Chapter 1Ruling 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 shareholder summit will hand the entire company to my father and me. The moment I hold the gavel, you’re out on the street. I killed myself at Harvard for twenty years—I’m not spending the rest of my life working for a brain-dead toddler!"

I rubbed the faint red spot on my forehead, watching her puffed-up arrogance with quiet amusement.

In our family, genius was written into the marrow. When you're born understanding the architecture of the entire game, why break a sweat running on the hamster wheel?

The following morning, Savannah stood at the podium, ready to seize the empire.

I dragged my feet up to the head of the boardroom table, hauled myself onto the massive leather chair, slammed the trust indenture down, and raised one chubby little hand.

"Veto."

* * *

"Strip this master suite down to the bare studs. I want the wallpaper scraped off and replaced with forest-green velvet."

Savannah’s heels clicked against the hardwood as she crossed the threshold. Behind her trailed four burly security guards in dark suits, alongside Aunt Cynthia, who clutched a crocodile Birkin with a triumphant sneer plastered across her face.

Grandfather’s jet had taken off from JFK for Zurich barely thirty minutes ago.

They hadn't even bothered waiting for the contrails to fade.

I sat in the center of the plush white cashmere rug, clutching my warm bottle, taking a slow sip of strawberry milk. On Savannah’s command, the guards went to work without hesitation, wrenching apart my custom canopy bed. Limited-edition prints were ripped off the walls and tossed carelessly onto the floor, the frames cracking with dull, sickening thuds.

Martha, who had looked after me since infancy, rushed forward, her face pale with terror.

"Miss Savannah, what are you doing?" she cried, throwing her arms out. "Mr. Sutton barely left! This is little Molly’s room—you can't touch her things!"

Aunt Cynthia sneered and stepped forward, delivering a sharp, stinging slap across Martha’s cheek.

"Blind old fool," Cynthia spat. "Can't you tell who runs this house now?"

The force of the blow knocked Martha to the floor, a smear of crimson blooming at the corner of her lip.

Savannah stepped over the debris, stopping right in front of me. She looked down through heavily mascaraed lashes, her blood-red nails pointing at my scattered toys.

"Molly, your senile protector is gone," she whispered, her voice dripping with poison. "Did you really think a four-year-old simpleton belonged in the grandest suite in this penthouse?"

I blinked slowly, not uttering a word. The plastic straw made a faint, sputtering rattle as I drew up the last drop of milk from the bottom.

My silence only infuriated her. Savannah’s envy curled into raw, violent malice. She snatched the empty bottle from my hands and hurled it against the far wall. The glass shattered, splattering white droplets and sharp shards across the baseboard.

"Did you hear me speaking to you?" she hissed, leaning down until her perfume choked my nose. "While I was pulling all-nighters at Harvard grinding out economic models, you were drooling on a silk pillow. While I was drinking myself into a bleeding ulcer trying to close commercial mergers, Grandfather was hand-feeding you puree because you were too picky! Why? Just because your father was born first?"

Her chest heaved, as if twenty years of simmering resentment were finally boiling over onto a child.

"My father and I bled for Sutton Enterprises. Parasites like you just leech off the family name."

Aunt Cynthia wrinkled her nose, pressing a lace handkerchief to her nostrils. "The room smells like sour formula. Get this little thing up to the attic crawlspace. Savannah needs a proper executive suite to prepare for her appointment as Executive Vice President tomorrow."

Two guards stepped in, gripping my arms with bruising force.

I didn't thrash or scream. I let them hoist me off the cashmere rug like a sack of groceries.

Martha wept, crawling on her knees to reach me, only to be shoved aside by a guard's heavy boot. "You will answer for this!" she sobbed. "When the old master finds out, he'll ruin you!"

Savannah scoffed, stooping to grip Martha’s chin in a vise. "You think that old fossil is surviving Zurich? His heart is failing. He won't make it to next month. Tomorrow, after the board votes, the entire company will undergo an asset restructuring."

She straightened up, smoothing the lapels of her bespoke blazer.

"The main branch is finished. I am the sole heir of Sutton Enterprises. As for this little burden..." Savannah cast a glance at me, her eyes as cold as glass. "Since she still carries the Sutton name, we'll throw her two hundred dollars a month. Enough to keep her from starving."

The guards dragged me up the narrow stairs to the attic. It was a dusty, forgotten corner of the estate—damp, shadowy, with only a small, iron-barred transom window near the ceiling. No bed, no toys; just a rusted military cot covered in a faded sheet.

They tossed me onto the musty canvas and locked the heavy door from the outside.

I sat there, rubbing my bruised elbows, while the muffled voices of Uncle Richard and Savannah drifted up from the landing below.

"Are the proxy votes secured?" Richard’s voice was wound tight with nervous tension.

"Relax, Dad. We offered them double the yield. No Wall Street vulture turns down that kind of money. Once we strip her name from the trust tomorrow, the empire is ours."