The rest of Sunday? I locked the world out like it owed me money. Screw sunlight, screw small talk—I had an empire to architect.
Sarah brought me lunch. I didn't ask. She just knew. I was too deep into my laptop, fingers slicing across the keyboard like I was scoring a symphony for the gods of capitalism and chaos. Beethoven with a God complex.
No trades today. Crypto was having a mental breakdown—erratic, emotional, needy. I don't do needy.
Not when I've got $1.6M sitting pretty after Charlotte's $700K bonus just landed like an apology from the universe. That's $1.6 million in liquid proof that I was no longer the broke kid getting shoved into lockers by dudes like Jack Morrison.
Jack, whose entire personality was leased from his father's trust fund. I didn't inherit shit. I built mine—with intelligence that bordered on divine and a psychotic little AI who was only getting smarter.
