Billionaire’s Ledger

Chapter 3

HAVE I MENTIONED how much I love my job?

If my firm were a Major League Baseball team, I’d be the MVP. I’m a partner at a leading investment bank in New York, specializing in media and technology. Sure, my father and his friends founded the firm, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t work hard to get here—I did. I also fully commit to my job to build my reputation.

What does an investment banker do, you ask? Well, you remember in Pretty Woman when Richard Gere tells Julia Roberts that his company buys others and sells them piece by piece? I’m the guy supporting that. I negotiate deals, draft contracts, manage due diligence, and handle credit agreements, among other things you probably don’t want to hear about.

Now, you might wonder why a guy like me is referencing a chick flick like Pretty Woman.

The answer is simple: Growing up, my mom insisted on “family movie night” every week. She got to pick the movie every other week and went through a serious Julia Roberts phase that lasted about a year. I could recite that film by heart. Though I have to admit—Richard Gere is pretty cool.

Now back to the job.

The thrill I feel when closing a successful deal is unmatched—like hitting blackjack in Vegas or being chosen by Jenna Jameson for her next film. Nothing comes close.

I do the groundwork for my clients, advising them on strategic moves. I know which companies want to be acquired and which need aggressive approaches. I have the insider knowledge about which media mogul might be on the brink of disaster due to excessive spending on high-priced companionship.

There’s fierce competition for clients. You must attract them, make them see that no one can provide what you can. It’s a bit like dating, except at the end of the day, I walk away with a substantial paycheck. I generate significant income for both myself and my clients.

The sons of my father’s associates, Lucas Fisher and Steven Reinhart, also work here. Yes, that Steven—the husband of The b***h. Like our fathers, the three of us grew up, went to school, and now work together. They leave the real work to us, occasionally checking in to feel important before retreating to the country club for golf.

Lucas and Steven are competent—but don’t get me wrong. I’m the star. I’m the shark that clients request and companies fear. They know it, and so do I.

On Monday morning, I’m in my office at nine a.m., just like always. My secretary—an attractive blonde with a great figure—is already there with my schedule, messages from the weekend, and the best coffee in the tri-state area.

No, I haven’t slept with her.

Not that I wouldn’t want to. Trust me, if she didn’t work for me, I’d pursue her passionately.

But I have standards—rules, if you will. One is no mixing work with pleasure. I don’t mess where I work; it’s unprofessional and potentially a harassment issue.

So, because Erin is the only woman in my professional life besides family that I interact with socially, she’s the only one I consider a friend. We have an excellent working relationship. Erin is simply… amazing.

That’s also a reason I wouldn’t sleep with her, even if she were provocatively positioned on my desk. Believe it or not, finding a good secretary—one who can really get things done—is tough. I’ve had secretaries who were hopelessly incompetent or thought they could rely on their looks alone. Those are the girls I’d prefer to meet on a Saturday night—not the ones I want fielding my calls on a Monday morning.

Now that you have some context, let’s revisit my downward spiral.

“I’ve moved your lunch with Mecha from one o’clock to a four o’clock meeting,” Erin says as she hands me a stack of messages.

Crap.

Mecha Communications is a massive media conglomerate, and I've been working for months on acquiring a Spanish-speaking cable network. The CEO, Radolpho Scucini, is much more open to negotiation when he's well-fed.

“Why the change?” I ask.

She hands me a folder. “There's a lunch in the conference room today. Your father is introducing the new associate, and you know how he feels about these occasions.”

If you’ve seen *A Christmas Carol*, you know that scene where the Ghost of Christmas Past shows Scrooge his younger, happier self? The one with the jolly boss, Fezziwig, who hosted extravagant parties? That’s my father.

He cherishes this company and treats his employees like family, constantly finding reasons to celebrate. Office events for birthdays, baby showers, Thanksgiving luncheons, President’s Day brunches, Columbus Day dinners—you name it.

It’s a miracle we get any work done.

And Christmas? Forget about it. My dad’s Christmas parties are legendary; people leave completely wasted, and some don't even make it home. Last year, we caught ten employees from a competing bank trying to sneak in because the party was that amazing. It’s all part of the atmosphere my father aims to create.

His employees adore him, and he returns that love. Our commitment and loyalty are unmatched, which is why we excel. People here would do almost anything for my dad.

Still, days like today, when I need time to win over a client, his celebrations can be incredibly frustrating. But it is what it is.

My Monday morning is busy, so I sit down at my desk and start working. Before I know it, it’s one o’clock, and I’m heading to the conference room, where I spot Jack O’Shay, a familiar face with bright orange hair and a stocky build. Jack and I joined the firm about six years ago, and he’s a good friend. Next to him is Lucas, animatedly talking and raking his sandy hair back.

I grab my food from the buffet and join them mid-Lucas's wild recount of his Saturday night. “So then she pulls out handcuffs and a whip! I couldn't believe it. She actually went to a convent and was training to be a nun!”

“I told you, those quiet ones are always the wildest,” Jack laughs.

Lucas turns to Steven. “You really should come out with us sometime. Just once, please!”

I smirk, anticipating the response.

“Wait, have you met my wife?” Steven replies, looking baffled.

“Stop being such a wuss,” Jack chimes in. “Just tell her you're playing cards or something. Live a little!”

Steven takes off his glasses, wipes them, and contemplates the suggestion.

“Right. And when she finds out—and she will—I’ll be serving my own balls on a silver platter with garlic butter and a Chianti on the side.”

He makes a noise à la Hannibal Lecter that has me cracking up.

“Besides,” he adds, putting his glasses back on and stretching, “I’ve got filet mignon at home. I’m not interested in Sloppy Joes.”

“p***y,” Lucas coughs, while Jack shakes his head and says, “Even filet can get boring if you have it every day.”

“Not,” Steven counters, “if you cook it differently each time. My wife knows how to keep things exciting in the kitchen.”

I raise my hand and plead, “Please, just stop. Some images I would rather not have in my head.”

“What about you, Blake? I saw you leave with those twins. Were they actual redheads?” Jack inquires.

A satisfied smile spreads across my face. “Oh yeah, they were legit.” I then proceed to recount my thrilling Saturday night in colorful detail.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: What a jerk, bragging about his conquests. But let me clarify: if a woman wants respect, she needs to act worthy of it. And I’m not trying to be an ass; it's just how guys are.

Let me emphasize:

ALL GUYS TALK TO THEIR FRIENDS ABOUT s*x.

If a guy claims otherwise, he’s lying.

And let’s not ignore that I’ve overheard my sister and her friends chatting about their escapades too. Trust me, they can be just as explicit as us.

After sharing the details of my weekend, the conversation shifts to football and our opinions on Manning's play. Meanwhile, I can hear my father speaking at the front, praising the new associate whose details I ignored earlier—top student from Wharton, interned at Credit Suisse, and so on.

As my friends chat, my mind drifts back to a specific moment from my weekend—an encounter with a stunning brunette. Her dark, expressive eyes, that luscious mouth, and her incredibly soft-looking hair haunt my thoughts.

It’s unusual for me to dwell on random encounters from my weekends; they typically slip my mind as soon as I leave. But there's something different about her. Maybe it’s because she turned me down or that I never got her name. Or maybe it’s just that enticing body that makes me want to grip her and never let go.

As I mentally fixate on that specific detail, I feel a familiar sensation stirring down south—if you catch my drift. I quickly mentally admonish myself; I haven't experienced a spontaneous erection since I was twelve. What's going on?

It seems I'll need to reach out to that attractive girl who gave me her number at the coffee shop this morning. I usually save such activities for the weekend, but it seems my body has other ideas.

By now, I've made my way to the front of the room, waiting for the customary welcome handshake for new employees. As I approach the front, my dad spots me and comes over to give me an encouraging slap on the back.

“Good to see you, Blake. This new girl shows great promise. I want you to mentor her a bit and help her settle in. If you do that, I guarantee she’ll excel and make us proud.”

“Sure, Dad. No problem.”

Fantastic. As if I don't have my own work to manage. Now I'm supposed to guide a newcomer through the intimidating world of Corporate America. Just what I needed.

Finally, it’s my turn. As I step up, her back is facing me. I notice her sleek dark hair pulled into a low bun and her petite frame. My gaze drifts down her back as she chats with someone, and, almost instinctively, my eyes land on her backside—but wait.

Hold on a minute.

I recognize that behind.

No way.

She turns around.

No doubt about it.

Her smile widens as our eyes meet, revealing those vibrant, captivating eyes I had forgotten about until now. She raises an eyebrow in recognition and extends her hand. “Mr. Sawyer.”

I feel my mouth move, but no words come out. The surprise of seeing her again—of all places—seems to have stalled my speech. As my mind starts to catch up, I hear my dad say, “…Ford. Victoria Ford. She’s going places, Son, and with your support, we’ll all benefit.”

Victoria Ford.

The girl from the bar. The one I let slip away. The one whose kiss I still crave.

And she works here. In my office, where I promised to never mix business with pleasure. Her warm, soft hand fits perfectly in mine, triggering two thoughts simultaneously.

First: God must really dislike me. Second: I've been a naughty boy most of my life, and this is my punishment. And we all know what they say about payback, right?

Yep. She's trouble.

I BELIEVE IN SELF-DETERMINATION. Willpower. Control. I create my own path. I determine my successes and failures. Forget fate. Destiny can take a hike. If I want something badly, I can achieve it. With focus and sacrifice, there's nothing I cannot accomplish.

You may wonder why I sound like a speaker at a self-help seminar. What’s my point?

In short: I control my desires. My desires do not control me. At least, that's what I've been convincing myself for the last hour and a half.

Picture me at my desk, mumbling to myself like a crazed person who's forgotten their medication. That's me reflecting on the core principles and beliefs that have helped me achieve so much in life. These are the beliefs that have led to my success both in intimate situations and at work—beliefs that have never let me down. Yet now, I'm tempted to discard them entirely, all because of the woman who works down the hall.

Victoria Everyone-Calls-Me-Vicky Ford.

Talk about a frigging curveball.

The way I see it, I could still go for the gold. Technically speaking, I didn’t meet Vicky at work; I met her in a bar. That means she could forgo the label of “coworker” and retain the “random hook-up” status with which she was originally designated.

What? I’m a businessman; it’s my job to find loopholes.

So, in theory at least, I could definitely nail her and not undermine my own personal laws of nature. The problem with that strategy, of course, is what happens after.

The longing glances, the hopeful eyes, the pathetic attempts to make me jealous. The supposedly “accidental” meetings, the questions about my plans, the seemingly casual walks past my office door. All of which would inevitably escalate into disturbing semi-stalkerish behavior.