Page 8 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

But all that comes out is rage.

Everything. Every moment, every late-night study sprint, every day I spent interning and learning under his thumb was for…nothing.

It was all for nothing.

No. I refuse.

More lightning crackles across the sky from outside the wall of windows, and the thunder shakes the panes.

With a deep sigh, my father lowers himself into the oversized leather desk chair, leaning back and steepling his fingers in front of his mouth.

“Son. I can see you’re upset,” he says, sounding tired.

I sniff. “Gee, I wonder why,” I snap.

He arches an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Storm, it’s not enough to simply want the role,” he says slowly, choosing each word with maddening precision. “I have my reasons for my decisions, and they’re not up for debate.”

The words tear out of me, sharp and bitter. “How many years have I spent working toward being your successor? I’ve done everything you asked. Everything you demanded—and beyond.”

“And yet here we are,” he replies coolly. “It is what it is, Storm. Accept it. Deal with it.”

The dismissal in his tone sends a fresh wave of anger through me.

“What’s the difference between me and him? Lakeland didn’t give a damn about this fund until you started showing up inForbes.He’s here because you handed him everything on a silver platter.”

My father studies me in silence, his expression unreadable, and then he leans forward, folding his hands on the desk. “I know this feels unfair, but this is how it has to be. You can’t be the next in line.”

I bristle. What more do I need to give this man?

“I studied for and passed the SIE as a freshman in college. I got my Series 7 two months later. I could deal in securities before I could drink legally. I’ve done the things,Father.So yes, this is fucking unfair.”

He stands in one smooth movement before heading to the mini bar in the corner of his office. Without turning to me, he says, “We took a hit after the Banks and James…situation.”

Jeremy Banks and Chris James were the CEOs of a startup in the health-tech space. Their product promised the ability to create a DNA-based health plan with a simple blood draw, including future risk factors, within a few minutes. The prototypes looked promising…but they bamboozled investors out of hundreds of millions of dollars in the end.

There was a congressional inquiry and a year and a half of headaches and ulcers around the Stratos office because we’d been one of their principal investors.

It was not a good time.

“How much of a hit?” I ask.

Father sighs as he pours two fingers of scotch each into two low tumblers.

“Enough of a hit that our investors are antsy. Antsy enough to start talking about leaving the fund.”

Well, shit. The entire principle of a hedge fund was to get wealthy people to hand over their money so they can get wealthier—and we get a significant cut in return for our work.

Without investors, the fund goes defunct.

“Is Stratos about to go under?”

Father laughs and turns with both glasses in his hands.

“Stratos? Go under? Never,” he replies. “But that doesn’t mean we don’t have a problem. Lakeland is going to fix it.” He hands one of the tumblers to me.

I stare hard at his hand as another rumble of thunder explodes.

“Calm down, Storm,” my father says, placing a glass in my hand. When he pats me on the upper arm, my shoulders drop.

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