Page 29 of Masks and Mishaps

It’snoteventenwhen I learn my first finance lesson for the day: When an outrageously wealthy man dies, three things inevitably happen within the first few hours of his passing.

The first: His family starts talking about inheritance.

The second: His business associates start talking about…business, obviously.

The third: The stock market starts talking shit.

I’ve never seen the bank (or any workplace) devolve into panic so quickly. When the news broke, the central bullpen—the analyst and intern workstations—erupted. Since then, it hasn’t subsided below a flurry of ringing phones and analysts wrenching off their jackets and ties. On the overhead televisions mounted to the walls, tickers that were green this morning have flipped to red, and trend arrows have plummeted downwards like black diamond ski slopes.

For the second time today, someone in a suit sprints past my station to get to the glass-walled senior offices on the left side of the floor. He stumbles up the bullpen’s stairs, but makes a beeline for Dalton’s office, where Dalton is pacing behind his desk with his phone on his ear.

Dalton doesn’t flinch when his office door swings open, but he does face the guy who just entered. Panting, the guy clutches his side, holds up a stack of papers—

—and collapses in the middle of Dalton’s office, eliciting a collective gasp across the bullpen.

Before anyone can react, Dalton throws down his phone, leaps over his desk like a robber sliding over the hood of a getaway car, and kneels beside the unconscious analyst. His fingertips go to his neck in one beat, and in the next, he starts chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth.

Thirty seconds later, when the analyst rouses, the bullpen explodes into applause. Dalton is too preoccupied to notice.

He points to the chair on the other side of the desk, and before the guy even sits, Dalton picks up his phone once moreand immediately begins talkingbecause he just saved someone’s life. While muted. On a business call.

And as Dalton resumes his call, he rolls his chair over to his briefcase in the corner and produces a granola bar, which he passes to the analyst.

A flicker from one of the nearby television screens catches my eye, alerting us to yet another update in the story dominating the airwaves: the unexpected death of media billionaire Bernardo Villatoro.

“Did you know he had so much in the bank?” Weston asks, watching the screen as he speaks. “What do you think his AUM was?”

AUM: assets under management—or the amount of money Hannington-Hale managed for him.

“Technically zero,” I explain. “He made his investments under the umbrella of his holding company, Villatoro Enterprises, which did five hundred thirty-seven million with Hannington-Hale last year.”

There are countless ways for investment banks to make money, but Hannington-Hale—as a DC-based bank—focuses on defense and government contracts. The field is small, however, so having a gigantic holding company for a client is how a niche bank stays afloat and competes against the New York banks.

Villatoro Enterprises pays our salaries. The commissions on those transactions are the backbone of our cash flow.

I watch the news ticker on the bottom of the television.Market shock. Downward outlook. Dow faltering. Nasdaq stumbles.“He left it to his beneficiaries.”

Weston sighs. “If his heirs pull their money from the bank or temper their investments, we’re—”

“Screwed,” I fill in. “This man’s death may very well dent your own inheritance.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” he mutters. With his eyebrows dusting the ceilings, he abandons his workstation and heads to the stairs leading to the executives offices—his father’s office.

With Weston gone, I turn my attention back to my monitor. With the day’s fluctuations, profit margins are becoming razor thin if not red. For the next few weeks, things are going to be exceedingly volatile while the market reacts to Villatoro’s death. Moments like this underscore just how risky it is to run a business on money and money alone.

Personally, I don’t mind volatility, but it’s not for everyone.

Hours later, when trading closes, the energy in the bank shifts from frenetic to discouraged. The calls die down, the stock tickers flatline on red, and nobody else passes out. Across the expanse of the bullpen, Dalton remains at his desk, reclined in his ergonomic chair and facing the ceiling. As if he senses me watching him, his eyes find mine over our colleagues’ weary heads.

He could be thinking about me. He could be thinking about the pussy he hasn’t tasted yet and the cum he wants to leave inside me.

After he left on Friday night, I rubbed the cum he put on my belly into my skin. It felt filthy and ridiculous, and I did it precisely for that reason—because filthy and ridiculous is what Dalton would have wanted.

And that’s not all I did with his cum.

Dalton keeps staring. Whether or not he realizes it, he’s eye fucking me like there’s not a sea of miserable people between us—and nobody eye fucks quite like Dalton. His gaze doesn’t settle, roving like he’s making individual plans for how he’ll worship each inch of me. His fingertips toy with the edges of his chair’s armrests, drawing small, lazy circles against the padding—the barest of caresses. He’s good with his fingers; he knowsexactlywhat to do with his fingers.

This is my chance.

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