Page 1 of Hate Notes

1

ORION

"You're doing the stomping thing again," Remmy said.

I cut my eyes to my little sister. She smiled up at me, completely immune to my glares—a superpower any number of my employees would have killed for. To them, my glares were weapons of mass motivation, known to clear boardrooms, close deals, and inspire all-nighters.

I tried glaring a little harder at Remmy, just to see if I could penetrate her defenses.

Her nose wrinkled in amusement. "What? I'm trying to enjoy my walk, and all I hear is the angry thump thump thump of your big feet." She gestured dramatically at my Italian leather oxfords. "And I see you narrowing your eyes. Ooh. Scary." Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

"You're free to walk yourself to work," I suggested, even though we both knew I'd never let that happen. These morning walks with my little sister were non-negotiable, like quarterly earnings reports or my morning protein shake. I might be terrible atshowing affection, but when people were important to me, I ensured they were safe and cared for.

Remmy rolled her eyes and kept strolling beside me, her artistic soul apparent in everything from her paint-splattered ballet flats to the way she moved like she was dancing to music only she could hear.

Last year, she'd landed her dream job as an event coordinator at one of Manhattan's most prestigious art galleries. She'd been sketching and painting since she could hold a crayon, and this position put her one step closer to her ultimate goal of representing artists as an agent. I was proud of her success, even if I showed it mainly by triple-checking the gallery's financial stability and running background checks on her coworkers.

"You'd miss me if I walked to work alone. Admit it."

"I won't admit any such thing," I said, adjusting my tie, even though it was already perfectly in place.

I knew what people said about me. They called me a grump, a bastard, heartless, cruel, a workaholic, and an asshole.

One of those wasn't even true.

But they could say whatever they wanted. I knew what mattered to me: family and Foster Real Estate. End of story. Everything else was just noise, and I'd built my empire on filtering out noise.

The problem with my otherwise enjoyable walks to work was the... spectacle that awaited us at my office. It was becoming more ridiculous every week, like a circus where I was the unwilling main attraction.

"What do you think they'll say about you today?" Remmy asked, as if reading my thoughts.

We shared the same jet-black hair and slightly upturned green eyes—a legacy from our mother. But that's where the similarities ended. Remmy was the artistic type, through and through. Eccentric outfits, a carefree vibe, and always the first to laugh.

My outfits were coordinated to the day of the week. I preferred not to waste valuable mental resources on trivial decisions like what to wear. Instead, I had my suits dry-cleaned, pressed, and delivered straight to my closet every Sunday night. They were arranged in the order I would wear them, along with matching shoes, belts, cufflinks, and ties. If I ever had the irrational urge to mix things up, I could throw in a vest, but I usually resisted the temptation.

As far as I was concerned, resistance was a virtue.

I also took my health as seriously as I took my company. To be the best CEO possible, I needed a nearly limitless supply of energy. I needed to avoid getting sick, tired, or having "off" days. I needed to stave off aging and its effects as long as possible. It wasn’t about vanity or pride. It was a simple matter of efficiency and effectiveness, which were two qualities I valued above almost any other.

So I stuck to a strict diet, exercise routine, daily vitamins, lotions, creams, and whatever else my health team advised. To some, it probably seemed excessive. To me, it was no different than maintaining a high-performance supercar. You didn't put regular gas in a Ferrari, and you didn't fuel a multi-billion dollar CEO with pizza and beer.

I demanded excellence from my people and led by example, extracting every ounce of potential from myself I could.

"What do I think they'll say?" I asked, spotting the gathering crowd ahead. "Something idiotic, as usual. It will be exaggerated, baseless, and overdramatic to get a reaction. Same as every day."

"But don't you ever ask yourself why so many people get so mad at you? Like... yeah, I'm sure it's a little over the top. But how many people do you know who have an actual hate fan club?"

"Hate Notes is a company with fourteen employees. They filed for an LLC a year before I got my first note. So, apparently, enough people want to send angry messages to fuel a growing business. It's not just me."

She smirked. "I should have guessed you already CEO-stalked them."

"I didn't—" I closed my mouth and sighed. Alright. I supposed I had CEO-stalked them. I didn't need to tell my sister I also knew their tax status, the education history of their owner, and kept a close profile on all their new hires. But it wasn't stalking. It was called being thorough. There was a reason I excelled. I turned over every stone, no matter how dirty or how far out of the way it might seem.

"With the number of angry messages you get every morning, you may be single-handedly keeping them in business, Ry."

I didn't dignify that with a response. Remmy was also the only one I let call me by that nickname, as she had been doing it since she was in diapers. The fact that I was thirty-four now didn't seem to matter to her.

I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders.

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