Why Was The Name Googol Chosen For Google?

Zoey Bennett only wanted revenge on her ex. After being humiliated and left at the altar, all she wanted was to walk into that ballroom as an irresistible woman, with the perfect date on her arm. But how on earth did her hired gigolo turn out to be a billionaire? Standing before her was Christian Kensington, the maddeningly arrogant and devastatingly gorgeous CEO of Kensington Winery, one of the richest men in the country. In that moment, Zoey felt the ground slip right out from under her feet. No problem? Oh, there was definitely a problem. The entire internet now believed they were a couple. And the biggest problem of all? So did Christian's grandfather. Now Christian would need to keep up the charade if he wanted to inherit the family business. Zoey just wanted to get out of this mess without being sued. But when the line between lies and reality started to blur, Zoey realized she might be stumbling into the most dangerous trap of all: falling in love again. "I've been left before, Christian. I won't make that mistake again." "Who said this time you'd be the only one to lose?" This is a romantic comedy full of twists, buried secrets, and a passion too irresistible to ignore. Will Zoey find the courage to open her heart again?

David Lidell vomited blood and passed out when he was enraged by his rival in love. When he woke up, he realized he had obtained a super lavish system, and it was asking him to spend a quadrillion dollars. After that, David embarked on the journey toward the pinnacle of his life. David, “I’m not going to pretend anymore. For your information, I am a quadrillionaire…”

In the time before time, they were the rulers: Crimson wolves, a lineage of unparalleled power and dominance over Lunaria. With their unparalleled strength, fiery eyes and blood-red fur, they were stuff of legends, the pinnacle of what is meant to be Alpha. But as centuries passed, the tides of power are ever-shifting, the balance of the lands fractured and so did the Game of Alphas begin.   Pyra Blackwood, a scorned omega was seduced, betrayed and cast out by the same Alpha who rejected her. Left for dead, her life takes a whole turn as she is thrust into a deadly game of power where loyalty is an illusion, and survival demands sacrifice. She uncovers a hidden power—one that could reshape the fractured balance of the land.  Pregnant with the offsprings of her betrayer, Pyra must protect her heir, forge unlikely alliances and rise as the first Queen of Alphas.  Will she master the very game created to destroy her? Or will she fall prey to the dark forces seeking to consume her?  In the Game of Alphas, the rules are simple: trust no one, show no weakness, and never forget—Power is everything.

As the year’s end approached, the city of Portlas’ high society joked that there was no need to worship Lady Fortuna. They only had to worship me instead. That was because, after our remarriage, I became the most materialistic husband in all of Portlas. I no longer cared how much Lana Gable doted on that man. Even when my daughter called him “Daddy,” I turned a blind eye. There was just one new rule in the house. Every time they mentioned Eliot Speke’s name, they had to give me one hundred thousand dollars. Thanks to that, I saved up thirty million dollars in less than two weeks. On our wedding anniversary, Lana and my daughter mentioned Eliot once again. The two of them looked stiff, while I simply held out my hand with practiced ease. “One hundred thousand dollars. Transfer it to my account.” My daughter finally could not hold back any longer and looked at me with utter contempt. “Daddy, you’re so vulgar. Is money the only thing on your mind? You’d even demand money for such a trivial matter. You can’t even compare to a speck of dust on Uncle Speke’s shoes.” I did not argue. I simply held out my hand to my daughter as well. “One hundred thousand dollars. Since you brought it up first, you have to pay too.”

Fed up with my neighbors constantly freeloading off my Wi-Fi, I decide to change the network name to "Invincible Wall-Piercing Baby Killer". The next day, the woman next door—pregnant with triplets—collapses outside my apartment, clutching her stomach. "Who told you to change your Wi-Fi name? Don't you know that by changing it, I'd miscarry my triplets?" The whole family has lost their minds, I tell myself. After all, how can changing the name of a Wi-Fi network possibly affect an unborn baby, let alone three of them? A week later, her burly husband shows up at the entrance of our apartment complex, eyes bloodshot. He holds three ultrasound scans in one hand and a surgical report for a miscarriage in the other. "Murderer!" he shouts at me. "Your damn Wi-Fi signal went through the walls and killed my three unborn babies!" They start livestreaming on TikTok. They weld my front door shut, then, in front of more than a million viewers, hold up an "expert report" claiming that electromagnetic radiation has caused the miscarriage. "Enjoy spending the rest of your life behind bars, murderer!" My girlfriend of five years is doxxed. She can't take the harassment anymore and jumps off a building. Although she ultimately survives, she's left in a permanent vegetative state. I become the target of a nationwide hate campaign. Not only do I lose my job, but I also have to sell my home. I'm saddled with crushing compensation that I'll be paying off for the rest of my life. To atone for my so-called crime, I work construction day and night just to support my neighbors' family. In the end, I lose my footing on the scaffolding and fall to my death. Even as I die, I still can't understand how changing the name of a Wi-Fi network can make someone miscarry. When I open my eyes again, I return to the very day it all begins.

The year I turned fourteen, Grandma and I were crammed into a beat-up trailer on the edge of a desert town. She couldn't afford paint, so she mixed colors from the cheapest red clay pigment at the general store. When a frame broke, she hammered it back together herself. When canvas tore, she patched the back with old cloth and sealed it with a paste she boiled from leftover church wax and cheap resin. Grandma never went to school. She painted out of pure love, and she kept at it for thirty years. Then one summer, a gallery owner named Evelyn Hart crawled into Grandma's leaky shed and examined every painting, flipping each one over to study both sides. The next day, every last painting was gone. Finished oils, sketches, pigment records, old photographs, frames. Everything cleared out overnight. Three months later, Grandma walked into Evelyn's gallery and saw her own painting, Madonna of the Red Rock, hanging in the brightest spot. But the brass nameplate beside it bore Evelyn's name. She lunged for the painting. The security guards pried her fingers loose and dragged her out the door. That night, a blizzard sealed off the roads. She pounded on the glass, but no one came. The next morning, when I found her outside the gallery, her body was already frozen solid. After the funeral, I went to clean out what was left of the burned shed. Inside the lining of an old brush pouch, I found a small scrap of painted canvas. It was a piece Grandma had trimmed off while repairing Madonna of the Red Rock. The thief had missed it. I tucked it away and kept it. For twenty years. Twenty years later, I was the compliance director at an international art marketplace. A young woman submitted an auction application for a series of paintings. The Desert Madonna Series was about to be sold to collectors and private museums around the world. The collection was valued at more than $150 million. I opened the file. In the artist field, I stared at the name for a long time. "Application denied."