Chapter 945: The Montclair Meeting

As the gallery hummed with the sophisticated murmur of wealthy people pretending to understand

abstract expressionism

—nodding

sagely

at brushstrokes that probably meant nothing while calculating resale value in their heads—Amanda appeared at my elbow with that specific expression that meant

"business that can’t wait, but also I missed you, asshole."

She was wearing a sleek navy dress that hugged her like it had a personal vendetta against gravity—

silk so thin

and vicious it looked painted on, clinging to every lethal curve with the kind of spite that said

try to look away, I dare you.

The halter neckline

plunged

deep enough to make breathing feel like a privilege she could revoke, framing full

breasts

that rose and fell with each controlled inhale like they were mocking the room for not being worthy.

The fabric stretched taut across them,

nipples

faintly outlined beneath the silk like they were already hard just from being looked at. The slit was indecently—riding high on

hips

built for sin, then it hugged her ass so round and firm it looked engineered to break hearts and furniture in equal measure.

Every step she took made the hem flirt with disaster, flashing the tops of thighs that were thick, toned, and strong enough to snap a man in half while soft enough to make him beg for the privilege.

Black sheer stockings climbed those legs like smoke, disappearing under the hem like secrets nobody was allowed to keep, ending in stilettos sharp enough to draw blood just by existing.

Madison was already there; arm looped through Amanda’s in that

casual-but-possessive

way women do when they want the world to know they’re sharing but not dividing. They held each other like sisters who’d survived the same war and come out the other side with matching scars and better shoes.

Amanda leaned in close, voice pitched for my ears only.

"Elise and Theo Montclair

are here. Third painting from the left, pretending to care about Celeste’s commentary on postmodern alienation."

I followed her subtle gesture and spotted them immediately—the

Montclair

siblings stood out even in a crowd of LA’s elite like two sharks who’d wandered into a goldfish convention and were trying to blend in.

Elise Montclair looked exactly like what she was: a senior banker who’d probably forgotten more about finance than most people would ever learn.

Mid-thirties, designer everything, the kind of controlled elegance that came from years of navigating male-dominated boardrooms while secretly keeping score of every man who’d underestimated her.

Her brother

Theo stood beside her, younger by a few years, with that

oil-bro

energy refined by old money—like he’d been born with oil money in his veins and a trust fund for a placenta.

"So,"

Amanda continued, her hand resting possessively on my arm while Madison’s fingers tightened slightly on her other elbow, "are you meeting them now or later?"

As one of Liberation Funds’ core members,

Amanda

had been spearheading the

filtering and vetting

process for the hedge fund’s potential clients.

She’d been postponing meetings with interested parties for weeks now, making them wait while we got our infrastructure perfect—like dangling catnip in front of cats who’d never seen a laser pointer before.

But the wait was over.

While I was in Paris for three months, Liberation Funds would officially start accepting outside clients.

The reason for the delay had been simple: we needed to make absolutely sure

T.AGI

—was ready and operating at peak performance, turning market chaos into profit with the cold efficiency of a machine that had never known mercy or weekends.

And among all the clients clamoring for access, I’d specifically wanted to meet Elise Montclair myself.

For reasons.

Amanda had been postponing Elise’s meetings with me for weeks, always with the excuse that I was too busy. But Elise was ready to commit hundreds of millions of dollars to Liberation Funds, and Amanda had been smart enough to keep her interested despite the delays.

How? By giving Elise

real-time

access to Liberation Funds’ running portfolio.

She could log in anytime and watch our positions, see our trades execute, observe the profits accumulating hour by hour.

And while

ARIA

had been

trading conservatively

during the setup phase, the moment she’d handed full control to

T.AGI,

the trading AGI had

become aggressive

—like a predator who’d been kept on a leash too long and finally smelled blood.

Elise had probably sat in her corner office—or maybe her bedroom, who knows—watching millions of dollars flow through positions that opened and closed in minutes.

Watching order books get demolished.

Watching profits compound at rates that shouldn’t be mathematically possible without breaking several laws of physics and at least one commandment.

She’d probably touched

herself while watching those numbers, right?

Well... maybe not.

Elise was a CEO banker at one of LA’s top banks. She’d seen big money before. Just not numbers this large being handled with this kind of precision in windows measured in minutes instead of days.

That had to be intoxicating for someone who understood exactly how impossible what she was witnessing actually was—like watching

a god play poker

and realizing the deck was stacked because the god wrote the rules.

I looked at Amanda, pushing thoughts of the Montclairs aside for a moment.

"How are you doing? Running Liberation Funds while also being Charlotte’s executive assistant must be exhausting."

Amanda’s professional mask cracked immediately. She

pressed

closer, practically

snuggling

into my chest in a way that would’ve been inappropriate if we weren’t standing in a dimly lit corner of the gallery where half the crowd was already pretending not to watch us.

"It’s so fucking tiring,"

she admitted, her voice muffled against my shoulder like she was confessing to a priest who’d already absolved her of everything. "But I’m

building my man’s dreams,

so I don’t care. I’d work myself into the ground if it meant watching you succeed—hell, I’d dig the grave myself and throw the dirt in my own face if it got you one step closer."

I wrapped my arm around her, holding her close. "You won’t have to work yourself into the ground much longer. ARIA told me she’s taking over your assistant position with Charlotte. You’ll focus entirely on Liberation Funds as the executive director."

Amanda pulled back slightly, looking up at me with eyes that were suspiciously shiny—like someone who’d just been told the war was over and she could finally stop fighting. "She told you that?"

"Yeah. She said you’ve been stretched too thin, and now that she’s got her physical form and full ASI capabilities, she wants to work directly with Charlotte and Tommy on the tech side. Quantum Tech is about to get very interesting—like

’rewrite the laws of tech and rewiring humanity’s understanding about tech for fun and profit’

interesting."

Amanda’s smile was brilliant—raw, unguarded, the kind that made my chest ache because it was so purely hers. "Good. I love Charlotte, but being her assistant while running a multi-billion dollar hedge fund was making me want to murder someone.

"Preferably

whoever invented the concept of

’work-life balance’

as if that’s a thing that exists outside motivational posters in bankrupt startups."

I laughed, kissing her forehead. "I’m proud of you, you know that? Everything you’ve helped with Liberation Funds, the client care systems and programs you’ve put in place, the client vetting process—it’s incredible. You’re incredible."

"I learned from the best," she said, echoing Madison’s earlier words with the same quiet ferocity. "You taught me that

excellence

isn’t optional—it’s the baseline. And that being underestimated is just free ammunition."

"You two have already surpassed the teacher," I repeated the same words honestly. "I am proud of y’all girls."

We stood there three now, watching Celeste work with Madison and Amanda holding each other’s arms like sisters who’d survived the same war and come out the other side with matching scars and better shoes.