steven walked toward them and one of the men looked up.

"Mr. Craig?"

"That’s me," Steven said.

"We’ll have her uncrated and in position in about ten minutes. If you want to direct us to your space, we can get her exactly where you want her."

Steven pointed to his assigned bay, two spaces down from the Aston Martin.

The two men worked efficiently and without unnecessary conversation, removing the protective crating and wrapping with the care of people who understood exactly what they were handling. When the last layer came away, the Superleggera stood fully revealed under the garage lighting.

Steven stood back and looked at it.

In the showroom, it had been lit for presentation, elevated on a platform, surrounded by space. Here in the garage, parked between ordinary concrete pillars with fluorescent lights overhead, it looked no less extraordinary. If anything, the contrast made it sharper. It belonged somewhere exceptional and it looked like it knew that, regardless of where it was standing.

One of the delivery men handed Steven a document folder and a pen.

"If you could sign here and here, Mr. Craig. That confirms receipt and releases the delivery."

Steven signed both pages without reading them, his eyes still on the bike.

The man took the folder back, checked the signatures, and nodded.

"She’s yours," he said. "Enjoy her."

"Phrasing," Steven muttered.

The two men smiled, as they understood what he meant.

They loaded the crating back into the van, gave Steven a final nod, and drove up the ramp and out of the garage.

Steven stood alone in the quiet underground space, looking at the Superleggera sitting in the bay beside his Aston Martin.

It would take nine days before he would be able to take it out for a ride.