Page 23 of My Big, Fat, Secret Billionaire Baby

We crushed it.

Fucking crushed it.

Another couple billion skimmed off the top of someone else’s dream. Or near enough. The final lock-up period expired on Axiom Dynamics this morning, and the sell-off was executed exactly as planned. We got in early, Series A, rode the hype wave (which we helped create), and dumped our shares the second the opening bell rang on the IPO. We made a killing before the inevitable market correction tanked it for the retail suckers.

Another win among many.

Life is good.

I lean back in my custom Italian leather chair and stare out at the Manhattan skyline sprawling below my office window. Fifty floors up, king of thegoddamn world. Or at least this particular corner of it.

The city glitters, indifferent. A million stories down there, a million hustles, a million heartbreaks. And up here? Just the cold, clean hum of the market, the satisfying click of another successful exit, another win notched on the belt.

It’s what I do.

It’s what I’mgoodat.

Better than anyone.

The fuckingbest.

I took the chaos of my childhood, the instability, the fear of the lights going out again, and forged it into a weapon. Yes, ambition sharp enough to cut through bone.

My phone buzzes on the polished walnut desk.

It’s a notification from Michelle, my hyper efficient PA.

Meeting with Luca in 2 minutes.

Michelle. Our relationship is complicated. Sometimes after hours, the lines have blurred. It’s a no-strings thing we both seem to fall into when the pressure gets too high, though I often wonder if it’s fair to her, given I sign her checks.

I scroll down through the string of other notifications.

A text from Jen, my personal trainer. Asking for another punishing session tonight that will likely end with both of us blowing off steam in a far more personal way.

An alert from Victoria, Chief Legal Counsel, confirming the final wire transfers from the Axiom share dump have cleared. Her competence is as sharp as her wit. Our dynamic is complicated, sometimescrossing professional lines into something intense and transactional, a silent acknowledgment of the pressures we both operate under. She’s more than capable of holding her own, in any arena.

An email from my household manager, Thomas, about the menu for tonight’s informal networking dinner at the penthouse. Thomas has been with me for ten years, and is almost like a father to me at this point. The father I wish I’d had, anyway.

Just another day navigating the demands of an empire. The women in my life… it’s all compartmentalized. Jen is about raw energy and physical release. Victoria is an intellectual sparring partner, even when things turn physical. Michelle… she keeps my professional life from imploding, and sometimes, when the lines blur after hours, it’s just… easy. Convenient.

No strings, no messy emotions. That’s the unspoken rule. It’s a way to feel something, or maybe to feel nothing at all, to keep the real shit at bay. Keeps me in control, or so I tell myself.

Yeah, yeah, I know what HR consultants would say about dipping the pen in company ink. They wouldn’t approve of my methods, or the lines that get blurred in a high-pressure environment like this. Fuck the neatly bound handbooks. These are adults, making their own choices, same as me. Or at least, that’s the narrative that lets me sleep at night.

And if anyone, man or woman, regardless of role, decides they want to play games? Tries to leverage a situation, whether it’s a business disagreement they think they can exploit, a misconstrued word, a moment of personal indiscretion they now see as an opportunity, or frankly, any attempt to undermine the company or my control forpersonal gain?

That’s what the ‘fuck off with a smile’ fund is for. Fifty million liquid, earmarked specifically to make inconvenient people disappear quietly with an NDA stapled to their fat check.

Problems get solved, control maintained.

When you build something this big, you protect it with everything you’ve got.

Simple as that.

Still… fuck.

Vegas.

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