Page 10 of The Grumpy Billionaire

I offer up ideas for reordering the PowerPoints, and I figure out how to convert some of the narrative paragraphs into visual charts. I may have been rejected for every marketing job in the city, but I know how to get a message across.

ChapterSix

Hugo

The minutesI spend walking from one part of the office complex to another to get a sparkling water, what I think of as hall time, is typically time where I get good insights. A focus for my mind while my subconscious mulls over the really important questions in the background.

It’s precious, valuable time to me. I’ve made some of my most important breakthroughs walking from one place to another.

And right now, I need a breakthrough.

Desperately.

Half the financial industry is holding their breath, waiting for me to reveal my secret data model, which Wulfric and I refer to as QuantumQuilt. The other half is praying I’ll stumble—or, worse, show up with the kind of mediocre iteration that signals the end of my career.

The QuantumQuilt will be a mediocre iteration over my dead body. The solution is out there, just beyond my reach.

What, then, do I not want to spend my precious hall time minutes on?

Wondering why Stella would pretend not to recognize me. Or is it possible she actually didn’t recognize me? I had allotted a bit of time for a quick hello, but it’s not as if I don’t have other uses for that time. Better uses for that time.

I breeze past Brenda, blood racing.

Maybe she doesn’t want people to know she got the job through family connections.

And what was so hilarious? Of course, with Stella, something hilarious doesn’t need to be happening for her to think things are hilarious. Given the right mood, Stella can find a bloody pair of scissors hilarious.

And why does any of this matter? Trying to work out why Stella does anything is as impossible as it is pointless.

Brenda spots the envelope in my hand and pops up from her desk, alarmed. “Mr. Jones, is there a problem? I could have gone to the courier desk for you. You didn’t have to go all the way to admin—”

“There was no problem. I was there.”

“B-but…”

“I was there. I grabbed it. It would’ve been idiotically inefficient not to.”

Brenda nods. If there is anything we both hate, it’s idiotic inefficiencies. Beyond that, she knows not to question me.

Nobody questions me. It’s one of the greatest perks of success. The money and the prestige are fine, but the exemption from social interactions and expectations? Priceless.

I spent a startling amount of my youth practicing smiles in the mirror and copying the way normal kids interacted with each other.

The solution, as it turns out, wasn’t to level up my social game. It was to become rich and powerful enough to not have to care how I act or what anybody thinks.

I storm into my office, which I keep as spartan as my social life, and throw the thing on my desk. I continue on to the window and flatten my hand to the cool glass, adjusting myself to this strange new reality: Stella. Here at Quantum Partners.

The street below bustles with trucks and taxi cabs under steel-and-glass skyscrapers and historic buildings festooned with flags.

This uncomfortable sensation of heat blooms in my chest. Lunch at the Korean deli usually doesn’t bother me, but Jesus Christ! Is this heartburn or what?

I sit down and yank open my drawer, rummaging around in the back, grateful my Tums Chewy Bites are still in there. I cram a purple one in my mouth, set the timer that marks the beginning of my focus session, and head over to stare at my whiteboard.

I make a few notes. I erase a few notes. I ponder.

Anybody can create a data model that predicts the markets when people behave sensibly; the problem is that people can be obnoxiously irrational, constantly operating against their own self-interest. In short, throwing monkey wrenches left and right. Because that is what people do.

How do you make a data model that will hold up to monkey wrenches—or, better yet, predict the monkey wrenches?

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