Adrian stretched lazily on the recliner, the glow of his phone screen lighting his face. A faint smile tugged at his lips. A month ago, the very sight of Carl's name flashing across his caller ID had been enough to send him into a fury. The man was relentless, always pushing him, dragging him into meetings, begging him to take jobs that felt beneath him. For months, Adrian had seen only nagging, greed, and humiliation.
But now? Now he saw it differently.
In this city of masks, where loyalty was measured only in dollar signs, Carl's stubborn presence almost looked like devotion. Shameless, greedy, overeager—yes. But he hadn't abandoned Adrian even when the fame dwindled, even when the tabloids had him pegged as a washed-up has-been.
That counted for something.
Still, the thought of Carl's secretary—her ambition, her calculating eyes—sent a ripple of unease through him. Hollywood was a jungle, and everyone here was climbing, clawing, or biting their way upward. It wasn't loyalty that made people stay—it was opportunity. Adrian knew that better than anyone.
"The fat idiot won't listen," Adrian muttered under his breath, pushing himself upright. "He'll fall eventually. They all do."
He stretched, rolling the tension out of his shoulders, and carried his coffee back to the study. Rain pattered steadily against the tall windows, streaking the glass with silver lines. The storm had been coming since dawn, a heavy curtain of gray pressing down on Los Angeles.
He sat at his desk, the scent of fresh coffee mixing with the faint leather-and-paper smell of the study. His fingers hovered above the keyboard, tapping out half a sentence before backspacing it away. The words could wait.
The bank could not.
Adrian checked the time: nearly nine. He closed the laptop, slipped into a tailored jacket, and grabbed the keys from the bowl by the door.
The garage echoed as the Ferrari's engine roared to life. Rain splattered across the windshield as the doors rose. Adrian guided the car out slowly, the tires hissing against the wet pavement, then accelerated down the drive. The storm turned the streets into rivers of reflections—neon signs bleeding into puddles, headlights shimmering across slick asphalt.
By the time he pulled up in front of the Bank of America's downtown branch, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. The building loomed like a fortress of steel and glass, its polished façade gleaming even under the storm's shadow.
Inside, the lobby smelled faintly of carpet shampoo and overbrewed coffee. Nelson, ever composed in his dark suit, was waiting in the lounge area. Beside him sat Kohler, the accountant, a man in his thirties with sharp glasses and an even sharper expression. Both rose as Adrian walked in.
"Damn weather," Adrian said, shaking droplets from his hair as he approached. "I'm not late, am I?"
"Not at all," Nelson said smoothly, his calm voice a steady anchor.
Kohler added with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, "We've got plenty of time, boss."
They shook hands before sitting. Nelson slid a folder across the polished coffee table. "Here are the appraisals—your home, your copyrights. Take a look."
Adrian skimmed the pages. Numbers, valuations, neat rows of figures that felt more abstract than real.
"How much can we pull from this?" he asked, setting the file down.
Kohler leaned forward, his tone professional, but his eyes glinting with something else. "The market's hot. Your house is valued at around four million. Your two novels, thanks to their inclusion in the national reading catalog, push things even higher. Between the house and your copyrights, we're looking at six, maybe seven million."
Adrian nodded once, then asked flatly, "And the rate?"
Kohler pulled out a chart, sliding it across. "Bank of America has the lowest on collateralized loans like this. Interest will still bite, but it's the best you'll get."
Adrian studied the sheet for barely a moment before handing it back. "Good. Handle the details. That's why you're here."
Nelson gave him a small nod of approval. "Shall we?"
The credit manager's office smelled faintly of cologne and old wood polish. Mr. Lewis, a man in his fifties with perfectly combed silver hair, stood as they entered. His handshake was firm, practiced, the kind honed on golf courses and charity dinners.
"Mr. Blake," he said warmly. "A pleasure. I've read your work."
Adrian smiled politely. "That means a lot. Thank you."
They sat, and the meeting began. Papers were exchanged, clauses dissected, rates discussed. Nelson steered the legalities with sharp precision, while Kohler crunched figures like a machine. Adrian let them. His role was simple: nod, sign, stay calm.
The rain drummed steadily against the windows, underscoring each stroke of his pen. When the final page slid across the desk, Adrian scrawled his signature, the ink barely dry before Lewis extended his hand again.
"Congratulations, Mr. Blake. Six million, transferred today."
Combined with his own savings, that gave him eight million liquid. A staggering sum by any measure.
It should have felt dizzying. Instead, Adrian felt something closer to relief. Oxygen. Space to move.
By mid-afternoon, the rain had cleared. Sunlight cut through the clouds as Adrian sat back at his desk, the glow of a brand-new stock account illuminating his face. Kohler stood over his shoulder, explaining the software with a faint edge of disbelief.
"You're really putting all eight million into equities?"
Adrian didn't look up. His fingers were already flying across the keyboard. "That's the plan."
"Boss," Kohler said carefully, "diversification exists for a reason—"
"I know what I'm doing." Adrian's tone was calm, almost amused.
The accountant's lips pressed into a thin line. He lingered for a moment, then packed his briefcase with a tight smile. "As you wish."
Through the window, Adrian watched him stride down the drive and into his car. The sneer on Kohler's face was unmistakable. Adrian chuckled softly.
"I'll need a better advisor," he muttered, returning his attention to the screen.
Apple stock hovered at just over fifty-one dollars. He knew what came next. The rise, the dominance, the transformation of a company into a cultural empire. He placed the order—millions in shares, swallowed in seconds.
The numbers on the screen didn't feel real. But then again, neither had the six million landing in his account that morning. Reality always lagged behind choice.
Across town, Kohler sat in his car, fingers drumming against the steering wheel before dialing a number.
"Nelson? It's Kohler. You know what your golden boy just did? Threw every damn dollar into the market. Every penny. He's never touched stocks in his life—he'll lose it all."
Nelson's sigh was long and weary. "Kohler, clients make their own decisions. Our job is to advise, not to gloat. Handle your work. That's all."
The line went dead. Kohler stared at his phone, rage simmering.
Nelson stayed in his office long after. The city stretched beyond his window, glittering under the fresh-washed sky. He trusted Adrian's instincts more than he trusted Kohler's bitterness. Still, eight million was no small gamble.
He paced once, twice, then picked up his phone.
"Mr. Blake? It's Nelson. We should talk… about strategy."
Adrian leaned back in his chair as the call ended, the glow of the monitor still reflecting in his eyes. Outside, the clouds were breaking, sunlight piercing through. For the first time in years, he felt it again—the rush, the fire, the sense that the future wasn't just happening.
He was shaping it.