Chapter 533: Visions: Drama In A Private Club

The land we’d already bought—me, Charlotte, and Madison had agreed to start there. Like, fuck it, why not? We were relocating the five companies we’d acquired in Miami to this location, this forgotten corner of LA that nobody gave a shit about except the people who owned it and the people who wanted to own it, because, honestly, Miami was starting to feel like a bad ex we kept going back to out of habit.

Only leaving a branch of the shipping company in Miami because—duh—you needed coastal access for that shit. Can’t exactly ship things from a landlocked town unless you’re using carrier pigeons or some bullshit— obviously you can’t move ocean access unless you’re Moses—but everything else? It was coming here.

Then I’d had a bigger idea. The kind that hits you at 2am when you’re supposed to be sleeping but your brain’s doing donuts in the parking lot instead.

Why not put the Sin Skyscraper here too?

Sixty floors of vertical

what-the-fuck

and

yes-please

mixed into one. The project I’d been planning that everyone—Charlotte, Madison, probably ARIA’s emotionless ass—thought was insane.

Why shove it into some cramped downtown when I could build it here and make the whole world drive hours just to sin properly?

I didn’t even argue with myself about it. I rarely win those arguments anyway.

That would take time—years, probably—but I was going to start laying groundwork now. Because that’s how empires work: you plant the flag before you even have the flag, then you figure out how to sew the damn thing before anyone notices it’s just a bedsheet with paint on it.

But more than the sin building and the five companies, we were also going to build Quantum Home manufacturing here. Turn Lincoln Heights into a tech village. A hub. A place where innovation happened and everyone else played catch-up like the fucking peasants they were. Big dreams, right?

Fuck yeah

, big dreams.

Quantum Tech was launching Quantum Home soon—our expansion into consumer tech. TVs, refrigerators, smart home devices, the whole ecosystem. Leave Quantum Tech focused on software and revolutionary development while Quantum Home printed money with products people actually used daily, the stuff they’d fight each other over at Black Friday sales.

Quantum Home was coming—our move into consumer tech. TVs, smart fridges, monitors that didn’t suck, microwaves you could talk to without feeling stupid. All the shiny toys normal people used while Quantum Tech stayed focused on software and world-altering breakthroughs.

We had laptops and monitors but didn’t produce the actual hardware—only the software that made them special. Mostly collaborated with bigger companies on projects. Sold our developed tech to whoever paid the most.

That model had worked when Charlotte’s father was alive. But it was limiting. We were dependent. Vulnerable. We were the smart kid who always did the homework but let the jock take credit because he had better hair.

That was going to change.

I was going to make Quantum Tech a standalone tech giant. Vertically integrated. Controlled from silicon to software. And I had everything I needed to start—just needed resources. Capital. Infrastructure. The boring adult shit that apparently costs actual money instead of just good ideas and caffeine.

I’d talked to Antonio about it. He’d agreed we’d discuss more deeply with Charlotte. See how development would proceed. The initial estimate ran into billions. Which, you know, casual Tuesday conversation.

Hey, how was your day? Oh, you know, just planning to spend more money than most people see in a lifetime.

But hey. Baby steps.

Speaking of baby steps—we were opening a hedge fund.

Liberation Funds

, part of the Liberation Holdings umbrella. Not massive yet, but legal. Legitimate. So, ARIA could abuse her trading capabilities without raising red flags from the SEC or whoever the fuck watches that shit.

Vivienne was finalizing the office right now. The kind of woman who spoke fluent "SEC bullshit" while drinking coffee and pretending she didn’t want to strangle everyone in the industry.

With a hedge fund providing cover, we could make hundreds of millions weekly with ARIA’s market manipulation—I mean, strategic trading—without anyone asking uncomfortable questions like "

how does a seventeen-year-old consistently beat the market

?" or "

is this insider trading or just really good luck?"

There was so much to do. But I had a plan. Multiple plans running simultaneously in the background while I focused on the important shit.

Liberating my beauties.

Speaking of.

I glanced toward the bar and paused mid-sip.

A woman stood there, phone pressed to her ear, and she was in the middle of what looked like a brewing confrontation with the bartender.

She was young—twenty-eight, maybe twenty-nine. The kind of beautiful that stopped traffic but didn’t seem to notice or care. Long dark hair falling in natural waves past her shoulders. Black dress that was elegant without trying too hard—fitted but professional, like she’d come from an office and couldn’t be bothered to change. No jewelry except small diamond studs. Natural makeup.

She didn’t need to announce her presence because her confidence did it for her.

"Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to end the call," the bartender said, trying very hard to sound like a grown adult with authority. "Video calls aren’t permitted in the club. It’s policy."

She blinked at him like he’d just announced he was banning oxygen.

"Excuse me?"

"The video call, ma’am. Club policy prohibits phone conversations in the VIP lounge. You’re disturbing other guests."

"Disturbing—?" She looked at her phone—FaceTime, definitely—then back at him. "I’m talking to my mother. She’s in the hospital. This is important."

"I understand, but—"

"No." Her voice stayed calm but had that terrifying feminine edge that means you’re about to become a story she tells her friends about incompetence. "Clearly you don’t understand. Because if you did, you wouldn’t be interrupting me while I’m checking on my mother, who just had surgery."

The bartender shifted his weight like his shoes suddenly didn’t fit."Ma’am, I sympathize, but the noise level—"

"The noise level?" she repeated, slowly, like he’d just confessed to kicking puppies in his free time. Then her voice ticked up just enough to let everyone in a five-table radius know she was done playing. "Are you

fucking serious

right now?"

She didn’t wait for his answer. She did the slow, theatrical turn—shoulders first, then head—scanning the VIP lounge like she was judging a lineup of suspects.

I followed her line of sight.

Thirty feet away sat a group of six people who looked like a hedge fund and a fashion label had a chaotic baby together. Three men in suits that basically screamed

I bill by the hour

, and three women in dresses expensive enough to cause nosebleeds. Loud. Chaotic.

Already drunk on something that came in a gold bottle.

One guy was standing on the couch—

standing

—telling a story with the kind of hand movements that said the story wasn’t actually funny, but he desperately wanted it to be.

The woman at the bar swung her gaze back toward the bartender. "So, I’m the noise problem? That?" She pointed at the group. "That circus over there that sounds like a frat reunion?

They’re fine?

But me—talking quietly to my mother—you decide to regulate? Seriously?"

"Ma’am, they’ve reserved that section for a private event—"

"And I paid for VIP access." Her voice dropped to ice, clean and deadly. "So either everybody follows the rules... or nobody does. Pick."

He opened his mouth.Closed it.And that was it—his whole argument died on the floor.

She checked her phone like she was resuming a grocery list."Mom, one second. I have to handle something."

Oh, she was really gonna do it.

I straightened in my seat like I’d just been handed popcorn by the universe.

She walked across the room with that confident, balanced stride of a woman who had made senior executives cry before lunch. Reached their table. Stopped. Didn’t say a word.

One of the women noticed her first. Nudged the guy standing on the couch.

The volume dipped. The laughter dimmed. The whole group slowly realized this wasn’t a server, or a manager, or a mistake.

This was a problem.

"Hi," she said pleasantly. Cheerfully even. "Sorry to interrupt your private party."

The standing guy—mid-forties, face like he played lacrosse in college and never stopped bragging about it—grinned.

"Hey there! Want to join us? We’ve got champagne!"

"That’s sweet," she said, smiling with exactly zero sweetness. "But no."

His smile shrank like a balloon losing air.

"I just came over to ask if you could keep it down," she continued lightly. "Since—you know—this is a VIP club. And you’ve reserved this area for a private party. Which is great! But private parties usually involve privacy. And privacy usually involves not yelling loud enough to be heard from the parking lot."

The guy’s eyebrow twitched. "Excuse me?"

"You’re being too loud," she repeated. Calm. Clear. Like she was reading a weather report.

I lowered my wine glass, eyes locked on the scene.

Oh yeah.

This was about to get very interesting.