The Mercedes glided through the city, tires humming over wet asphalt. Jamie sat in the back, the window cracked just enough for the late-December air to bite his face. Kofi’s usual jazz filled the cabin—slow, smoky saxophone weaving through the silence like a memory Jamie couldn’t quite place.He tapped his fingers on the armrest, matching the beat without thinking.Kofi’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, caught the movement, then returned to the road. A small smile flashed across his face for a split second.“You like this one, boss?”Jamie’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Coltrane?”“’59. My Funny Valentine.” Kofi’s deep voice carried a hint of pride. “Old, but gold.”Jamie nodded. “My father hated jazz. Said it was noise for people who couldn’t read sheet music.” He paused, watching streetlights blur past. “I used to sneak records into my room at boarding school. Thought I was rebelling.”Kofi chuckled softly. “Rebelling with Coltrane. Dangerous man.”Awkward silence. Like t

Two days until the interview.Jamie stood in front of the full-length mirror in his penthouse closet, the lights on auto-dimming, mirrors reflecting every angle like a hall of infinite selves. He pulled the Tom Ford charcoal three-piece suit from the rail—midnight wool with a subtle herringbone weave, shoulders cut sharp but not aggressive. The vest hugged his frame perfectly, the tie a slim black silk knot. On his wrist: the vintage Patek Philippe Nautilus, white-gold case with a glacier-blue dial that caught the light like frozen water. 38mm—understated, but the kind of watch that whispered fortunes without shouting. He rolled the sleeve down once, twice, checking the fit. No bracelet. Less was more when the words had to cut deeper than any accessory.Kofi watched from the doorway, arms folded, giving a single nod of approval.“Looking like death, Sir.” Kofi said, voice low.Jamie’s mouth curved. “That’s the point.”The day before had been quiet, no prep. Just Jamie, tea, talks with

The private jet banked gently over the coastline, the late-afternoon sun glinting off the ocean below like fallen stars. Christmas Eve. For the first time it no longer happens to be Francesca's favorite. The cabin was warm, the air scented with the leather seats and Fred’s cologne. Francesca sat by the window, blanket draped over her lap, staring at the clouds as if they might offer answers. A way out. A sign. Anything. The interview was still a strong blow for her. Not literally, but she felt like she had been slowly recovering from a drunken mess.Her phone had been on airplane mode since takeoff. A brief respite from the chaos. From the now trending and humiliating hashtags. From the clips or her last update of crying on social media. From her videos in general. All mocking her.Damn it! Damn her stupid plan.She switched it back now, heart already thudding. Anticipating the storm.Notifications flooded the screen. Something caught her eyes.Ten missed calls from Omalicha—yesterd

Boxing day. The day after felt different. Lighter. Jamie sat in the mansion’s home office—dark wood paneling, leather chair, the faint scent of pine from the Christmas tree still lingering in the halls. Morning light slanted through the windows, catching dust motes in the air like tiny, shimmering stars. He wore a simple grey sweater, sleeves pushed up, coffee cooling on the desk. Comfortable. At peace.His phone buzzed. David.Jamie answered on speaker.“Morning, boss. Quick update—Biiite Games & Apps is up another three percent overnight. Steady climb since yesterday.” The numbers spoke for themselves.Success already. Impressive. Jamie knew he haven't even done anything yet.Jamie leaned back, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “The trend?”“Teen streamer—Alita Amerigo. Seventeen, Guseppe’s little sister. She’s got two hundred twenty thousand live viewers right now playing one of our older titles. Chat’s exploding. Hashtag #AlitaChallenge is trending worldwide. Kids are buying in

30 December , The end of the year. A time for endings and beginnings. And a time for reckoning. Was it though?The Grand Ballroom of the Boston Harbor Hotel glittered like a jewel box—chandeliers dripping crystal, tables draped in midnight blue, the city skyline a silent witness beyond the windows. The end-of-year gala was the kind of event where fortunes were made with a handshake and reputations destroyed with a whisper. A stage for ambition, a playground for power.Eleanor's playground. She practically grew up in such places and sticking Jamie in was a lil way of still apologizing for being a bad mom.Jamie arrived with Eleanor on his arm, their entrance carefully orchestrated for maximum impact. Well, Eleanor did most of the charades. She was somewhat desperate to prove she was back in action and at the same time save her son's name. She might have been a bad mom but Jamie was still her baby and she rather have the media talk about this ball them something else."Thanks for th