Rewriting My Billions: Boss of the Hidden realm

Chapter 8: Caviar, Cheap Suits, and Corporate Crashers

The Grand Atrium of the Astoria Hotel looked exactly how I remembered it from my past life. 

It was a cavernous, gilded room designed specifically to make poor people feel unwelcome. Massive crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceilings, casting a warm, expensive glow over ice sculptures and towers of imported champagne. 

The room was packed with the city’s elite. Men in five-thousand-dollar tuxedos and women in silk gowns milled about, discussing summer homes and offshore tax havens. 

And then, there was us. 

I was wearing a gray suit I had bought off the rack at a discount department store two hours ago. It fit decently enough, but next to the bespoke Italian wool surrounding me, I looked like I was going to a middle school prom. 

Gideon was still wearing his thrift-store special. It smelled faintly of mothballs. 

"Boss," Gideon muttered out of the corner of his mouth, his silver eyes darting around the room. "There’s a lot of open necks in here. It’s very distracting."

"Eyes forward, Dracula," I whispered back, snagging two flutes of champagne off a passing waiter’s silver tray. I handed one to Gideon. "Don't bite the billionaires. They have too many lawyers."

Sneaking in had been ridiculously easy. We didn't have invitations, but when you have a 500-year-old vampire as your plus-one, velvet ropes cease to be an obstacle. Gideon had simply walked up to the two massive bouncers at the front door, looked them dead in the eyes, and calmly told them we were on the VIP list. 

The bouncers’ eyes had glazed over, their pupils dilating as Gideon’s low-level hypnotic suggestion washed over their brains. They actually bowed as they opened the doors for us. 

I took a sip of my champagne. It tasted like success. 

"Alright," I said, scanning the crowd. "We are looking for Marcus Vance. CEO of Apex Logistics. He’s usually surrounded by people asking him for money."

"Should I use my heightened senses to track him by his scent?" Gideon offered, adjusting his slightly frayed collar. "I can smell fear, adrenaline, and cheap cologne."

"No," I sighed. "Just look for the guy who looks like he wants to fire everyone in the room."

We started weaving through the crowd. 

This was my element. In my past life, I spent ten years navigating rooms exactly like this. I knew how these people operated. They were sharks wearing silk, but if you walked with enough arrogance, they assumed you belonged. 

A silver-haired man with a monocle—an actual monocle—stepped into my path, swirling a glass of scotch. He looked at my cheap jacket with a mix of pity and disgust. 

"Excuse me, young man," the monocle-wearer drawled. "Are you lost? The valet parking is out front. I need my Jaguar brought around."

Gideon instantly tensed up, a low growl rumbling in his chest. "I can eat the monocle. Just say the word, Boss. I’ll make him swallow the glass."

"No eating," I muttered to Gideon. 

I turned to the arrogant billionaire, summoning the exact level of deadpan, crushing superiority I used to wield when I owned half the city. I looked at him like he was a stain on the carpet. 

"I'm sorry," I said loudly, drawing the attention of the people standing nearby. "Are you confused? Or just blind in your good eye? I don't park cars. But if you'd like, I can buy the bank that holds the mortgage on your precious Jaguar, foreclose on it by morning, and have it crushed into a cube. Would you like it delivered to your summer home, or should I just mail it to your ex-wife?"

The man turned pale. He gasped, dropping his scotch glass. It shattered on the marble floor. He didn't say another word; he just turned and practically sprinted toward the buffet tables. 

Gideon stared at me in awe. "Boss... that was terrifying. You didn't even use fangs."

"Words are cheaper than fangs, Gideon," I smirked. "And they don't leave bloodstains on the carpet."

Suddenly, a microphone shrieked with feedback at the front of the room. 

The low hum of classical music faded out. A spotlight snapped on, illuminating a small stage set up in front of an ice sculpture of a dolphin. 

Standing dead center on the stage, wearing a tuxedo that probably cost more than my college tuition, was Richard Sterling. 

He was holding a microphone, beaming with that unbearable, smug confidence that made me want to punch a wall. Behind him, a massive projector screen displayed a sterile, boring PowerPoint slide with the words: *STERLING ALGORITHMS: THE FUTURE OF FREIGHT.*

"Ladies and gentlemen! Titans of industry!" Richard’s voice boomed through the speakers. "Thank you for attending this charity gala. We are here to give back, yes. But we are also here to move forward."

The crowd offered polite, bored applause. 

"I’d like to draw your attention to a very special guest in the audience tonight," Richard continued, gesturing dramatically with his free hand. "Mr. Marcus Vance, CEO of Apex Logistics!"

The spotlight swung, illuminating a table near the front of the stage. Sitting there was a broad-shouldered man with a thick, graying beard and a scowl that looked permanently etched into his face. Marcus Vance. The white whale. 

"Apex and Sterling Logistics have been competitors for a long time," Richard smiled, pacing across the stage. "But tonight, I want to offer an olive branch. A partnership. What you see behind me is a routing software so advanced, so revolutionary, it will cut Apex’s delivery times in half!"

I let out a loud, genuine snort of laughter. 

"He's pitching a broken toy," I whispered to Gideon. "Damian locked him out of his own servers five hours ago. That software he’s pointing at is completely paralyzed, and he doesn't even know it yet."

Gideon took a sip of his champagne, looking highly entertained. "So, when do we ruin his life?"

"Wait for it," I grinned. 

On stage, Richard clicked a remote. The slide changed to a complex-looking map of the city, covered in red and green dots. 

"Marcus," Richard said, addressing the Apex CEO directly. "I know your fleet is struggling with downtown congestion. This algorithm uses live-tracking to bypass traffic instantly. It is flawless. It is unbreakable. And for fifty million dollars... it can be yours."

The room murmured in hushed tones. Fifty million was a massive deal. 

Marcus Vance crossed his arms, looking unimpressed. "Talk is cheap, Sterling. Show me the live demo. Route a theoretical truck from the harbor to the financial district right now. Let's see it adapt."

"With pleasure!" Richard beamed, overflowing with confidence. 

He clicked his remote to start the live simulation. 

Nothing happened. 

Richard frowned. He clicked the remote again. Harder this time. 

The map on the screen remained completely frozen. A small, spinning hourglass icon appeared in the center of the screen, followed by a bright, jarring error message in bold red font: 

[FATAL ERROR: MAINFRAME UNRESPONSIVE. CONNECTION TIMEOUT.]

A ripple of awkward whispers washed over the crowd. 

Richard’s smug smile faltered. He tapped the microphone, a bead of sweat suddenly forming on his forehead. "Ah, apologies, folks. A small, technical hiccup. The Wi-Fi in this ballroom must be interfering with our secure servers back at headquarters."

He clicked the remote violently. The screen just flickered, the error message blinking mockingly. 

Marcus Vance leaned forward, his scowl deepening. "A fifty-million-dollar software that can't handle hotel Wi-Fi? I don't think so, Richard. You're wasting my time."

Richard looked like he was about to vomit. The panic he had shown in the alleyway earlier today was rushing back, multiplied by a hundred. He was humiliating himself in front of the most powerful people in the city. 

"No, no, Mr. Vance, please!" Richard stammered, pulling his phone out of his pocket and frantically texting someone. "My IT team will have it back online in a second! It's just a glitch!"

It wasn't a glitch. It was a dragon named Damian, and he was currently eating Doritos in a dusty basement while Richard’s empire burned. 

I checked the invisible countdown clock in my head. 

*Nine hours and twelve minutes.* 

It was time to get paid. 

I handed my empty champagne flute to Gideon. I adjusted my cheap lapels, took a deep breath, and stepped out of the shadows. 

"It's not a glitch, Richard," I said. 

I didn't yell, but I projected my voice perfectly. The billionaire baritone cut through the whispers of the crowd like a knife. The room went silent. Hundreds of heads turned to look at me. 

I walked slowly down the center aisle, directly toward the stage, my footsteps echoing on the marble. 

Richard looked up from his phone, his eyes widening in absolute horror as he recognized me. "You... what are you doing here?!"

I ignored him completely. I stopped right in front of Marcus Vance’s table. I looked down at the Apex CEO, meeting his furious gaze with total, unbreakable confidence. 

"Sterling's code will bankrupt you in six months, Mr. Vance," I said smoothly, pulling the warm plastic USB drive out of my jacket pocket and holding it up between my fingers. "His servers are currently locked in a terminal loop. It will take him weeks to fix it."

I dropped the USB drive onto Marcus Vance’s pristine white tablecloth. It landed with a soft, heavy clatter. 

"This," I smiled, "will double your profits by Tuesday."