I walked out of the bank. As I reached the revolving doors, a sleek black Mercedes pulled up to the curb.
Victoria stepped out. She was wearing oversized sunglasses and a fur coat, looking every inch the grieving widow. She was coming to loot the accounts, to drain the lifeblood of my father’s work.
I pulled my hoodie up over my head. I walked right past her, brushing her shoulder.
She didn’t even look at me. To her, I was just street trash, invisible and irrelevant.
I stopped on the corner and watched her enter the bank.
“You’ll see me soon enough, Victoria,” I thought, the cold resolve settling in my gut like a stone. “But you won’t like what you see.”
Chapter 3: The Decade of Decay
The next ten years were a study in contrast.
While Victoria lived in the spotlight, I lived in the shadows.
I started as a dishwasher. Then a line cook. I worked double shifts, sleeping four hours a night, investing every spare dollar into high-risk, high-reward stocks. I taught myself forensic accounting at the public library. I learned how to find the cracks in corporate armor.
I started my own boutique private equity firm, Vantage Holdings. I was ruthless. I was efficient. I bought failing companies, stripped them of their dead weight, and sold them for profit. I became a ghost in the financial world—a name people whispered but a face no one recognized.
Meanwhile, I watched Victoria.
I had a private investigator update me monthly. The reports were a tragic comedy of errors.
Year three: The summer home in the Hamptons was sold to cover gambling debts.
