TBG - Chapter 2: The Billionaire

Theodore Thatcher was the definition of a self-made billionaire, already at the top of the renowned list of billionaires worldwide. At 29, he was the youngest to ever achieve such a status. His empire stretched across industries, from technology to real estate, with his name on the lips of the most powerful figures in business. Every move he made was calculated, every decision deliberate. Theodore had amassed more wealth than many could ever dream of. The inheritance from his father—though substantial—was a mere fraction of what Theodore had built through his own intelligence and relentless work ethic.

His office on the top floor of one of New York’s tallest buildings was a testament to his success. Sleek, modern, and designed with purpose, it reflected the man who worked within. Theodore scanned through financial reports with a laser focus. His assistant, Marcus, entered with a stack of files, breaking his concentration.

“Mr. Thatcher,” Marcus began, “the board has approved the proposal. They’re waiting for your signature.”

Theodore barely looked up. “Is that all?” His voice was cool and controlled.

Marcus hesitated, sensing a shift in the air. “I need to remind you of something, sir. Your father’s will...”

Theodore’s expression hardened at the mention of his father. His gaze never wavered from the reports. He didn’t respond immediately, simply allowing the silence to stretch between them.

Marcus continued, unaware of the growing tension. “Your father’s will states that if you don’t marry by the time you’re 30, your inheritance will go to your cousin, Drake.”

At the mention of his cousin’s name, Theodore’s grip on the file tightened, his knuckles turning white. 

Marcus pushed on, unfazed by Theodore’s apparent disinterest. “You’re six months away from turning 30, sir. You need to find a wife to meet the terms.”

Theodore's gaze still didn’t leave the papers in front of him. The words seemed to hang in the air for a long moment before he answered. “I’ll marry on my terms.” His voice was like ice. “No one else is getting what’s mine.”

Marcus nodded, the unease palpable in his voice as he added, “Understood, sir. I’ll make the arrangements.”

Theodore’s gaze returned to the reports on his desk, dismissing Marcus without a second thought. He didn’t need to say more. It was clear now: he would find a way to secure his inheritance, and no one—not even his father’s will—would stand in his way. Drake would never get what was rightfully his.

As Marcus left the room, Theodore’s mind raced. He didn’t need a wife. He needed someone who would serve a purpose—someone who would help him protect everything he had worked for. And no matter who it was, the outcome would be the same.

Drake would never win.

---

Theodore sat at the head of the conference table, drumming his fingers impatiently. Marcus entered with a new batch of candidate files, but Theodore’s disinterest was palpable.

“Here we go again,” he muttered.

Marcus laid the stack in front of him. "The final batch, Mr. Thatcher."

Theodore flipped through the files quickly, barely glancing at each photo. Beautiful, wealthy, polished women—each eager to marry him for the power it promised. But none of them sparked his interest. He tossed file after file aside, frustration growing.

“Next,” Theodore said with a hint of annoyance.

Each woman was more of the same: family connections, admiration for him, a desire to secure their place in his world. But to Theodore, marriage wasn’t about transactions—it was about something deeper, and none of these women had it.

“None of them fit,” he muttered, tossing the last file aside. “They’re all the same. Wealthy, ambitious, willing to marry me if it means power.”

Marcus hesitated, sensing Theodore’s growing frustration. "Perhaps there’s someone else you have in mind, sir?"

Theodore’s eyes narrowed, a memory flashing in his mind—an image of a woman’s face. He couldn’t remember her name, but her face lingered. Strong, innocent, unforgettable.

“I need you to find the best sketch artist in the country,” Theodore ordered, voice firm. “Someone who can capture every detail of a face from memory. The best.”

Marcus nodded, sensing the seriousness of the request. As Theodore leaned back, the image of the woman’s face stayed with him, haunting him more than he cared to admit. He didn’t know why she lingered, but he was determined to find her. 

---

Theodore sat at the head of the long mahogany table, his piercing gaze scanning the room filled with eager business partners. One of the senior partners cleared his throat and began, “Mr. Thatcher, we believe expanding into the Southeast Asian market is essential. The projections show a 35% increase in ROI within the next fiscal year.”

Another partner added, “Our competitors have yet to establish a foothold. With our resources, we can dominate before anyone else.”

Theodore's fingers tapped against the table. “And your data supporting this claim?”

The first partner faltered, glancing at his notes. “It’s... speculative, sir, but the trend—”

“Speculative?” Theodore interrupted, his tone calm yet cold. “Do I look like someone who builds empires on speculation?”

The partner swallowed, nervous. “Well, no, sir. But—”

“The proposal lacks depth,” Theodore said, his voice icier now. “Investing millions based on assumptions and half-baked projections is not innovation. If this is your idea, you're in the wrong room.”

Silence fell. Without another word, Theodore stood, buttoning his suit jacket. “Meeting adjourned,” he said, his voice final. He turned and walked out, leaving stunned executives behind.

In his office, Theodore stared at the sketch before him—the face of the woman who had haunted his mind for a week. Her innocent gaze stood out against the cold background of his thoughts.

Marcus entered, followed by the private investigator. The investigator handed Theodore a folder. “Mr. Thatcher, we’ve identified her. Her name is Nadianna Vaccaro.”

Theodore’s cold gaze lifted from the sketch. “Go on.”

“She’s 25, working three jobs—waitress, delivery courier, and cleaner. She dropped out of college after her mother passed away from cancer eight years ago. Her father abandoned them ten years ago, leaving her to care for her younger brother, Christopher Vaccaro.”

Theodore’s fingers tapped on the armrest. “And her brother?”

“Christopher has brain cancer, sir. He’s been confined multiple times at St. Augustus Hospital for treatment.”

Theodore’s expression remained unchanged. “And her connection to the club that night?”

"It was her first time there, desperate for money to pay for her brother's treatment. She regrets it and hasn't returned, according to those I spoke with at the club."

Theodore’s gaze narrowed as he absorbed the information. “Where does she live?”

“A small apartment on the outskirts of the city. Barely makes ends meet, refuses help from anyone. Her life revolves around her brother.”

The silence in the room deepened. “And her brother’s medical needs?”

“He’s in critical condition, Mr. Thatcher. The hospital recommended chemotherapy, but the family has accumulated 100,000 USD in debt, and treatment has been withheld until payment is made,” the investigator reported.

Theodore’s jaw tightened. “And Nadianna?”

“She’s been working tirelessly to cover the bills but has been unable to make any significant payments.”

Theodore steepled his fingers, his thoughts focused. “I want a detailed report on his medical needs and costs. Ensure his treatment resumes immediately, and I won’t have my hospital denying care over bureaucracy.”

Marcus hesitated. “Shall I notify the billing department?”

“Do as I say,” Theodore snapped.

Before Marcus left, Theodore stopped him. “Make sure her brother is treated by the best oncologist available. And keep this discreet.”

As Marcus and the private investigator left, Theodore sat back, his expression unreadable. Nadianna’s strength and unwavering determination had captured his attention, but it wasn’t pity—it was something else, something deeper that he wasn’t ready to acknowledge.