Ruling Wall Street In Pink Pajamas

In the Sutton dynasty, brilliance was treated as a hereditary condition. Every generation churned out ruthless private-equity sharks, political power brokers, and polished Ivy League wunderkinds.

Except for me. At four and a half years old, I was an unapologetic, world-class slacker.

While other kids in Manhattan were being drilled in Suzuki violin, Mandarin immersion, and competitive preschool admissions, I preferred staying wrapped in my cashmere blanket, clutching a warm bottle of strawberry milk, and sleeping until the midday sun hit the floorboards.

Outsiders sneered that the primary bloodline had produced an absolute dud—a deadweight toddler who did nothing but drool, nap, and waste good oxygen. But Grandfather Charles, the undisputed patriarch of our empire, worshiped the very ground I padded across.

"Let my little girl be happy," he would rumble, his calloused hand resting gently on my curls. "The world has enough miserable overachievers."

To ensure I could spend my life resting on my laurels without anyone disturbing my peace, he quietly placed the conglomerate’s fifty-one-percent controlling interest under my name. Every critical decision concerning Sutton Enterprises was subject to my single, unassailable veto.

Then there was my cousin Savannah, Uncle Richard’s daughter. She spent her days curating an "It-Girl Heiress" persona on TikTok, constantly cornering me for staged photo-ops where she hugged me for the algorithm, playing the doting older sister.

The second Grandfather boarded his private jet for Zurich to undergo cardiac therapy, her mask shattered into dust.

She trapped me in the hallway corner, snatched my limited-edition vinyl figurine, and crushed it under her four-inch stiletto.

"Still playing the pampered golden child?" Her crimson-lacquered nail jabbed hard into my forehead. "You're a useless freeloader who can barely hold a sippy cup. You think you deserve the primary seat?"

Her eyes flared with unadulterated venom. "Tomorrow’s shareholde