Billion Dollar Chance - Linnea May Page 0,2

my phone, promising a welcome distraction. It’s a text from Aston, an old friend from college and member of the illustrious Plutus Society. We took pride in that name and the meaning behind it, even though it was always just the four of us—Aston, Logan, Chase and myself. A group of four ambitious outliers, united in our joint striving for wealth.

“I can still count on you for this weekend, right?” Aston writes. “Logan and Chase are both a firm yes. Don’t let us down!”

I smirk at his reprimanding words, and since he sent them to our group chat, he is quickly backed up by Logan, who adds: “And don’t be fucking late!”

I’m in the middle of typing my response when Chase chimes in, interjecting that he will be traveling thousands of miles across the country to make this reunion happen, so I better manage to make the short drive up north.

As if there was any way I would miss Aston’s 30th birthday. He’s the first of us to hit that milestone. A milestone that holds special meaning for the four of us.

“You guys need to chill,” I tell them. “I said I would come and I will. But I won’t be driving, that’s for sure.”

“Taking the new baby out for a ride?” Chase wants to know, hitting the nail on the head.

“Exactly,” I respond. “Why drive when I just treated myself to a new Gulfstream jet? That beautiful machine spends too much time on the ground anyway.”

“Besides, driving is for peasants,” Logan agrees, followed by high five emoji, while Aston reminds us that we still share the same responsibility for pollution control as everybody else.

Some things never change.

My smile widens as I watch their banter continue. For three years the four of us were almost inseparable, a unified force against the rest of the world that didn’t seem to understand our larger than life aspirations. We were outliers, even on an Ivy League campus—and that’s what united us, despite our differences.

“Mr. Boulder.” Therese’s soft spoken voice yanks me out of my nostalgic musings. “It’s time.”

Startled, I look up from my phone and find my assistant peeking through the open door, her black locks tied in a conservative updo and her lips shimmering with a fresh layer of bright pink lipstick.

“Thank you, Therese,” I reply, rising from my chair so she knows that I need no further reminder. Therese is very uncomfortable with my habit of showing up last to every single meeting. She hates that I insist on making other people wait, probably because she’s the one who has to excuse or explain my last-minute appearances.

She is already out of sight as I march down the hallway, the redundant folder tucked under my right arm while I type one last response to the boys before I have to divert my focus elsewhere. The conference room is on the same floor as my office, but far enough for me to be one minute late by the time I reach the door.

“Gentlemen,” I greet the room, my eyes still locked on the display of my phone. “Sorry for the wait.”

I set the phone to silent and force a polite smile on my face before I look up and find the room fully occupied. I’m met with expressions of slight annoyance from my colleagues and nervous tension from our visitors, a blend of government advisers and starry-eyed idealists, hoping for our approval.

And her.

Ella Whitt, my not-a-girlfriend from college is sitting at the far end of the table, her cheeks as red as her blazing hair and her head down. She’s the only person in the room who is not looking at me.

And the only person whose presence makes a difference.

A huge fucking difference.

Chapter 3

Ella

His hair is different. It’s shorter than it used to be. Back in college, Gabe wore his hair long, often tied up in a man bun that gave his friends, especially Logan, the perfect target to make fun of his “hippie nest”.

I loved it. It was one of the most prominent things I noticed about him when we first met. He looked so different than all the other boys who circled my microcosm on campus. He always had this intense focus on his face, an earnestness that didn’t quite match the unruly hair, and that same discrepancy was reflected in the way he dressed—a formal white shirt and washed out black jeans, on top of worn out sneakers, irresolute on whether he wanted to appear put together or like a