1. Orion

1

ORION

" Y ou'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 at showing 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.

We were getting close.

Despite the early hour, the usual crowd was already outside my office. The vultures liked to watch. One woman, who considered herself an "influencer," even livestreamed this daily fiasco. She provided commentary on the hate notes and tried to guess what I had done to earn each one with her "fans."

Maybe calling her a vulture was too generous.

The bottom-feeders stood with coffees in hand, snacks, and excited smiles on their faces, like they were waiting for a Broadway show to start.

One of them pointed at me as I approached with Remmy at my side.

"There he is," they mouthed.

I sighed again, though my six-foot-three frame remained perfectly straight. A Foster never slouched, especially not in the face of adversity.

Remmy waved happily at the crowd. "Sorry we're late!" she shouted, cupping her hands over her mouth and nearly dropping her bag. "He had trouble getting the stick far enough up his ass, so we're running behind!"

I shot my little sister a glare, ignoring the laughter from the crowd.

She shrugged, biting back a smile. "Admit it. That was a little funny."

"No," I said. "And you shouldn't encourage them."

"It's like your little fan club, though. I think we should start a social media account for you. You could go viral, you know. Grumpiest Boss in New York," she said, spreading her hands as if she was visualizing a billboard.

"Absolutely not," I said, my voice as crisp as my collar.

"It could help your profits," she singsonged.

"You really think so?" I asked.

She laughed. "No. But it's hilarious how quickly you switched your tone when you thought it would."

I shook my head and stopped in front of the steps leading up to my office. I knew from experience that the Hate Notes employee would follow me inside if I didn't wait. When forced to choose between doing this in front of strangers or my employees, I chose strangers.

That didn't stop a small crowd of my employees from gathering at the lobby windows on the first floor of the Foster Real Estate skyscraper.

I turned my gaze their way, and they scattered like pigeons in Central Park.

The Hate Notes employee tasked with reading my notes today was named Matthew. He started last week, and I was certain I would get to him soon. They all had a price, and I had to admit I kind of enjoyed trying to find it.

Matthew saw me and jogged down the steps, note cards in hand. He glanced down at one as he descended the stairs, mouthing something silently to himself, almost as if he was practicing his delivery.

Wonderful.

Matthew wore the Hate Notes uniform—a garish red hat, matching shirt, and even more ridiculous red gloves, as if they needed protective gear for this nonsense.

The business logo was a letter folded to look like it had a mouth, complete with lipstick to drive the point home. It was open wide, as if shouting, with three squiggly black lines coming from the mouth. The text above the letter said "Hate Notes." Below, their slogan was printed in chipper letters: "When an email just won't cut it!"

"Let's get this over with," I said, my voice carrying the same authority I used in board meetings.

"Morning, Mr. Foster," Matthew said.

"I know they can't be paying you enough to turn down a thousand," I said. Yesterday, I'd offered him five hundred dollars to take his notes and leave. It was admittedly part of the game for me. I enjoyed bribing the employees of this ridiculous company and forcing their owners to hire and train new people. Because once an employee accepted my bribes, they were always fired. It was hard to hide that they weren't doing their jobs when the vultures were filming, after all.

Matthew was a guy in his mid-thirties, I guessed. I would've sent him to the mail room if he'd stepped into my office for an interview. He had "failure to launch" written all over his droopy, slack-jawed face.

But I had to give the man credit. He wasn't easy to bribe. Most of them caved when I hit two hundred, which said something about how much people enjoyed working for Hate Notes.

He leaned closer. "Two thousand, and I'll only read a couple of them."

I raised an eyebrow. I had to respect the backbone. Nobody had ever tried that one on me. "One thousand, and you can only read two."

He looked down at his stack of notecards. There were at least twenty of them. "Ten," he said. "If I only read two, it'll be too obvious."

"Three, and you get seven hundred instead. Final offer."

Matthew pressed his lips together. "Dammit. Alright. Alright. My rent is due.”

I slipped him the money, then folded my arms and waited, my stance radiating the same confidence that had helped me close multi-million-dollar deals.

Matthew lifted the first card, cleared his throat, and projected his voice so everybody could hear. Part of the gimmick with this company was that the employee had to read the card with real emotion, as if they were angry, too.

Matthew met my eyes, glancing down occasionally at the card to remember his lines.

"Dear Mr. Foster,

You suck. You SUCK. Did I mention you suck? And I bet if your company had a dick, you'd suck that, too. You just love your company so much. I bet you stay late so you can whisper sweet nothings in its ear, don't you? I bet you'd drill a hole in the wall and, uh..."

Matthew trailed off, flipped the card to the back, and started reading. I could see there had been a lot more written on that card. Apparently, Matthew was too embarrassed to read it aloud.

"Dear Mr. Foster, Ever wonder why your coffee tastes weird? I bet you do. I'd love to tell you what we put in it when you're not looking. But I won't tell you, because I'd rather picture you up all night wondering if it was toenails, hair, or spit. Or maybe all three? I'll give you a hint. It was all three. Bahahaha. Yeah! Fire that, bitch!

With Deepest Animosity,

Somebody You Should Have Been Nicer To"

Damn. I made a mental note to warn my secretary they were tampering with his coffee. I didn't touch the stuff myself—caffeine was too crude a tool for peak performance—but they obviously assumed he was making it for me.

Idiots.

Matthew flipped through a few cards as if looking for the right one. He stopped, licking his lips. "Dear Orion (Yeah, I used your stupid first name, you little asshole. How do you like that? Can't do shit to me because you don't even know who I am! HAH! Rub that on your face, you prick-whistler)

"Anyway, you got my white elephant gift at the Christmas party. And I can't believe you just threw it away. WHAT THE FUCK, ORION? A blanket with sleeves and a hole for your head is the greatest thing that has ever been invented by mankind. Or do you prefer to stay cold like your shriveled, dead heart?

"GOD. You are the WORST! I hope you forget how to breathe and drop dead, asshole.

"P.S. I don't even pray, but I started praying every night just to ask if God could please smite you for me. Eventually, he's going to get tired of me asking and end you."

Matthew tucked the rest of the cards in his fanny pack—yes, he was wearing a fanny pack. "Alright, folks. That's it for today."

"What?" one of the people in the crowd shouted. "You had more cards!"

Matthew shook his head. "Those are for other clients. I just had them mixed up."

There was some disappointed grumbling, but I ignored it all and told Remmy I'd see her later. She smiled, waved, and headed off to work.

Matthew was probably getting fired for not reading all those cards. I wondered who they'd send next. Whoever it was, I'd enjoy finding their price. Everybody had one, after all.

That was something else people said about me: I always got what I wanted.

They weren't wrong about that one.