Billionaire’s Ledger

That's me, Blake Sawyer. I'm not usually like this; this isn’t the real me. In my everyday life, I take pride in my appearance—my face is clean-shaven, and my slicked-back black hair has been described as giving me an air of danger mixed with professionalism. I wear tailor-made suits and shoes that cost more than most people's rent. As for my apartment? The one I’m currently in has the blinds drawn and an eerie bluish light glowing from the television. It’s cluttered with beer bottles, pizza boxes, and empty ice cream containers. But that’s not my usual home. Normally, I keep my place immaculate, with a cleaning service coming twice a week. It’s outfitted with all the latest gadgets—surround sound, satellite speakers, and a giant plasma screen that’s quite the showstopper. The decor is sleek and modern, filled with black and stainless steel elements, clearly indicating a man resides there. So as I mentioned, what you're witnessing now isn't truly me. I'm dealing with the flu. Influenza. Isn't it interesting how some of the worst illnesses have a certain lyrical quality to their names? Words like malaria, diarrhea, cholera. Do you think they intentionally choose such terms to soften the blow of feeling completely awful? Influenza—if you say it enough, it actually sounds pleasant. At least that’s what I think I have. It’s why I’ve been stuck in this apartment for the past week, why I turned off my phone, and why I’ve only gotten off the couch to use the bathroom or accept food deliveries. How long does the flu typically last? A week? A month? Mine began a week ago. My alarm rang at five a.m., like it always does. Instead of getting up to go to the office—where I’m quite successful—I hurled the clock across the room, shattering it. It was annoying anyway. That incessant beeping. I rolled over and went back to sleep. When I finally managed to get out of bed, I felt weak and nauseous. My chest hurt; my head pounded. So I collapsed onto this cozy couch, which I’ve deemed too comfortable to leave. All week I've been binge-watching Will Ferrell movies on the plasma. I’m currently on "Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy" for the third time today and haven’t laughed once. Maybe I’ll find it funny by the fourth viewing. Suddenly, there's a loud knocking at my door. Great, the doorman. What does he want? He’s going to regret his Christmas tip this year, that’s for sure. I ignore the knocking, but it keeps coming. And then it starts again. “Blake! I know you're in there! Open the door!” Oh no. It’s my sister, Alexandra. I affectionately call her The b***h, but it’s true—she’s demanding, opinionated, and relentless. I could strangle my doorman right now. “If you don’t open this door, I’ll call the police to break it down! I swear!” What did I tell you? I clutch the pillow that’s been my companion during this flu. I bury my face into it and take a deep breath; it smells of vanilla and lavender—clean and irresistible. “Blake! Are you there?” I pull the pillow over my head, not because it reminds me of her, but to muffle the incessant banging. “I’m dialing your number! I swear!” Alexandra’s tone is whiny, and I know she’s serious. With a resigned sigh, I push myself off the couch. Each step towards the door is a struggle; my limbs feel heavy and sore. Stupid flu. I finally open the door and brace myself for her fury. She stands there with the latest iPhone pressed to her ear, one perfectly manicured hand poised in exasperation. Her blond hair is neatly pulled back, and she’s wearing an elegant dark green ensemble that matches her purse—a typical Lexi move. Behind her is Lucas, my best friend and colleague, looking sheepish in his wrinkled navy suit. Sorry, doorman—I take back my earlier thoughts. Lucas is the real one in trouble. “What the hell happened to you?” Alexandra exclaims, horrified. I told you, this isn’t me. I don’t respond; I simply leave the door open and collapse back onto the couch, face first. It’s comforting and warm. I love you, couch—did I mention that before? I’m saying it now. With my face buried in the pillow, I can sense Alexandra and Lucas moving into the apartment. I can imagine their shocked expressions at the chaos around them. I peek out from my cushion and see that I was right on the money. “Blake?” she asks tentatively, her voice tinged with new concern. Then, she snaps back to her indignant self. “Lucas, why didn’t you call me sooner? How could you let this happen?” “I didn’t know! I came by every day. He wouldn’t let me in!” Lucas defends himself quickly, clearly intimidated by her. I feel the couch sink slightly as she sits beside me. “Blake?” she says softly, running her fingers gently through my hair. “Honey?” The worry in her voice reminds me of my mother when I was sick as a child—bringing me hot chocolate and soup and checking my forehead for fever. Her touch would always make me feel better. The memory, along with Alexandra being so nurturing, brings a sting of tears to my closed eyes. How did I get to this point? “I’m fine, Alexandra,” I manage to say, though I’m not sure if she hears me, my voice muffled by the pillow. “It’s just the flu.” I hear the pizza box being opened, followed by a disgusted gasp as the smell of rotten cheese hits the air. “Not exactly what someone with the flu should be eating, little brother.” I hear her moving around, tidying up, displaying her own neat freak tendencies. It seems cleanliness runs in the family. “Oh, that’s disgusting!” She inhales sharply, and I can tell she just discovered a three-day-old ice cream container that isn’t as empty as I thought. “Blake.” She shakes my shoulders gently. I finally give in and sit up, wiping the grogginess from my eyes. “Talk to me. What’s going on?” As I look at the concerned expression on my sister’s face, I’m transported back to when I was six years old and lost my hamster, Mr. Wuzzles. The truth spills from me then, just like back then. “It finally happened.” “What happened?” she asks, confused. “What you’ve been hoping for all these years,” I whisper. “I fell in love.”