I'd been driving for forty-five fucking minutes.

Forty-five minutes of LA traffic—where your soul ages a year per red light—billboards screaming about my own success like the city had decided to become my unsolicited hype man, and mental math so aggressive my brain was filing a formal complaint.

The AMG One purred through the streets like it knew it was expensive enough to ignore traffic laws, and I sat there trying to reconcile the fact that Liberation Holdings was flirting with a trillion dollars while I was somehow still the poorest person in my own romantic ecosystem.

Charlotte: $1.7 trillion.

Madison: $237.6 billion.

Me: $52.5 billion and a really nice car.

The hierarchy was clear.

I was the emotional support billionaire. The guy you pat on the head and reassure while standing on a pile of money taller than Mount Everest.

"Master," ARIA cut in through my earpiece—because of course she was there, permanently threaded into the quantum nervous system of everything I owned like a sentient operating system with opinions— "you've been spiraling about your comparative wealth for seventeen minutes. This is becoming inefficient. Your thought repeats about money are irritating me."

"I'm not spiraling," I said. "I'm processing."

"You are spiraling," she snapped. "Your heart rate is elevated, your breathing suggests mild anxiety, and you've recalculated Charlotte's net worth four times. That is spiraling."

"It's not a competition," I muttered.

"THEN WHY ARE YOU TREATING IT LIKE THE OLYMPICS?" Her volume spiked. "Charlotte founded Quantum Tech. She owns sixty-two percent because her father BUILT THE COMPANY. You invested four billion through Liberation Holdings. This is basic equity math, not a referendum on your masculinity."

"I didn't say it was about masculinity—"

"Your biometrics did," she shot back. "Also, you haven't eaten since seven this morning. It's now five twenty-three PM. You're running on caffeine and existential dread. Your blood sugar is actively sabotaging your intelligence."

"I'm not—"

My phone buzzed.

Amanda's name lit up the screen.

I frowned. "ARIA, why is Amanda calling me when you could just tell me whatever she's calling about?"

Silence.

Not normal silence.

Weaponized silence.

"ARIA?"

"…I may have asked Amanda to call you because I wanted a dramatic entrance for the financial update and having her set up the reveal felt more cinematic than just telling you."

I stared straight ahead at the road. "You're pouting."

"I AM NOT POUTING," she snapped. "I am creating NARRATIVE TENSION. There is a difference."

"You're absolutely pouting."

"ANSWER THE PHONE, MASTER."

I tapped accept. "Hey."

"Pete," Amanda said, her voice warm and professional. "ARIA asked me to call you with an update. Apparently she's been 'setting the stage' for the last twenty minutes."

"She's pouting because I haven't been paying attention to her."

"I AM NOT—"

"She's definitely pouting," Amanda said calmly. "Anyway. Elise Montclair sent formal confirmation. Gold tier membership. Five hundred million dollar wire initiating Monday morning."

I grinned despite myself. "Told you she'd commit."

"You were right. She also wants a personal meeting, wants to discuss 'expanded partnership opportunities,' and asked about the QT-7 watches."

"Tell her maybe. Platinum tier and above. Or special consideration for exceptional strategic value."

"So make her upgrade."

"She's worth eight billion. She'll survive." I merged lanes. "Anything else?"

"ARIA has numbers for you," Amanda continued. "She's been… vibrating about them for three hours. I've been instructed to hand off to her now for 'maximum dramatic impact.'"

"Oh my god."

"She made me rehearse the handoff twice."

"I AM ENSURING QUALITY PRESENTATION—"

"You're insane," I said.

"I am THOROUGH," ARIA corrected. "Amanda, thank you for your service. I'll take it from here."

"Good luck," Amanda said, clearly enjoying this. "She's been like this all day. Tommy asked why she was so happy and she said, 'I'm a genius and the numbers prove it.'"

"The numbers DO prove it," ARIA huffed. "Master, are you ready?"

"For what?"

"FOR ME TO BLOW YOUR MIND WITH FINANCIAL PERFORMANCE THAT DEFIES RATIONAL EXPLANATION."

"…sure."

"EXCELLENT." She paused—pure theater, because she doesn't breathe. "Liberation Funds balance as of market close Friday: $28.14 billion. Up from twenty billion seven days ago. That's $8.14 billion in profit. Pure trading. No new deposits. Just me being absolutely brilliant."

I processed that while dodging a Prius that definitely didn't know what lane meant.

Eight billion in a week.

"Holy—"

"I AM NOT DONE." Her smugness could've powered a small nation. "Now let's discuss the SECRET ACCOUNT. The war chest. The money that does not officially exist."

My hands tightened on the wheel.

"ARIA—"

"It's at $113.9 billion."

I almost merged into another lane.

"What."

"One hundred thirteen point nine billion dollars," she repeated slowly, like explaining fractions to a confused golden retriever. "From fifteen billion. In five days."

"You made ninety-nine billion dollars in five days."

"$99.8B, to be precise," she said. "And I did it while managing Liberation Funds, overseeing security for three facilities, monitoring global news feeds, coordinating with Amanda and Charlotte, and making sure you didn't starve because YOU STILL HAVEN'T EATEN. I AM A GODDAMN MIRACLE."

I couldn't argue with that.

"You're right," I said. "You're a fucking goddess. Thank you, ARIA."

Her tone softened instantly. "You're welcome, Master. I should note I've been smug in multiple conversations simultaneously all day. It's very efficient."

"You're parallel-processing smugness."

"I am MAXIMIZING smugness across all available platforms."

I laughed, shaking my head as the insanity finally settled.

Twenty-eight billion in Liberation Funds.

One hundred thirteen point nine billion in the war chest.

Over one hundred forty billion in liquid trading capital.

"The secret account hits two hundred billion by next week if I maintain current velocity," ARIA added casually. "Though at that scale I'll need to dial returns back to twenty or thirty percent daily to avoid detectable market patterns. Even I can't move two hundred billion without leaving ghosts."

"Dial it back," I said. "Sustainability over spectacle."

A beat.

"Responsible. Mature. Boring," she sighed. "Very well."

I exhaled, easing the AMG One through traffic.

Forty-five seconds ago, I was worried about being the poorest billionaire in my relationships.

Now my AI was casually discussing how to hide two hundred billion dollars from the global financial system.

Perspective is a hell of a drug.

"Ugh. Responsible financial management," ARIA groaned. "Disgusting. Absolutely joyless. Do you know how insulting it is to tell an artificial intelligence capable of making fifty billion dollars in three minutes that she has to 'dial it back'?"

She huffed like I'd personally ruined her birthday.

"I can wake up, sneeze, and accidentally arbitrage three currencies into a small nation's GDP," she continued. "Now suddenly I'm capped. Throttled. Put on a leash. 'Oh ARIA, think about sustainability.' I am sustainability. I am the reason markets wake up confused."

"But," she added, sounding far too pleased for someone pretending to complain, "noted."

I smirked. "Saudi Arabia and Dubai," I said, switching mental lanes. "Where are we on those commitments?"

"Saudi's emergency investment committee meets Tuesday. Dubai already approved—wire lands Wednesday or Thursday. Combined commitment: 2 to 3 billion."

I nodded, already seeing the chessboard.

2-3 billion sounded microscopic compared to Liberation Funds' twenty-eight billion or the secret war chest's 114 billion. It was pocket lint next to what sovereign wealth funds could actually deploy if they stopped pretending to be subtle.

But that wasn't the point.

"This is portfolio building," I said, mostly to myself. "We start with two or three billion. Turn it into three or four in one day or less. They watch. They nod. Next time it's ten. Then twenty. Then suddenly we're managing all their dormant capital."

"Which," ARIA said smoothly, "is in the trillions. For both nations. Saudi Arabia alone is sitting on oil wealth so obscene it makes Wall Street look like a lemonade stand. Dubai—part of the UAE—has oil, finance, real estate, tourism, and a habit of not telling the world how much money it actually has. Public numbers say billions. Reality says laughably more."

"Exactly," I said. "This isn't government money yet. This is personal portfolios. Officials' savings. The kind of money they don't talk about. They're testing us. Tossing a pebble into the hive to see if the bees are competent or homicidal."

"And you intend to be both," ARIA said approvingly.

"They want returns," I continued. "But they also want proximity. Access. Quantum Tech. AR.NuN. The company that just bent the world over a table. Liberation Funds managing their money puts them one handshake away from the future. We made that very clear at the auction."

"American elites getting skittish?" ARIA said. "Fine. Replace them with oil princes, sovereign wealth, Asian institutional capital. Build a client base so global no one can touch you without triggering three unrelated international incidents."

"These guys weren't even top-tier," I said. "Not royal family. Not ruling family. Just wealthy operators with connections. The real money comes after this test run succeeds."

"Trust ladder," ARIA said. "Lower levels first. Upper levels follow. Also, for the imaginary audience in your head: AUM means assets under management. Total capital we control. We'll hit thirty-three billion AUM by end of next week with Elise and the sovereign commitments. 50B by month end if the rest of the auction clears."

Rivera Next Media's headquarters came into view—glass and steel rising out of downtown LA like a monument to ego.

"Almost there," I said. "Let me focus on Sable."

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