MARVEL: BUYING GODHOOD

The private elevator chimed, a soft hiss of brushed steel cutting through the deep stillness of the three-story penthouse.

Chris leaned back in his leather armchair, idly turning the pages of a college textbook while his coffee went cold on the walnut side table.

Behind him, perfectly still in the shadow of a massive marble pillar, stood Diablo.

The demon’s pristine black suit and white gloves blended into the dark, but his golden irises occasionally caught the pale morning light, gleaming with quiet, predatory patience.

The doors slid open, and Helen Stacy stepped onto the seamless white silk rug.

She wore a sharp charcoal pantsuit under a dark gray overcoat and carried a heavy leather briefcase.

Her blue eyes scanned the room, locking onto Chris with the clinical focus of a seasoned litigator.

“Mr. Sterling,” she said.

“Ms. Stacy,” Chris replied, closing his textbook with a polite nod.

“Ten on the dot. I see your calendar doesn’t leave much room for debate.”

“It pays to be efficient,” Helen said, setting her briefcase onto the mahogany desk with a dull thud.

She unlatched the brass clips and pulled out a thick stack of heavy documents.

“This is just the first round. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

Chris looked at the small mountain of paper, a faint smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“I hope you brought a few spare pens. Signing my name that many times feels like a repetitive strain injury waiting to happen.”

“You’ll survive, Mr. Sterling,” Helen said smoothly, uncapping a sleek fountain pen and pushing the first folder forward.

“Let’s start with the assets that are already yours.”

Chris folded his hands.

“I was hoping we’d begin with coffee.”

“We already had coffee.”

“Then I was hoping we’d stop.”

Helen ignored him entirely—a skill she had clearly spent years perfecting.

“The first item is your grandfather’s trust.”

That actually got his attention.

Unlike everything else that had fractured his reality over the last forty-eight hours, the trust was something Chris actually knew about.

“My seventeenth birthday,” Chris murmured.

“Three weeks from now,” Helen confirmed.

Chris nodded slowly.

The trust had been hanging over his head for years, a distant milestone that had suddenly rushed into the present.

Helen tapped the open ledger.

“The current valuation is approximately seven billion dollars.”

The room went dead silent.

“My family had an extremely unhealthy relationship with money,” Chris noted dryly.

Helen didn’t disagree.

“The trust consists primarily of liquid capital, blue-chip securities, bonds, and long-term holdings. The bulk of Richard Sterling’s original mining wealth went directly into the Sterling Global voting shares your father inherited, but these reserves were carved out separately.”

Chris pulled the paperwork closer.

Even with his enhanced mind tracking the legal clauses, the sheer architecture of the document was startling.

“No access to my parents.”

“No.”

“No access to the board.”

“No.”

“No access to anyone.”

“No.”

Chris whistled softly, running a finger down the ancient probate restrictions.

“Grandfather really didn’t trust a soul.”

Helen folded her hands neatly.

“That appears to be a hereditary condition.”

Chris couldn’t even argue.

His father had literally hidden almost three billion dollars inside a rusted Toyota Corolla down in a subterranean vault.

The family resemblance was becoming impossible to ignore.

“Anything else?”

Helen’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Quite a bit.”

She reached into her briefcase and pulled out a second folder.

The cover wasn’t stamped with the standard Sterling Global logo, and it had nothing to do with heavy mining or logistics.

Which meant only one thing: his mother.

“Your mother maintained several private holdings,” Helen said, sliding the first document across the desk.

Star Apparel Group

100% Ownership (Josephine Sterling)

Estimated Valuation: $1.5 Billion

Chris stared at the page, then looked up at Helen, then back down.

“My mother owned a clothing company.”

“Yes.”

“An entire clothing company.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Helen raised an eyebrow.

“To make money.”

Chris pointed a finger at the text blocks.

“She was already married to a billionaire.”

“Apparently she wanted more.”

Chris let out a breath, a wave of dark amusement hitting him.

It was disturbingly on-brand.

“The company was founded eighteen years ago,” Helen continued, turning the page.

“Eighteen? That’s before I was born.” Chris rubbed his temples.

Of course.

Apparently, his mother had been building corporate empires recreationally in her spare time.

Helen slid the next file into view.

Aurelia Luxury Group

70% Ownership (Josephine Sterling) / 30% Ownership (Mark Sterling)

Estimated Valuation: $8 Billion

Chris stared.

“Jewelry.”

“Jewelry.”

“My mother built a luxury jewelry company,” Chris said, tracking the equity split.

“And my father somehow ended up with thirty percent.”

“Your father supplied the metals, the internal logistics network, the transportation contracts, and the initial infrastructure.”

Chris nodded slowly as the corporate logic clicked.

“So Mom built it.”

“Yes.”

“And Dad made sure it survived long enough to become profitable.”

“Essentially.”

Chris let out a short, sharp laugh.

“That’s disgustingly functional.”

“Your parents were many things, Chris.” Helen closed the folder.

“Inefficient wasn’t one of them.”

The final page of the private equity section appeared.

Elysian Cosmetics

33% Ownership (Josephine Sterling) / 22% Ownership (Mark Sterling)

Estimated Valuation: $18 Billion

This time, Chris simply closed his eyes.

He sat in total stillness for several seconds before opening them again.

“Helen.”

“Yes?”

“My parents owned fifty-five percent of an eighteen-billion-dollar cosmetics company.”

“Yes.”

“And somehow nobody thought this was worth mentioning to me.”

“No.”

Chris rubbed his forehead, a genuine grin spreading across his face.

“I feel like every five minutes I’m discovering another billion dollars.”

“That’s a fairly accurate summary of this meeting,” Helen observed.

Chris looked back down at the report.

Eighteen billion.

Even a fifty-five percent controlling block of that was absurd.

His father apparently couldn’t look at an industry without buying a piece of it, and his mother couldn’t look at an industry without taking total control.

Together, they had been an absolute economic hazard.

One point five billion.

Eight billion.

Eighteen billion.

The figures were staggering, mostly because they had been kept entirely off the public books.

His father ran one of the largest mining empires in America, and his mother had quietly engineered a high-margin consumer empire right beside it.

Normal families collected vacation photos.

The Sterlings collected multinational corporations.

“Helen,” Chris said, leaning forward.

“Was there some sort of competition?”

“What competition?”

Chris spread his hands over the folders.

“Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like two extremely wealthy people spent twenty years trying to out-billionaire each other.”

For the first time since she had stepped out of the elevator, Helen actually laughed.

It was a short, sharp sound, gone almost immediately.

“You aren’t entirely wrong.”

“I knew it.”

Chris looked down at the reports, his eyes skimming the technical footnotes, when a specific logistics annex caught his attention.

The humor evaporated from his face, replaced by a cold, sharp focus.

Helen noticed the shift immediately.

“You see it.”

It wasn’t a question.

Chris flipped through the underlying pages, his mind instantly connecting the shipping contracts, raw material sourcing agreements, and international transportation networks.

It was beautifully, terrifyingly integrated.

One parent built the consumer front, and the other made sure it had everything it needed to scale without relying on third-party vendors.

But seeing the raw infrastructure laid out in plaintext made the scale impossible to ignore.

“The metals.”

“Yes.”

“The transportation.”

“Yes.”

“The chemical procurement.”

“Yes.”

“The logistics.”

“Yes.”

The room became completely quiet, save for the gentle ticking of the wall clock.

Suddenly, the dollar figures weren’t the important part anymore.

The infrastructure was.

These weren’t isolated lifestyle brands; they were fundamentally tethered to the mining dynasty.

Chris closed the folder slowly, the heavy paper hitting the wood with a soft snap.

“And now he’s dead.”

Helen nodded.

“Yes.”

The answer was simple.

The consequences weren’t.

“The board is going to notice,” Chris said.

“They will.”

“They’ll reprice every single internal contract to market value.”

“They will.”

“They’ll squeeze every dollar of supply margin they can to choke out the estate.”

“They will.”

Chris leaned back into the leather cushions.

The executive committee thought Sterling Global Resources was the ultimate prize on the board.

It wasn’t.

Sterling Global was just the foundation.

Without it, the entire multi-billion-dollar luxury framework his mother built would start cracking.

The mining empire, the jewelry lines, the cosmetics business—all of it depended on the exact same vertical system.

And all of it sat directly underneath a board of directors that currently wanted his head.

Interesting.

Very, very interesting.

A slow, dangerous smile appeared on Chris’s face.

Helen’s eyes narrowed.

“I don’t like that expression.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“What are you thinking, Chris?”

Chris turned his gaze to the window, watching the morning sun catch the glass of the distant downtown skyscrapers.

“The board thinks they’re negotiating from a position of strength.”

Helen sighed.

“They aren’t.”

“No.” Chris’s smile widened slightly.

“They’re standing on top of the very thing they’re threatening to burn down.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Helen reached back into her briefcase, pulling out a single sheet of heavy parchment stamped with a red wax seal.

“There is one final matter.”

Chris immediately frowned.

“I don’t like that sentence.”

“Nobody ever does.”

The final document landed squarely on the mahogany desk.

Chris pulled it forward, reading the text.

Then he read it again, his mind checking the legal definitions for any loopholes.

Silence stretched through the penthouse.

“Helen,” Chris said softly.

“Yes?”

“Absolutely not.”

“It isn’t optional, Chris.”

Chris pointed an accusing finger at the center of the page.

“You want me to move.”

“The document wants you to move.”

“My mother wrote the document.”

“Correct.”

“So my mother wants me to move.”

“Also correct.”

Chris leaned his head back against the leather seat, staring up at the high ceiling.

Of course she did.

The woman had somehow found a clinical, legally binding way to micromanage his life from beyond the grave.

Honestly, it was almost impressive.

“Until your eighteenth birthday, you are required to reside under my direct legal guardianship,” Helen explained, her voice entirely calm, dropping the words like unassailable facts.

“Your mother drafted this directive to ensure you remain under my personal supervision. You don’t get a choice in the matter. Until you turn eighteen, you live where I can see you.”

Chris let out a dry, sarcastic laugh.

He thoroughly hated the restriction.

He had a primordial demon standing in his shadow and a multiversal evolution tree hard-coded into his soul—the idea of being forced to play the part of a sheltered legal ward for the next twelve months was an incredibly irritating bottleneck.

“You know, the logical consistency of my family is truly a marvel,” Chris scoffed, gesturing sharply at the paperwork.

“They trusted me with the future of a multi-billion-dollar corporate empire. They left me in line to control forty billion dollars of global logistics, mining dynasties, and private equity blocks before I can legally buy a drink.”

He looked directly into Helen’s eyes, his tone dropping into pure, unadulterated sarcasm.

“But my health and welfare? My ability to decide where I sleep at night? No, that’s far too dangerous. Better lock that down under a legal guardian. God forbid the kid running the global mining supply chain catches a cold on his own terms.”

“My mother was a control freak who engineered a legal straitjacket,” Chris corrected smoothly.

He paused, looking at her intently.

“Why did she choose you, Helen?”

For the first time that morning, Helen didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, she closed the folder in front of her and met his gaze.

“Because your mother trusted me.”

Chris waited.

Helen didn’t elaborate.

After several seconds, he sighed.

“That’s not actually an answer.”

“No,” Helen agreed calmly.

“It isn’t.”

“Are you planning to give me the real answer?”

“When you’re ready to hear it.”

Chris narrowed his eyes.

Helen simply slid the final document across the desk.

“Sign the paperwork, Chris.”

He stared at her for a moment longer before looking down at the guardianship order.

Apparently, neither of his parents had ever believed in answering straightforward questions.

Chris picked up the fountain pen, its heavy silver chassis cold against his fingers, and dropped the pen to the page.

He signed.

Smooth, fluid strokes that locked the legal guardianship into place.

Folder after folder, page after page, until the final document was stamped and filed away into Helen’s briefcase.

Helen snapped the brass clips shut and stood up.

“My office will handle the formal notification to the Sterling Global executive committee regarding the guardianship status,” she said, adjusting her gray overcoat.

“It will effectively freeze their ability to force a board vote until the scheduled meeting in three weeks. I expect you at my residence tomorrow morning at ten. Do not be late.”

“I’ll be there, Helen,” Chris replied.

Helen offered a precise, professional nod before turning on her heel.

The heavy walnut doors clicked shut behind her, leaving the penthouse plunging right back into its multi-million-dollar stillness.

Chris sat in silence for several minutes, watching the morning sun gleam off the marble panels.

“What will you do now, Master?” Diablo asked, stepping out of the shadows with an effortless, quiet grace.

Chris glanced at the signed paperwork, then at the schedule Helen had left behind on the edge of the desk.

Tomorrow.

Ten o’clock.

“Apparently,” Chris muttered, a wry smile tugging at his lips, “I’m moving.”

See you in the next chapter!