Chapter 7 - The Fallout and the New EmpireThree weeks after the wedding catastrophe, the shockwaves were still rippling through the New England business community.
The story of the disastrous Vermont wedding had quickly leaked onto local social media pages, transforming overnight into a viral sensation dubbed by gossip columns as The Billionaire’s Table Nineteen Debacle. Memes of Nicholas sitting on the hardwood floor surrounded by crayons and juice boxes circulated widely on LinkedIn and X, utterly destroying whatever fragile professional reputation he had spent years trying to cultivate.
His startup, starved of the secret financial backing it had relied on, folded within forty-eight hours of the equity swap execution. The venture capital firms that had previously entertained his pitches vanished like smoke, realizing that the company's actual intellectual property and financial lifeline belonged entirely to an anonymous entity known as Aegis Holdings.
As for Nicholas himself?
Last I heard, he had moved back into our parents' basement in suburban Boston, desperately trying to salvage what was left of his ego by posting long, defensive threads on social media about "toxic corporate takeovers" and "ungrateful family members"—posts that mostly received three likes, two of which were from our mother and a fake bot account.
My phone had rung continuously for the first week after the wedding.
Mom had called crying, begging me to "show mercy to your flesh and blood" and threatening to disown me if I didn't reinstate Nicholas’s startup funding. Dad had tried the stern, patriarchal approach, leaving voicemails about "family honor" and "respecting your elders."
I hadn't answered a single one of their calls. Instead, I simply blocked their numbers, packed up my apartment in Boston, and permanently relocated to a stunning, light-filled penthouse overlooking the harbor in downtown Seattle—a property purchased entirely through my own independent corporate advisory earnings.
My life had shifted into a gear of absolute freedom and creative fulfillment.
Sitting at my custom walnut desk on a Tuesday morning, wearing an oversized cashmere sweater and comfortable gray sweatpants, I sipped a cup of steaming dark roast coffee while my laptop screen glowed with a fresh project brief.
It was a confidential strategy memo for a major renewable energy initiative—a project commissioned directly by Emmett Stewart’s executive board.
My fingers flew across the mechanical keyboard, words, strategies, and elegant corporate narratives flowing effortlessly from my mind onto the screen. I didn't need to shout to be heard. I didn't need to wear a flashy designer suit or rent a luxury estate to prove my worth. My words moved markets, shaped billion-dollar enterprises, and quietly steered the future of industry from the shadows.
A soft chime interrupted my typing.
I glanced down at my phone resting beside the keyboard. A text message from an unknown, encrypted number popped up on the screen.
“Are you dressed in sweatpants right now?”
I smiled, typing a quick reply back.
“Naturally. It’s a professional requirement for high-level corporate espionage.”
A second later, another message arrived.
“Good. Because I’m standing downstairs in the lobby with two orders of artisanal cinnamon rolls and a proposition that will completely disrupt your afternoon productivity.”
I stood up from my desk, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling glass window that looked out over the gleaming Seattle waterfront. Far down below, parked near the private entrance of the building, was a familiar matte-black Maybach.
And stepping out from the driver’s side, looking effortlessly sharp in a tailored charcoal coat, was Emmett.
May you like
I grabbed my keys, locked my laptop screen, and walked toward the elevator.
Let Nicholas keep his rented chandeliers and his fake power tables. I had a billionaire to meet, an empire to build, and a lifetime of stories left to write.
