Chapter 3

By my sophomore year, my tech startup had launched.

Caleb Kingsley — the venture capitalist who'd spotted me at a freshman pitch competition and written the first check — had come on board as my partner. With his backing, and what amounted to two lifetimes of business instinct, the product landed hard in the market.

I'd made my first real fortune. My profile had taken off.

Meanwhile, Felix was most of a year into his Australian working holiday and already cracking.

Naomi's Instagram was full of sunsets on Bondi Beach, açaí bowls, and long captions about "escaping the system."

Felix's actual life: graveyard shifts at a meat-packing plant in rural Queensland, sleeping eight guys to a bunkhouse, scraping by on instant ramen.

Then a trending article popped up on his phone — a business magazine cover story on me.

He maxed out his credit card on a standby ticket and flew back to the States. His tourist visa let him back in — barely.

He turned up in the lobby of my office building in Boston.

Wrinkled shirt. Hair oily.

His expression, though, was still superior.

He planted himself in front of my car with his hands in his pockets.

"You started a company? Something this big, and you didn't think to run it by me?"

I was in the backseat. I rolled down the window.

"Security. Get this vagrant off the premises."

Security stepped up and had him by the arm.

He thrashed against them.

"You're throwing me out?! Did you forget we grew up together?!"

"You wouldn't have a company without the ideas I gave you!"

"I'm entitled to half the equity!"

The sheer, polished nerve of it was almost funny.

"Ideas you gave me?"

I pushed open the door, stepped out, and stood in front of him.

"Are you referring to your idea about selling hot dogs outside the dorms?"

A few of my employees laughed out loud.

Felix's face went hot.

"Don't twist this! Naomi told me you used my ideas!"

"You have money now. You're going to give me a VP title."

"Or I'm suing you."

I looked at him, cold.

"Go ahead. I'll even cover your filing fee."

"Friendly reminder, though — extortion over five thousand dollars is a felony."

I turned to security.

"If this man shows up again, call the police."

Felix kept cursing as they dragged him out.

I thought that was the end of it.

I'd underestimated how low he could sink.

The next day, a post blew up on the Harvard subreddit and got cross-posted to every tech forum with a pulse.

"Behind the Tech-Prodigy Facade: How Iris Fairfax Stole Her Childhood Friend's Ideas and Threw Him Away."

In the post, Felix had cast himself as the quiet genius who'd done all the thinking behind the scenes.

He claimed the core logic of my product had been his.

He said I'd burned the bridge the second I crossed it. That I'd pretended not to know him the moment I had money.

He'd even attached photos of us studying together in high school — twisted into evidence of "strategic planning sessions."

Public opinion went up in flames.

People always love watching someone get built up just to tear them down.

My company inbox filled with hate mail.

A couple of investors I was in talks with quietly asked to reassess the risk profile.

"These people are insane."

My assistant was actually crying.

"They convicted her off a handful of blurry photos!"

I sat in my office chair, scrolling.

Strangely calm.

"Don't panic. Let it play out."

Caleb pushed the door open, two coffees in hand.

"Want me to get the story killed?"

He handed me a cup. Steady eyes.

"No."

I took a sip.

"Killing it would just make me look guilty."

"He wants to play. We'll play big."

The captions streamed across my vision.

[Why isn't she fighting back yet, I'm dying.]

[This is unbearable — how is this loser winning the PR war?]

[Relax. She's just loading up the big move.]

I looked at Felix's smug face on the screen.

"Caleb. Tomorrow night's industry gala. Get me on the list."

"I'm going to show him what real public humiliation looks like."