Infinite Cashback System: Every Loss Makes Me Richer

The Rumor Mill

The financial news channel had been running the same segment for three days straight, and Ethan still found it entertaining.

He sat in the private lounge above his newest acquisition ... a mid-town trading floor he'd bought quietly through four shell companies ... with a glass of water sweating on the table beside him. No liquor. He needed his head clear, even for this.

On the screen, a well-dressed anchor leaned toward the camera like she was about to share a secret with the entire country.

"...and sources still cannot confirm the identity of the buyer behind Ashcroft Logistics, Delmore Textiles, or the controlling stake in Ferro Steel. Three major acquisitions in six weeks, all traced to shell entities that dissolve the moment anyone tries to follow the money."

Beside her, a market analyst adjusted his glasses.

"Whoever this is, they're not behaving like a typical activist investor. They're not gutting these companies for parts. They're restructuring debt, replacing failed leadership, and reinvesting in operations. It's almost..."

"Responsible," the anchor said, amused.

"Patient," the analyst corrected. "Which is rarer."

Ethan allowed himself a small smile. Patient. That was one word for it. Systematic was another. Inevitable was the one he preferred.

The segment cut to a second panel ... a different network, same obsession. A sharp-featured commentator in a red blazer jabbed a finger at the camera like she was scolding someone.

"I don't buy the 'mystery investor' angle. This smells like old money finally coming out of hiding. Somebody's grandfather's fortune, parked offshore for decades, suddenly getting active."

"Or new money moving fast enough to look old," her co-host said. "Whoever it is, they've bought controlling interest in three companies that specifically compete with Lancaster Holdings. That's not a coincidence."

Ethan's fingers stilled on the glass.

There it was. The thread they'd eventually pull, whether he wanted them to or not. He wasn't worried ... the shells were clean, the trails dead-ended in jurisdictions that didn't answer subpoenas from reporters ... but it meant the clock had started. Sooner or later, someone smarter than a cable anchor would connect the dots.

He wanted to control when that happened. Not have it handed to him by accident.

His phone buzzed. A text from Marcus, the lawyer he'd retained to keep his paper trail bulletproof.

Financial Pulse wants a statement from "the buyer." I told them we don't comment on rumors. They're running the story anyway.

Ethan typed back a single line.

Let them speculate. Speculation sells better than facts right now.

He set the phone down and reached for the remote, about to switch away from the noise ... when a name stopped his hand cold.

"...and in entertainment news, former socialite Grace Moore has resurfaced with claims about a man she says used to be close to her."

Ethan didn't move. Didn't blink. He simply turned the volume up two clicks and watched.

The clip was grainy, shot on someone's phone outside the offices of The Daily Ledger ... one of the city's more desperate tabloids, the kind that ran psychic predictions next to celebrity divorce rumors. Grace stood at the entrance in a coat that used to look expensive and now just looked like it was trying to.

Her hair wasn't as polished as it used to be. There was a tightness around her eyes that no amount of concealer fully hid.

"I have information," she was saying to a reporter who looked more bored than intrigued. "About someone connected to all these buyouts everyone's talking about."

"And who would that be?"

"I can't say yet. Not until we discuss terms."

The reporter's expression didn't change.

"Terms."

"Compensation. For my time. For the risk."

The clip cut to an interior shot ... a cramped office, fluorescent lighting, Grace seated across a desk from an editor who looked like he'd heard a thousand versions of this exact pitch. The chyron at the bottom of the screen read: EX OF MYSTERY TYCOON? SOURCE CLAIMS INSIDE KNOWLEDGE.

Ethan leaned forward slightly.

"You said you dated him," the editor said, flipping through a thin folder. "Ethan Cole. Former accountant. Fired eight months ago for embezzlement."

"He didn't do it," Grace said quickly. "The embezzlement. I know he didn't."

"That's not really the scoop we're looking for."

"He's ... he's smarter than people think. He always talked about money differently. Like he understood things other people didn't. I think he's involved in this. The buyouts."

The editor's eyebrows rose, unimpressed.

"Do you have documents? Financial records? Anything that connects him to these companies?"

"No, but..."

"Text messages? Anything in writing?"

"I know him," Grace said, her voice rising with the first crack of desperation. "I was with him for three years. I know what he thinks."

"Ms. Moore." The editor closed the folder. "We can't run a story that's just an ex-girlfriend's gut feeling. We need something concrete. A name. A document. A source who isn't emotionally involved."

"I need this," Grace said, and something in her voice made Ethan's jaw tighten ... not sympathy, exactly, but a flicker of something adjacent to it. "I lost everything. Victor took the apartment, the car, my ... my whole life. I just need something."

The editor's face softened for half a second, the practiced kindness of a man who did this for a living.

"I'm sorry about your situation. But we're not in the business of printing guesses. If you bring us proof, we'll talk."

The segment cut back to the studio, where the anchor and her co-host exchanged a look that needed no translation.

"Well," the anchor said, fighting a smile, "that was certainly something."

"A woman claiming her ex-boyfriend ... a man fired for embezzlement, no less ... is secretly a billionaire reshaping the market," the co-host said. "I think we can safely file that under 'entertainment,' not 'business.'"

"The internet's already having a field day with it," the anchor added, and the screen cut to a scroll of social media posts, most of them cruel, some of them cruel and funny, a few genuinely vicious.

Bitter ex tries to cash in on a mystery billionaire story.

She dated a broke accountant and now claims he's secretly rich? Sure, honey.

This is the saddest attempt at relevance I've seen all year.

Ethan watched Grace's face in the small corner thumbnail ... the moment the clip had captured her walking out of the building, phone pressed to her ear, jaw tight, eyes glassy in a way that wasn't quite tears yet but was close.

He should have felt vindicated. Two years ago, she'd looked at his empty bank account and walked out the door without a second glance. Now she was standing outside a tabloid office, trying to sell scraps of a man she'd decided wasn't worth staying for.

Instead, what he felt was quieter than that. Distant. Like watching weather happen to someone else.

He turned the television off.

The lounge went silent except for the low hum of the building's climate system and the faint clink of ice settling in his glass. Outside the window, the city stretched out in its usual restless glow, oblivious to how much of it he already owned.

His phone buzzed again. Marcus.

Grace Moore tried to sell a story on you. Ledger's editor turned her down ... no proof, nothing usable. Should be dead.

Ethan typed back three words.

Good. Keep watching.

He set the phone face-down and looked out at the skyline, at the hundred glowing windows of companies that didn't yet know who owned the ground beneath them.

Grace's failed attempt would blow over in a news cycle, forgotten by next week.

But someone, somewhere, had already noticed the pattern the anchors kept circling ... three acquisitions, all aimed at Lancaster-adjacent territory, all funded by a ghost.

And ghosts didn't stay hidden forever. Not from people who actually knew how to look.

His phone lit up a third time. Not Marcus.

An unknown number. A single message, no name attached.

I know who you are, Mr. Cole. And I'm not selling the story. I'm buying in.