The $10 Heiress

I was Ten when my parents left me at a bus station on a bench with ten dollars and a backpack. Cold and alone. Twenty-eight now. CEO. Billionaire. And I just bought the company that bears their name. The steakhouse was quiet. Two quiet. Across from me sat my mother and my father, the man who taught me what abandonment felt like. "You're late," my father said, checking his watch like I was the one who wasted time. Quietly, and coolly like I had practiced I went towards the table, the same one. Table 7. I slid a black folder with a Gold stamp at the bottom across the white tablecloth. DeMarco Holdings. Acquisition papers. My signature was already dry. "You have forty-eight hours to sign," I said "or I take it all." My mother's hand shook around her wine glass. "Lexa, we can explain–" "No," I cut her off. "You explained it eighteen years ago. At a bus station." I stood. The chair didn't scrape. I didn't give them that. "Table 7," I said, "Same place. Different power." And I walked out, leaving two adults staring at a contract they never thought they'd ever sign. Oblivious to what was to come.