As usual, I’m late for work. I’ve never been a punctual person and never will be. I’m supposed to be here at seven in the morning, but I manage to drag my ass in at nine or ten. When you run your own multibillion-dollar company, you can do whatever the fuck you want.

Right before I reach my private elevator, Donna, the receptionist, takes a seat at her desk. Her glasses are slightly crooked, and she’s wearing her striped blouse inside out. She’s an older woman with silver hair and wrinkling, blotchy skin. A few years back, she got struck by lightning, and it affected her mentally. Her speech is slurred, and she can’t remember what day it is. I should fire her, but I won’t because this is her only source of income. When I tried to convince her to stay home and I’ll pay her bills, she wouldn’t let me. She’s as stubborn as a mule. Donna has been working for me for seven years now. She was one of the first employees I hired when my bank was small, so she’s practically family. Call me a fucking Boy Scout all you want, but I enjoy helping people—especially women and kids. There’s no reason for me to have a shit-ton of money and not give some back to the world.

“Th-thanks for allowing me to s-stick my g-g-granddaughter in the daycare,” Donna says, the right side of her mouth curl into a smile. “I-I don’t know where my t-tramp of a d-daughter is.” I have an in-house daycare on the second floor, that way my employees don’t have to worry about finding a babysitter.

“You’re welcome, beautiful.” I point to her blouse. “Your shirt is inside out again.”

“G-gosh d-darn it, this is the th-third time this week th-this happened.”

She grabs her cane and limps to the restroom. When I head to the private elevator, my employees bomb-rush to me, greeting me like I’m a fucking celebrity. It annoys the hell out of me on most days because all I want is to be left the hell alone.

“Gunner, is there any update on the new computer system change?”

I don’t know, check with the IT department.

“Are we still having the annual summer party?”

Ask Mandy, she’s in charge of hosting parties.

“The system is down in the marketing department.”

Check with the IT department.

“Mr. Underwood!”

“Gunner!”

The elevator doors open. I step inside and tap the button, and it takes me to the thirtieth floor. As I open the glass door, Gia sits at my sister’s old desk. Raggedy purple headphones cover her ears, and her wavy, brunette hair falls over her shoulders like a waterfall as she sings off tune to a garbage current rock song.