by Beck Rowland
“I lost most of it. A few bad investments, way too many irresponsible purchases, the usual sort of trouble a stupid young man finds when he comes into money. People who go from having nothing to having too much often wind up making the worst financial choices. It happens to lottery winners. It happens to sport athletes. It could happen to you.”
“So what did you do? How’d you go from losing one million to making ten?” Zenaida asked.
“I found the right person to ensure my spending and investment patterns were aligned with my long-term personal goals,” Hunter replied. “She’s a Wealth Manager, based in Zurich. One of the best. I’d like to introduce you to her.”
“Oh sure, that sounds nice. Should I give you my email address or something? Maybe she can call me on Skype or...”
“I mean in person. Do you have a passport?” Hunter asked.
Zenaida nodded. She had taken to carrying it in her purse after an unpleasant encounter with a cop who questioned her citizenship status.
“Excellent. We’ll head back upstairs and catch the ‘copter to the airport, then take a jet to Zurich. I’ll phone ahead and tell Angelique to expect us,” Hunter said. He stood, brushed some crumbs from his lap, and put his suit jacket back on.
“Wait. You want to fly to Switzerland... today? What time is the flight?” Zenaida asked. Everything had happened very fast already. The idea of flying to the other side of the planet on a whim seemed crazy.
“Zenaida, being worth fifty-five million dollars means you have a lot to learn, and a lot to unlearn,” Hunter smiled. “First lesson: you no longer have to wait for anything you don’t want to wait for. The plane is a chartered private plane. It leaves whenever we show up and tell the pilot we’re ready to leave.”
Hunter was already heading out of the restaurant and making his way back to the office. Zenaida followed close behind, shaking her head in disbelief.
“You booked your own personal airplane?” she asked, stunned. Her image of wealthy people had only extended to sitting in First Class, sipping champagne on a spacious recliner while the everyday schlubs were herded back to Economy. It had scarcely occurred to her that the rich would simply book their own exclusive flights.
Hunter looked back over his shoulder and chuckled. “Sure. Don’t be too impressed, Zenaida. You can afford a much nicer one.”
The helicopter made the trip to the airport in under an hour, then descended onto the tarmac next to Hunter’s plane. They boarded the small, sleek jet, and before Zenaida really had time to process anything, they were on their way to Zurich.
Zenaida had flown once before, halfway across the country for an uncle’s funeral. She hadn’t cared much for the experience. The long drive to the airport, then the chaotic shuffling through multiple layers of security theater, full body-pat downs and baggage scans had exhausted her before she even boarded the plane. She had ended up in a middle seat between her father, snoring with an inflatable pillow wrapped around his neck, and her mother, who kept making them get up so she could pee. By the time Zenaida had landed, she was tired, cramped, and had a dull, aching headache behind her eyes. She remembered wondering why traveling appealed to so many people.
Hunter’s private jet was an entirely different experience. While Hunter worked at a small desk in the rear of the plane, Zenaida had the choice of a long, leather couch or a recliner. She chose the couch. When they reached cruising altitude, the copilot walked back to offer her a blanket, a bottle of water, and some fresh fruit.
Zenaida stretched across the couch and gazed out the window. Massive clouds drifted by below. She smiled softly, still dazed by the suddenness of her change in fortunes.
Just this morning she had been walking to the bus stop in the rain. Now, she was flying above it all into the clear afternoon sun.
When they reached Angelique’s office, Hunter reached for the door. Zenaida stopped him with a gentle hand on the shoulder.
“I think I should do this alone,” Zenaida said softly. Hunter grunted in surprise, and Zenaida shook her head. “It’s not that I don’t trust you-- I absolutely do-- but this is the first chapter of my new life. Planning it out alone is important to me.”
“I understand,” Hunter sighed, still looking mildly dejected. “In that case, I guess this is where we part ways. It’s been a pleasure, Zenaida. Have Angelique give me a ring when you’re done in Zurich. I’ll have the pilot take you home.”
Zenaida shook his hand, then reconsidered and gave him a hug.
“Thank you for everything,” she said. “We’ll keep in touch.” And then Hunter was gone, and Zenaida was alone in the hall.
She opened the office door to see Angelique, sitting behind a large glass desk. Angelique’s office displayed several photographs of her smiling alongside well-known executives, celebrities, and politicians. The woman herself exuded a sense of effortless sophistication that Zenaida found instantly intimidating. She was only a few years older than Zenaida, dressed in a stylish black pantsuit, curly blonde hair framing a sharp, angular face. Zenaida was suddenly, acutely aware that she was still wearing the same rumpled outfit she’d put on for work. It already felt like a lifetime ago.
“Zenaida! Hunter told me to expect you. Is it your first time in Switzerland? How was the flight?” Angelique asked in lightly accented English. Zenaida noticed her teeth were perfect. If Wealth Management ever stopped paying well, the woman could probably model for toothpaste commercials.
“It’s my first time overseas, in fact,” Zenaida confirmed. “The flight was very comfortable, but I think my body is still trying to figure out what time it’s supposed to be.”
Angelique laughed, a musical, lilting sound. She gestured at a leather chair in front of her desk.
“Please, take a seat and allow me to properly introduce myself. I am Angelique Delacroix, professional Wealth Manager. Harvard Business, then London School of Economics. A few years at McKinsey before I traded my CPA for a TEP and, well... here I am,” she said.
“I’m Zenaida. Local Community College, a Minor in Wikipedia Studies. Spent a lifetime hovering around the poverty line, and now I’m rich,” Zenaida explained.
“From rags to riches! It’s the American Dream come true,” Angelique beamed.
“More like an utterly improbable, one-in-a-million fluke of luck. Hunter pointed out that I’m basically in the same boat as a Mega Millions lottery jackpot winner. He says you can help me manage my wealth so I don’t end up broke like those guys usually do,” Zenaida said.
“A wise choice, and might I add, financial management is the least of what I do. Would you like a Mars bar?” Angelique asked. She gestured to a dish on her desk, which contained a handful of bite-sized mini chocolate bars. Zenaida shook her head. “Tell me, what do you know about the family that those chocolates are named after?”
“I figured Mars bars were named after the planet,” Zenaida said, brow furrowed in confusion.
“And that is precisely the value I can offer. The Mars family owns 27% of the American confectionery market, yet most people are barely aware they exist. Wealth provides freedom, mobility and privacy, and it’s privacy that may be the most important. Neglecting privacy for the wealthy means finding themselves the target of frivolous lawsuits, often by their own trusted family and friends.”
“I don’t think that will happen to me--” Zenaida began.
“Nobody ever does, until you end up on Rich Kids of Instagram and the next thing you know, you’re being sued for emotional damages by the boyfriend you broke up with in ninth grade,” Angelique said.
“Right now I just want to get away from my current bank. They don’t deserve another second of my business,” Zenaida said.
“We can get started right now, if you’re ready. Please look over these forms. It’s a standard Fund Management Agreement, a Source of Wealth Declaration, the usual. We’ll move you out of Silverwater Finance and instead structure a series of high-yield investment vehi
cles, offshore asset-protection trusts, and private holding accounts. It’s all designed to maximize your returns, while minimizing taxation and liability.”
Zenaida looked over the forms. Her trust for Hunter extended to Angelique, and she was confident everything would be legally sound. But there was safe, and then there was smart. Zenaida wanted to be smart. She made a show of frowning over the forms, as if puzzled.
“Excuse me, but I see something about rates here. It says you take a percentage of my investment earnings as compensation?” Zenaida asked.
“Correct. This way, I am incentivized to make the best possible decisions on your behalf. The more you make, the more I make,” Angelique smiled.
“Right. It’s just that the rate here is way higher than what Hunter said you charge him. You’re not trying to rip me off, are you?” Zenaida asked. She let a faint accusatory tone enter her voice.
The smile dropped from Angelique’s face and she stammered, momentarily at a loss.
“That’s-- but-- I’ve known Hunter for years. He gets 0.7% because of our shared history and--” Angelique began. Then she paused and cocked her head. “Wait a second. You never discussed my rates with Hunter, did you?”
“I did not,” Zenaida smiled. “But he did tell me about Switzerland’s Wealth Management industry on the flight over. He mentioned there are hundreds of Wealth Managers in Zurich alone. I could walk outside, throw a stone and hit a dozen just like you.”
“Hey, hold on just a moment! Perhaps we can--”
“Relax. I don’t want to do that: I like you. You seem nice. So give me the same 0.7% rate as Hunter-- which still makes you good money-- and we can get down to the fun stuff,” Zenaida said with a soft, conciliatory smile.
Angelique ran a hand through her blonde curls, chuckling in disbelief. She had perfected her sales pitch with powerful business leaders, titans of industry, even a few members of European royal families. She had never been called out and forced to renegotiate rates before.
“It’s a deal,” Angelique said, leaning across the desk to shake Zenaida’s hand. “You’re wrong about one thing though.”
“What’s that?” Zenaida asked.
“You becoming wealthy was no fluke,” she laughed. “Come on, you can fill out those forms later. Let’s get straight to the fun stuff.”
Angelique pulled out a yellow legal pad and a silver pen, then cocked her head and gave Zenaida a once over.
“First, I’ll need your body measurements from head to toe. Shoe size, wrist size, cup size, everything. Your favorite colors, designs, brands. I’ll put you in touch a personal shopper. You just set a monthly budget cap and he’ll keep your closet stocked with the latest fashion. All custom-tailored, of course.”
“I can do my own shopping,” Zenaida laughed, waving away the suggestion. “Rich or not, a pair of jeans and a t-shirt work just fine.”
“Alright then, let’s talk real estate. For both investment purposes, and also the convenience of having a pied-à-terre in several major world cities. There are some newly available luxury condominiums in Manhattan, Paris, and Tokyo. Oh, and a gorgeous new unit just opened in Taipei--”
“I am in the market for a new apartment,” Zenaida said. “But I’d like to stay close to home for now.”
“Fair enough. I’ll look up the nicest available properties in your city and make a short-list for your approval later,” Angelique said, jotting down a note on a legal pad. “Next, let’s discuss investments. Most of your wealth will be invested conventionally: equities, index funds, that sort of thing. Do you have any interest in more... exotic investment assets?”
“Like what? I’m not buying a yacht or a Monet, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” Zenaida laughed.
“Well, one recent trend is ERMAs. That is, Extremely Rare Metal Alloys. Think gold, only a thousand times rarer and several thousand times more valuable. Solid history of returns, non-existent management fees. Some people even have their investments customized, pouring the metal into statues and the like,” Angelique explained.
“That actually sounds interesting,” Zenaida admitted. “Let’s come back to that later.”
“Absolutely,” Angelique said. “I have one final, very important question. I’m setting aside five million for your first year’s necessities— the apartment, a new wardrobe, perhaps a gift for your loved ones— and we’ll keep the remaining fifty million invested. That should generate roughly three million dollars per year in interest. Most gets reinvested to fuel continued growth, but how much would you like to keep liquid for everyday spending? You can set your annual salary at pretty much whatever you’d like.”
“A full-time position with my old company pays just under thirty thousand per year,” Zenaida said. She thought for a moment, then smiled. “Let’s just add a zero to the end and call it a day. My new annual income will be three hundred thousand per year.”
“Very well, Miss Ruiz,” Angelique nodded, scribbling instructions on her legal pad.
Zenaida woke to strangeness. The surface she had slept on was too soft, and the light was all wrong. Even more concerning, she felt unusually well rested and refreshed. Zenaida realized she must have overslept and bolted upright in a panic. Was she late for work?
Then she took in her surroundings,and a wave of giddy relief washed over her. She was in the Baur au Lac hotel deluxe suite, the most luxurious accommodations Zurich had to offer. Angelique had booked the room for her after yesterday’s meeting. The room was enormous and elegant, richly decorated and chock full of amenities. She stretched across the enormous bed, enjoying the silky smoothness of the sheets across her skin. It beat Lara’s couch, that was for sure.
Zenaida started to climb out of bed, planning to brush her teeth, shower, and get ready for the day. Then she paused. Why get up? She was worth fifty-five million dollars and had nowhere in particular to be. She reversed course and instead crawled back beneath the blankets. Then she picked up the room service menu and called for breakfast in bed.
It wasn’t long before there was a quick rap at the door. Breakfast was rolled into her room on a cart, each dish covered with a silver serving dome. Zenaida had ordered a full spread: buttery pancakes, crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, diced melon and fresh fruit. As she flipped through European television, Zenaida belatedly realized it was actually late afternoon. So this was what jet lag felt like, she realized.
After her late breakfast, Zenaida took a leisurely shower. It was only after she finished that she realized she had nothing to wear. She had flown halfway across the world with only the clothes on her back, and she certainly wasn’t putting those back on. She looked around the suite, flustered. She finally decided to try calling the concierge.
“Um, hello?” Zenaida said. “I know this sounds crazy, but I flew here without a change of clothes and... now I have nothing to wear.”
“Not a problem, ma’am,” the concierge said, perfectly unperturbed. “There are several clothing boutiques in walking distance to the hotel.”
“Right. It’s just that I just got out of the shower, and I can’t walk down the street in a bathrobe,” Zenaida said.
“Understood ma’am,” the concierge said in a warm, congenial tone. “One of our staff would be happy to pick up clothing on your behalf. I’ll send one of our female staff upstairs to gather your measurements, then she’ll run across the street to purchase the garments. You should have them at your room within the hour. Will that be alright?”
“Oh! Um... yes, yes that would be great,” Zenaida stammered. She hung up with a faint, dazed smile. That had been easier than she thought.
By the time Zenaida left the hotel, it was nearly evening. She wore a simple white shirt and black jeans that a tailor had quickly customized to her measurements. In her old life, Zenaida’s clothes had never quite fit right. The sleeves would be too short or the waist too loose. It was the subtle, pervasive discomfort that came from wearing mass-produced items designed to
fit an idealized body type that nobody actually matched. This new outfit was different; it was a perfect fit, both flattering and comfortable. Zenaida felt more confident immediately. The concierge had arranged for a driver to take Zenaida to the airport, and she spotted him parked across from the hotel, holding a small placard with her name on it.
When she reached the Zurich airport, Zenaida stopped inside a shop to buy a new phone. She handed over her old one, happily bidding silent farewell to its shattered screen. She replaced it with the newest and most expensive model, maxing out all the specs. Zenaida remembered her scornful laugh when Apple had announced its absurd price a few months back. Now she suppressed a wave of guilt as she went through the checkout; it didn’t feel right to spend so much, so casually.
Zenaida’s new bank card granted her access to the Zurich airport VIP lounge. She took a seat inside the lounge to set up her new phone, settling on a recliner as she downloaded her favorite apps. Zenaida decided to skip her normal alarm clock app— that one was no longer necessary— and on Angelique’s recommendation, download Uber X for getting around.
Zenaida really wanted to register for a music streaming service, since she had never been able to afford any before. Something stopped her, though. Zenaida realized that she was still worried about overspending. It was a ridiculous concern, but between the new phone and the hotel bill, she had already exhausted her atrophied spending muscles. She frowned to herself as she swiped at her phone.
“Is everything alright, young lady?” Zenaida glanced up to see an elderly woman and her husband peering at her from the next chair over. They were dressed in an understated, effortless style that Zenaida was coming to understand was more expensive than it appeared.
“Sure, sure,” Zenaida said. “Just having a debate with myself. A purchasing decision.”
“If you’re trying to convince yourself to buy something frivolous, my wife has years of professional experience in that regard,” the old man said. His wife shot him a look of mock outrage and elbowed him in the ribs.
