The 5 AM Club. Robin Sharma

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      The seats had that marvelously musky smell of new leather. The wood paneling seemed like it had been prepared by hand, by a small family of finicky craftspeople who’d built their reputations around this singular obsession.

      “Mr. Riley made his fortune many years ago, in various commercial ventures. He was also an early investor in what has now become an internationally admired company. Discretion prevents me from mentioning the name and, if Mr. Riley found out I was speaking of financial matters with you, he’d be exceedingly disappointed. His instructions were simply to treat you with the utmost of care along with assuring you of his sincerity and reliability. And to deliver you safely to Hangar 21.”

      “Hangar 21?” the artist asked as he eased languidly into the opulent vehicle like a rock star accustomed to this method of transport or a hip-hop artist ready for a weekend roll.

      “That’s where Mr. Riley’s fleet of jets are kept,” stated the driver succinctly.

      “Fleet?” questioned the entrepreneur, her beautiful brown eyes alive with an immensely curious look.

      “Yes,” was all the chauffeur would allow.

      There was silence as the driver sped through the early morning streets. The artist looked out the window while rolling a bottle of water in one hand absentmindedly. He hadn’t seen the sun rising in many years. “Very special. Truly beautiful,” he admitted. “Everything’s so peaceful at this time of the day. No noise. Such peace. Even though I feel tired right now, I can really think. Things seem clearer. My attention isn’t a mess. It feels like the rest of the world is asleep. What tranquility.”

      A cavalry of wispy amber rays, the ethereal palette of the daybreak and the quietude of this moment left him encouraged. And awestruck.

      The entrepreneur studied the driver. “So, tell me more about your boss,” she requested, restlessly toying with her device as she spoke.

      “I can’t tell you much more. He’s worth multiple billions of dollars. He’s given most of his money to charity. Mr. Riley’s the most fascinating, generous and compassionate person I know. He also has incredible willpower, along with having ironclad values, such as honesty, empathy, integrity and loyalty. And, of course, he’s also a real oddball, if I may be so bold as to say so. Like a lot of the very, very, very rich.”

      “We’ve noticed,” agreed the entrepreneur. “I’m interested, though. What makes you say he’s odd?”

      “You’ll see,” was the stark response.

      The Rolls soon arrived at a private airport. No sign of Mr. Riley. The driver accelerated up to an ivory jet that looked immaculately kept. The only color it bore appeared on the tail. In the hue of a mandarin orange, three characters read “5AC.”

      “What does ‘5AC’ stand for?” asked the entrepreneur tensely, gripping her gadget tightly.

      “The 5 AM Club. ‘Own your morning. Elevate your life.’ It’s one of the maxims Mr. Riley has conducted his many business interests under. And now, with regret, this is where I must bid you adieu. Au revoir,” he said before carrying the luggage over to the sparkling aircraft.

      Two handsome crew members chatted near the metal stairway that led up to the cabin. A tastefully refined blonde flight attendant handed the entrepreneur and the artist hot towels and offered them coffee from a silver tray. “Dobroe utro,” she said, greeting them in Russian.

      “It has been a great pleasure to meet you,” the driver called up to the jet, as he got back into the car. “Kindly convey my best wishes to Mr. Riley once you see him. And do have fun in Mauritius.”

      “Mauritius?” the companions exclaimed, as surprised as a vampire waking up to a garlic clove.

      “This is all unbelievable,” the artist said as he climbed into the cabin. “Mauritius! I’ve always wanted to go to that island, and I’ve read a bit about it. It’s a high-frequency place. French flavor. Tremendous beauty. And, from what they say, many of the warmest and happiest people on Earth live there.”

      “I’m blown away, too,” the entrepreneur said as she sipped her coffee and peeked into the cockpit. She studied the pilots as they performed their pre-flight preparation. “I’ve also heard Mauritius is splendid, and that the people are super-friendly, helpful and spiritually advanced.”

      After a perfect takeoff, the first-class plane floated high into the clouds. Once at cruising altitude, premium champagne was served, caviar was recommended and an array of fabulous main courses were suggested. The entrepreneur was feeling fairly content and far less incited by the cruel attempt of her investors to take her company away from her. True, this might not be the ideal time to take a vacation to learn about The 5 AM Club philosophy and its underlying methodology that had served Mr. Riley’s ascent to business titan and global philanthropist like rocket fuel. Or perhaps this was the perfect time to get away from her usual reality to discover how the most successful, influential and joyful people on the planet start their days.

      After sipping on some champagne, the entrepreneur watched a movie. She then fell into a deep sleep. The artist had a book called Michelangelo Fiorentino et Rafael da Urbino: Masters of Art in the Vatican. He read it for hours. You can just imagine how happy he felt.

      The jet made its trajectory over a number of vast continents and above varied terrain. The flight was meticulously conducted, and the landing was as fluid as the overall experience was fine.

      “Bienvenue au Île Maurice,” announced the captain over the public address system as the aircraft taxied along the freshly paved runway. “Merci beaucoup. Welcome to Mauritius and Sir Seewoosagur Ramgoolam International Airport,” he continued, speaking his words with the well-earned confidence of someone who had spent most of his life in the sky. “It’s been a privilege having you two VIPs with us. We’ll see you again in several days, from what Mr. Riley’s personal assistant has informed us of your itinerary. Thank you once again for flying with us, and we trust that the journey was elegant, excellent and above all else, safe.”

      A polished black SUV glittered on the tarmac as the flight attendant escorted her special passengers off the plane and into the humming vehicle.

      “Your luggage will follow shortly. Not to worry—it shall be delivered to your guest rooms at Mr. Riley’s seaside estate. Spasiba,” she added in a graceful tone and with an earnest wave.

      “This is so A-list,” observed the entrepreneur as she happily snapped some selfies, uncharacteristically pouting like a fashionista.

      “Def,” replied the artist, as he photobombed her, sticking out his tongue like Albert Einstein did in that famous photo that betrayed his seriousness as a scientist and revealed his undiminished childlike sense of wonder.

      As the Range Rover rolled along the highway, tall stalks of sugar cane swayed in the fragrant breezes blown by the Indian Ocean. The quiet chauffeur wore a white cap, the kind you see bellmen at five-star hotels wearing, and a well-pressed dark gray uniform that hinted at an understated yet refined professionalism. He never missed slowing down when the speed limit descended and ensuring his signal light was on whenever a turn was to be made. Though it was evident that the man was older, he moved the vehicle along the roadway with the precision of a young apprentice dedicated to becoming the absolute best. Through the drive, his focus remained transfixed on the pavement ahead, in a sort of trance designed to keep his passengers secure yet deliver them to their destination with a smooth efficiency.

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