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Brent’s expression has taken on a subtle, earnest quality that I don’t particularly care for. It’s a knowing stare—and I hate the idea of anyone assuming they know me.
“What have I said about looking through my files unnecessarily?” I inquire, keeping my tone low and languid—intimidating as hell.
“That you would put a hit out on me if I ever did it again,” he replies, holding up both hands. “Apologies. If you really must kill me tonight, I’d like to go in my sleep.”
“Duly noted.”
He gives me a polite nod. So British. “Well, I’ll be in my office. Do you want me to order your dinner?”
“I’ll do it myself.”
Brent leaves and my gaze drifts back to my laptop. Once his footsteps fade down the hallway, I navigate to a file I thought I had hidden well enough in my cloud drive: Untitled: Reflections on Crowdsourcing Your Way to Billions. Yeah, the title is shit, but it’s a work in progress.
Brent is right: If all goes according to plan, I’ll be effectively jobless when the acquisition closes.
Me. Jobless.
For the record, I’ve never been unemployed, not for two decades.
Twenty-one years ago, I was fresh out of college and sitting on my bed in my flat, crying—like a pathetic little bitch. After four years together at MIT, Constance had just broken up with me. Mercilessly. It didn’t matter that I gave up everything to move to London for her. My job, my car, grandma and grandpa’s old mobile home—everything. I gave it all up for her, and she dumped me on sight.
That night, I scrounged up whatever cash I had, left my flat with no plan whatsoever, and scored enough coke to put me on a bender for the next eight days. Somehow, between blearily seducing strangers and doing shit I would regret for years to come, I managed to write an idea in a notebook. Just two sentences, nothing earth-shattering. Still, that idea made me a billionaire by the time I was twenty-four.
The last twenty years have been a whirlwind. Countless rounds of funding, unprecedented growth, and the creation of a veritable financial empire. And me? I’m a fucking legend.
Legends leave behind a legacy. Legacies don’t die. I can’t think of a better legacy than a book in the vein of Malcolm Gladwell, Machiavelli, and even Sun Tzu.
As the sunset beyond my windows casts a final splash of pink and orange over the city, I write.
My book is the first thing to distract me from thoughts of Julia Ridgeway since I first saw her.
Chapter 5: Julia
I drop my phone onto the bedspread and curse inwardly. I am the queen of self-sabotage and I rule over a kingdom of regret and rash decisions. Common sense is my jester and I keep rationality locked in the stocks. Hubris is my most trusted advisor, and we’ve loaded the catapult and declared war against willpower and a good night’s sleep.
Fuck.
It’s four in the morning and I’ve just finished reading FundRight’s 10-K. I started on the plane to Boston from Ibiza and continued nonstop throughout the entire flight, customs at Logan, and the car ride to my house in Beacon Hill. Briefly, I took a break to shower, and then climbed back into bed with every intention of finishing in the morning.
Clearly, things went awry.
I’ve never read a 10-K before. I didn’t even know what a 10-K was until I realized I had no idea what FundRight even does. Naturally, instead of copping to my ignorance and asking Davis, I googled What the hell does FundRight do? which led me to their 10-K: the annual report of finances and strategies that all publicly traded companies file with the SEC.
And—as the queen of self-sabotage is wont to do—I pulled an all-nighter reading it.
Wearily, I force myself to sit, aware I’m going to pay for this binge-read with bags under my eyes and an excruciating headache that caffeine will just exacerbate.
“Such a mistake,” I murmur while I rub both of my palms over my face.
Vacations are supposed to be for relaxing and fucking. This time around, I managed to do neither of those things. Gus Winter was loitering in my brain the entire time, practically polluting it.
Although, I’m sure mine is not the first vacation Gus Winter has ruined. FundRight’s 10-K reads like a manual of corporate slaughter: how to build a company on the blood and backs of enemies. If I didn’t think he was an entitled asshole, I would have been impressed by it. Reading about how he started a company from nothing and steadily grew it into a fintech empire…well, it was actually pretty fascinating.
Ugh. It’s not enough for him to be ludicrously attractive; he had to be brilliant and successful too. The universe clearly plays favorites.
My mind won’t stop turning, so I give up on sleep. Downstairs, I make myself a quick breakfast, grateful to be back in my kitchen. I keep it simple. French omelet. Greek yogurt and fruit. Coffee. I take my meal out to my backyard and sit at the iron table by the apple tree. Crack of dawn aside, it’s an unseasonably chilly August morning in Boston, but I don’t mind.
Sighing, I take a long drink of coffee and lean back in my chair while the house sparrows chirp their morning songs around me. Now that I’ve finished the 10-K, I scroll through a list I made of unfamiliar business terms. I have an econ degree, but we never learned about company management or investments in undergrad. For some reason, the thought of my pussy being traded for a company whose 10-K I can’t fully comprehend irritates me. I start at the top and look up terms, studying for the next hour—until my doorbell rings.
