Too many women have my phone number.

The texts come in one after the other, at random hours, whenever they think I might be distracted. Receptive. It’s not going to happen. It’s never going to happen not for them.

The treadmill slows beneath my feet and I let my breath come down, letting my heart thud, thud, thud in my chest. That’s the sensation I’m interested in right now. That, and focus. I’ve got a business empire to run. That’s why I start at the gym. Control the body. Control the mind. Control the business.

No feelings.

I pick up the phone from the cupholder of the treadmill—why is there a cupholder?—and swipe through the messages. She’s blocked in a matter of moments. Out of sight, out of mind.

It’s best this way. Having “feelings” for women is a surefire way to lose control over your life, over your reputation, everything.

Mine is too valuable for that. On the scale of ten billion in net worth, at my last count.

One of the rolled-up towels on the stand in the corner is enough for my face. Not so much the rest of me.

Next up? A shower.

My phone rings before I can get there. It’s a number I recognize.

“Hunter.”

The voice on the other end of the phone launches into a business proposition and I get a whiff of a challenge. If there’s one thing I can’t resist, it’s a business on the brink. This kind of opportunity is my favorite. A company teetering on the edge of failure. People bursting with nervous energy. And me, at the center, making it all bend to my will.

“What happened exactly, John? It seems like the resource management here has been abysmal.”

On the other end of the line, John, the representative for the board at the Williams-Martin publishing group, sighs. Williams-Martin, John has explained, owns Basiqué—their heavy hitter—and puts out a bunch of other magazines that lose money every second they exist. Not that I give a shit about magazines. But this company is about to go over the edge, and I could stop it…if I choose.

“I can’t argue with that.” He sounds defeated.

I take another long moment to consider my options. I don’t need this business. People can’t stop giving me money hand over fist. Come up with your own revolutionary development in condom technology and watch your net worth shoot into the stratosphere. But I can’t get enough of this shit. I’ll probably find out that none of these magazine properties are worth anything, and I won’t feel an ounce of sadness about shutting most of them down. Maybe all of them. Who knows? I buy them out, I have all the power. And another successful turnaround will only increase my legitimacy.

My slimy, weakass father wasn’t legit. I’ll never forget the day they came to arrest him for a laundry list of embarrassing white-collar crimes. It wasn’t until the trial that I saw him for what he was: a coward and a fraud. The last thing I need is to get into a situation that looks like it’s more of his “creative accounting.”

This isn’t creative accounting. From what John has said, this is a bailout.

And who has more power than the guy writing the checks?

I take a deep breath in. This is the kind of emotion I’m allowed to have. This is the kind of interest that does nothing but benefit me in the long run, even if it’s a “learning experience.”

I’ll do it. Why the hell not? I can afford to lose a couple million if it goes south, and either way I’ll come out smelling like roses. If I can’t turn around some publishing company when they’re up against the Internet, I won’t be the first.

“Tell you what, John. I’ll bite. But I’ll warn you—I don’t plan on leaving power structures intact. I’m going to be doing some reorganizing.”

“We expected as much.” The relief in his voice is palpable.

“Be ready for a call from my business manager by the afternoon,” I say crisply, then let him thank me too many times before I disconnect the call.

The thought of the destruction I’m about to wreak on Williams-Martin has my blood thrumming in my veins. I could go another round right now.

But there’s no time to head back down to the gym. No, that’s not true—there’s always time, when you’re in charge, but I’m not interested in being that guy. Not today. Today I wring the waste out of another business with the palms of my hands, reforming it into something worthwhile. There will be casualties. It will be worth it.

My heart is still beating with leftover anticipation as I strip off my clothes and step into the shower. It’s a pet project, something I wouldn’t normally pay much attention to. God knows I don’t need the distraction. But it rattles around in my mind. I want it.

All I need to do is get to the office.