King of Greed (Kings of Sin, 3)
King of Greed: Chapter 2

T here was an old adage that bad things came in threes, and if I weren’t so scornful of superstitions, I might’ve believed it after this shit show of a day.

First, a ridiculous tech malfunction reset our email and calendar systems that morning, and we’d spent hours getting everything back in order.

Then, one of my top traders quit because he was “burned out” and

“found his true calling” as a fucking yoga teacher, of all things.

Now, an hour before U.S. markets closed, news leaked that a company we had a large position in was being investigated by the Securities and Exchange Commission. Stocks were in free fall, which meant the value of our position was declining by the minute, and my plans to leave early had disintegrated faster than tissue paper in a washing machine. As the CEO of a major financial conglomerate, I didn’t have the luxury of delegating crisis management.

“Talk to me.” Brisk strides took me from my office to the emergency staff meeting three doors down in thirty seconds. My muscles coiled so tight, it was a miracle they didn’t cramp. I’d lost millions in minutes, and I didn’t have time to beat around the bush. “Rumor has it the SEC is going hard on this one.” Caroline, my chief of staff, matched my pace with ease.

“The new chairman wants to make a splashy first impression. What better way to do that than to go head-to-head with one of the biggest banks in the country?”

For fuck’s sake. It was always the newbies that crashed their way through their first year like a bull in a china shop. I had a good relationship with the old chairman, but the new one was a goddamn thorn in my side, and he’d only been there for three months.

I checked my watch as I pushed open the door to the executive conference room. A quarter past three. I was supposed to fly out to DC with Alessandra at six. If I kept the meeting short and drove straight to the airport instead of stopping at home first like I’d originally planned, I could still make it.

Dammit. Why did the chairman have to upend things on my wedding anniversary, of all days?

I took my seat at the head of the table and reached for my lighter. It was instinct at this point; I didn’t even have to think about it. “Give me the numbers.”

Thoughts of DC and upcoming flights melted away as I flicked the lighter on and off while my team debated the pros and cons of dumping our position in the bank versus weathering the storm. There was no room for personal concerns in times of emergencies, and the solid, comforting weight of silver focused my thoughts on the task at hand instead of the insidious whispers crowding my brain.

They were always there, filling my head with doubts like how I was one bad decision away from losing everything. How I was and always would be the butt of every joke, the foster kid whose own biological mother abandoned him and who flunked sixth grade twice.

The “problem student,” my teachers lamented. The “idiot,” my classmates jeered.

The “slacker,” my guidance counselor sighed.

The voices were loudest in times of crisis. I reigned over a multi-billion-dollar empire that included dozens of subsidiaries and tens of thousands of employees spread across the globe, but I walked through the halls every day with the prospect of a crash hanging over me.

On. Off. On. Off. The increased speed of my flicks matched my escalating heartbeats.

“Sir.” Caroline’s voice cut through the buzzing in my ears. “What’s your verdict?”

I blinked away the unwanted memories lurking at the corners of my consciousness. The room came back into focus, revealing my team’s anxious, expectant expressions.

Someone had pulled up a presentation sometime in the past minute, even though I’d repeatedly said I hated slide decks. The right side was filled with a comforting mix of charts and numbers, but the left contained several lengthy bullet points.

The sentences swam before me. They didn’t look right; I was sure my brain had added some words while erasing others. The back of my neck heated while my heartbeats thundered with such fury, it felt like they were trying to punch through my chest and knock the words off the screen in one fell swoop.

“What did I say about presentation format?” I could barely hear myself over the noise. It grew louder every second, and only my painful grip on the lighter prevented me from unraveling. “No. Bullet points.”

I bit out the words, and the room fell deathly silent.

“I-I’m sorry, sir.” The analyst presenting the slides paled to the point of translucence. “My assistant—”

“I don’t give a damn about your assistant.” I was being an asshole, but I didn’t have time to feel bad about it. Not when my stomach was turning and a migraine was already crawling its way behind my temple.

On. Off. On. Off.

I turned my head and focused on the charts instead. The switch in focus, combined with the clicks of the lighter, calmed me enough to think clearly again.

SEC. Tumbling stocks. What to do with our position.

I couldn’t fully shake the sense that one day, I would fuck up so royally that I’d destroy everything I had, but that day wouldn’t be today.

I knew what to do, and as I laid out my strategy for holding on to our position, I pushed every other voice out of my head— including the one telling me that I was forgetting something damn important.