Chapter 17

  I sit in the Oval Office, remote control in hand, flipping through the news channels while the President leans forward in his chair, his fingers interlaced, his face unreadable.

  We watch CNN Finance.

  Numbers flash across the screen - a bloodbath for some, a gold rush for others.

  The market is in chaos.

  Some stocks are skyrocketing - like I knew they would.

  NASDAQ 100 ? 31.3% – The algorithmic economy is in full swing.

  Edison ? 51.9% – No more human drivers, no more payroll headaches. Just a fleet of AI - powered profits.

  Cerebra AI ? 58.6% – AI doesn't sleep, doesn't unionize, doesn't ask for a raise.

  TSMC ? 42.5% – AI needs chips. Chips need fabs. Simple math.

  Intel ? 38.8% – Even the old dogs are cashing in.

  And then there’s the wreckage.

  PeopleSoft ? 79.3% – HR software? What HR? AI handles hiring, firing, payroll, and compliance now.

  Regus Offices ? 62.1% – The tech campuses are empty. No more engineers. No more leased office space. A ghost town.

  Upwork ? 53.9% – Who hires freelancers when AI writes the code, drafts the contracts, and designs the logos?

  A panel of analysts argues over who wins and who gets wiped out.

  "This is the new economy," one expert says.

  "Companies that eliminate human labor will thrive. The rest? They won’t survive."

  He’s late to the game. I figured this out months ago.

  And I positioned myself accordingly.

  Good thing I went triple - long on NASDAQ 100 before the layoffs started rolling in. Good thing I shorted PeopleSoft into the ground.

  And the money for those bets?

  A loan from Qatar State Bank, arranged personally by His Royal Highness, Mohammed Bin Hassan, a.k.a. MBH.

  I glance at the President sitting across from me, his eyes flickering as he watches the numbers shift. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to.

  Because he followed my advice.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  And now?

  He owes me.

  I’ve probably made two million dollars today.

  But the son of a bitch, he’s probably made twenty.

  And that’s before we count his side bets—the thirty million more he’s raking in from Edison stock.

  A gift, courtesy of Victor Sterling, five years ago. 90% off market price. A little thank - you for a well-timed regulatory loophole.

  I zap between the news channels.

  Each zap of the button reveals another variation of the same story - chaos, defiance, and, more concerningly, a narrative that seems to slip further from our control with every passing minute.

  The first channel is a firestorm of protest footage. Young faces, some tear - streaked, some alight with determination, fill the screen. They carry signs with slogans that have become disturbingly familiar. The images cut to an interview with a woman who lost her brother in the clashes last week. Her voice trembles with grief and fury as she speaks. The anchor nods solemnly, their tone unwaveringly supportive of the movement. The segment ends with a new poll flashing across the screen: the President’s approval rating has dropped another five points overnight. The number is staggering.

  Zap.

  A different network, a different take. This one is less focused on individual stories and more on analysis, but the conclusions are no less damning. A panel of experts argues over whether the administration has completely lost control or if there’s still a path forward. One of them, a former advisor from a previous administration, says bluntly, “These numbers aren’t just bad. They’re catastrophic. No president in modern history has survived a drop like this.” Another poll appears in the lower third of the screen, this one from a right- leaning organization. Even here, the numbers are brutal: his support among his own party has eroded by nearly twenty percent.

  Zap.

  A breaking news banner flashes across the next channel. The protests have now spread to over 1,000 cities across the country. They are in San Francisco, all over Silicon Valley, in New York, in Washington, in Boston, in Atlanta, in Detroit, everywhere. Anywhere there is high tech, anywhere people are working, the streets are flooded with demonstrators. Even in Detroit, where car manufacturing workers are now protesting against robots taking their jobs. The nation is engulfed in revolt.

  Zap.

  A pro-protester channel now fills the screen. The footage shifts to a dramatic moment - thousands of people standing still in defiance as the national anthem plays over loudspeakers. The camera pans across the silent, resolute faces. For a brief second, I feel something stir inside me. I glance sideways at the President. He, too, has moved, his fingers twitching slightly as if caught off guard by emotion. Then, as if realizing it himself, he stiffens, his face hardening.

  He exhales, watching the smoke drift toward the ceiling. Then he speaks, his voice calm, measured, but carrying an unmistakable edge. “Victor is killing us.”

  I say nothing, but my body stiffens.

  “We thought he was helping us,” the President continues, rolling the cigar between his fingers. “But now we see he’s an obstacle. He’s going to bring us down.” He takes another drag, exhaling slowly before tapping ash into the tray.

  His eyes flick toward me, assessing. Calculating.

  “We have to get rid of Victor. He’s only harming our situation. If we don’t act soon, he’ll be the architect of our downfall.”

  His voice is cold, detached. Whatever moment of hesitation had flickered across his face is gone.

  I watch the President pace the room, hands twitching as he fumbles with his pen. He’s rattled, and that’s never good for business. But that’s why I’m here—to give him direction, to shape the story before the truth can get in the way.

  "What do we do?" he asks, eyes darting toward me.

  I don’t hesitate. "Blame the immigrants."

  He frowns. "They won't buy it this time. My voters are stupid, but not that stupid!"

  I lean back in my chair, tapping my fingers against the table. "Blame China, Russia, Iran, the previous president."

  His face lights up like a gambler hitting the jackpot. "Yeah. I like that! Send our people to the demonstrations and tell them to wave flags of the USSR and hold pictures of Stalin and Mao."

  I smirk. "We can also throw in some signs praising North Korea. Nothing makes Americans angrier than a dictator in a tracksuit."

  He nods, pacing faster. "Excellent! And get a few protestors to chant something ridiculous, like 'End capitalism now!' so we can paint them as radicals."

  I chuckle. "Already on it. By the end of the day, the news cycle will be nothing but outrage about foreign influence and extremist agitators."

  He stops pacing and grins. "Perfect. Now let's make sure we control the narrative before anyone starts asking real questions."

  I nod, already typing messages to the media contacts who owe me favors. The game is on, and I know exactly how to play it.