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My day had finally drawn to a close as the sun slowly descended below the horizon; night began creeping in quietly, shrouding my office in darkness. Moonlight inquisitively sliced through the thick blackness, peeking into my workspace. I reclined further, watching the darkness attempt to smother the elusive soft white light. The ghostly remnants of smoke from my keyboard still lingered after a long day's toil. Friday night, and my ass remained firmly planted in my ZeFCore seat.

 

The 16th floor was quiet; aside from the occasional distant hum of a vacuum cleaner, an eerie stillness permeated the building, now devoid of all sane people. The clock displayed 9:37 pm, and the entire day had been a blur; coffee and stale bagels my only meager sustenance. What I needed was a boost; more coffee seemed the logical choice. I reached for my mug, took a quick sip, and gagged; it was lukewarm. Whipping around, I hit the red button on the coffee machine. Steam rises from the life-giving substance. The aroma is seductive, the black liquid filling every corner of my cup. Heat radiates from my mug. I take a sip, but the taste is off; I realize some dumbass switched to decaffeinated, robbing me of my only chance to rejuvenate. Something more substantial is required.

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I slide over to my cabinet; a 1998 bottle of Remington Scotch perches on the top shelf. I grab a glass and fill it to the brim; the color and scent are invigorating. It's smooth and robust; I pour two more to the rim. I long to go home for the night, but the numbers demand my attention. The market is closed, and all I crave is trading this chair for a pillow and a chilled glass of 1992 Cabernet Sauvignon.

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Sixty-eight employees, yet not one can crunch numbers like me; at least, that's what I tell myself. William insists I hide behind my work to justify not building a social life. He thinks socializing will help me better evaluate what's important. He's full of shit and old-fashioned; he believes single executives are more prone to reckless and selfish behavior, while married execs with children are more grounded. They're less likely to get their balls stuck in a vice. William only values a balanced life and the company's image. I grudgingly admit my social life could use some restructuring.

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After Corrinne, I steered clear of long-term relationships. Now, I prefer to keep a boxer's mentality: stick and move. I wonder if she ever realized how counterproductive long-term relationships are. I was in the early stages of building a social life when I met her. William was pushing the importance of balance, so I dove in headfirst.

I went to lunch at my regular spot; it was unusually crowded. Stepping in, it took twenty minutes to move five steps. They were shooting a commercial in the deli. I had several other lunch options, but I tried to bulldoze through the crowd. Someone yelled, "Stop!" I paused, realizing they weren't addressing me, but I had to see who was attached to that commanding voice. I stampeded through the throng.

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Surrounded by cameras and models was Corrinne Fedora, leading the bunch. Her reddish hair was cut shoulder-length; she wore glasses and red berry lipstick, her eyes a soft brown. On that chilly December day, her coat outlined her petite figure. She was beautiful, and the way she took charge was mesmerizing. I had to know who she was. The owner told me when they expected to finish. I dashed back to my office three blocks away and completed all my priority work. By 6 pm, I was back at the deli.

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I concocted a bogus story about ZeFCore needing a commercial for our new lines of business. She knew I was full of shit, but she thought I was cute enough for a business lunch. We had several more dates and began to mesh. It was short-lived, though. Eventually, our careers interfered. We became two ships passing in the night; when I was in town, she was out. When our schedules did sync, there was very little talking, only hot, passionate sex. We began managing our schedules to be together, only to discover how different we were.

 

The more time I spent with Corrinne, the more I realized how much I loved ZeFFie. ZeFFie had no plans to share me. Corrinne should have been number one, but she never even came close. ZeFFie was just more beautiful, more voluptuous. She spoke, and I listened in awe. We began to make money, lots of it. I was on a roll, and ZeFFie wouldn't allow anything or anyone to disrupt it. The strain on my relationship with Corrinne became unbearable; we grew apart. ZeFFie wasn't the catalyst. She just illuminated how different we were.

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Corrinne was smart and aggressive. Her future was set in stone, and she wanted everything the world could offer—except children. Even the whisper of motherhood was blasphemy to her. I thought Corrinne needed saving; I wanted to be her hero, but she had her own cape. I tried to love her; I thought I knew how. Love doesn't come naturally. It takes time; you have to learn.

At ZeFCore, I'm a God; to her, I was a mere mortal, and she was the Goddess. Two alphas wanting to control instead of love. Now, everything is obvious: our future was never once the topic of any discussion. We were opportunists. We used each other to advance our careers and chased money instead of each other. Like everything else, in the beginning, the sex was incredible. Eventually, we became desensitized, and it became a task to relieve stress rather than something intimate.

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The present was all that mattered; I was self-absorbed. I immersed myself in work to compete with her. I often tell myself I wasn't a complete asshole during the relationship; my therapist thinks otherwise. She reminds me that a broken person breaks things. I tried many ways to make her happy, but maybe I should have just asked her. We were at the pinnacle of our careers; had we met earlier, things might not have spiraled. We spent three years playing charades, lying to each other. I'm unsure whether we did it out of loneliness or just needing to be in a relationship. Our eyes were wide open; we drove down a long, winding road, well aware that it was a dead end.

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One thing is for sure: reminiscing won't increase my bank account. I need to focus on the numbers. ZeFFie has a lot going on now. Too many small fires are burning, whispers of a merger, potential acquisitions—social life my ass. Everyone will have to stay sharp until the board defines our next six months, including our noble CEO, William A. ZeFCore. He already seems a bit preoccupied with the company drama. I'll meet with him to review our numbers and get some insight on the board. I can't entertain anything outside my control; that's William's job. My team is what I fixate on; we can't afford any major trading issues.

Mistakes create a domino effect. Our clients speak one language: money. If they're not making it, the shit hits the fan hard, and then people go missing. There will always be a gap between your morality and your money; the more you make, the more significant the gap. We service these types of clients every day.

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I know most personally, and they are never forgiving. Surviving in this business requires a Ph.D. in bullshit. I always know just how much to throw. Ensure that my team works with the same precision. When ZeFFie and I are synchronized, money flows like the Nile. People only adore you when you're causing their bank accounts to grow exponentially. When that stops, you become less than shit on a gnat's ass.

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I've engineered my team to kick ass every day, rake in seven figures on a bad day. On paper, they strategically diversify the client's investment portfolio; in the real world, they sling bullshit to no end, or at least until the money changes hands. People don't care to understand shit about investment strategies or algorithms, or portfolio management. They want to know how much money they made. Technology gives us an advantage. We can manipulate numbers in a hundred different ways. You would never be the wiser, but we would always be the richer.

I grind a hundred hours before Friday; the money doesn't rest, and neither do I. The pull of the money is undeniable at ZeFCore. It gets harder and harder to walk away—it will never be enough. Life always creates an unfair balance; the more you make, the more your soul slips away.

New Chapter: What do you do when the person in the mirror is a stranger? You check back later until he becomes familiar, or you drink enough to forget him. Money wears the crown, ruling the throne like a jealous queen with absolute power, destroying anyone who dares challenge her. Big money requires extreme self-discipline. It's like having a tiger as a pet: carefully nurture and feed it, or it will surely devour you without remorse.

I've always savored the sweet scent of fresh money; it only made sense to choose a profession that would keep me swimming in it. Trading isn't for the weak; money of this caliber demands a constant check of one's moral compass. As the pile grows, your compass tends to point only in that direction.

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My therapist insists that money isn't the root of my moral decay, but rather my obsessive compulsiveness with ZeFCore's success. Everyone wants the glamour; no one wants to smell shit or get dirty shoveling it. Once you're past the smell, everything's easy. When you know what you want, doing whatever it takes never becomes an issue. My therapist has no clue what it takes to get where I am. She's still waiting to hear all about ZeFFie, one problem at a time. She needs to make sense of everything else; then I'll share. When my shit comes full circle, she might try to drug me.

I was at ZeFCore for eight months before I met ZeFFie. ZeFCore wasn't part of my future plans until I met her. I only wanted to catch up on my student loans, gain some experience, and jump ship at the best offer. William got me in the door—young, naïve, and allergic to hard work. Zeffie was the catalyst. She laid on the charm thick; ZeFCore seemed magical after talking with her. Her voice was like soft jazz, resonating in your head all day, soothing. That's how it appeared for the first eighteen years. The past few years have been nothing but psychotic acid rock. We tend to butt heads all the time. It's crucial for us to stay synchronized, but ZeFCore's direction has become questionable. I try to be good and stay in line, but going rogue is my weakness, and it invigorates me.

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Whether we love or despise each other, it never affects our ability to make money. Yet with her, it's never enough. I understand; who doesn't want to see their horse win every race or their favorite athlete cross the finish line first? To cheer them on, to play any part in that greatness—it's intoxicating. Every athlete needs their fans; every fan needs a hero. They feed off each other's strength and inspiration, united in one mind, one purpose: to win. Zeffie is my hero; I'm her fan, and it works. She may hate me at times, but it never interferes with the job. Sometimes the urge to strangle her is strong, but the desire to make money is always stronger.

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