Denied

The first time I ruined a man’s life, I felt nothing.

I remember watching him stumble out of his office, shoulders hunched under the weight of what I’d done. His wife would leave before the month was over. His children—three of them, all in private school—would have to transfer somewhere less dignified. Their waterfront estate would hit the market at a desperate price.

He tried to fight it, of course. They always do. He called. He begged. He threatened. But in the end, all that was left was silence and an automated message.

The second time, I got a taste for it.

A pharmaceutical executive, the kind who smiled for investors while approving price hikes on lifesaving drugs. I watched as he unraveled in real time—news outlets reporting on his sudden bankruptcy, stock plummeting, his seat on the board revoked. He was last seen in a suit that no longer fit him, wandering into a courthouse with no lawyers left to call.

Then there was the real estate mogul. The one who gentrified entire neighborhoods for sport. I saw the exact moment he realized I was behind it. How I’d orchestrated his collapse so perfectly that even his golden parachute had holes.

Three men. Three families. Three legacies, stamped out with the flick of a pen.

I lean back in my chair, tapping my Montblanc pen against the last file of the day.

Client Name: Vincent Carver
Occupation: Hedge Fund Manager
Request: Private Client Risk Protection Expansion

Ah, Vincent. You smug, tax-dodging son of a bitch.

Vincent isn’t unique. He’s just another parasite, another wealthy man with just enough power to think the rules don’t apply. He’s securing protections against fraud investigations, corporate liability, and sudden “financial instability.” Basically, he’s trying to bulletproof himself before his empire inevitably caves in.

Smart move. But not smart enough.

Because Vincent doesn’t know me.

Vincent doesn’t know me, Salvatore Serra.

He doesn’t know that while he’s been playing games with numbers, I’ve been playing a longer, sharper game. That every high-net-worth policy request that crosses my desk isn’t just paperwork—it’s judgment. And today, I am both god and executioner.

I flip open the file, scanning the details one last time.

Offshore accounts. Undeclared income. Pending lawsuits. A quiet but very real SEC investigation.

It’s all so... tedious.

I take a sip of my espresso, considering his fate. The crema lingers on my tongue, rich and bitter.

Then, with a single flick of my wrist, I bring the stamp down onto the paper.

DECLINED.

Vincent Carver’s life ends here.

Not with an explosion. Not with a scandal. Just a slow, quiet death—the kind only men like me can orchestrate. The moment he realizes he’s ruined, he’ll go through all the stages. Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Despair.

Acceptance won’t come until his lawyers tell him his assets aren’t protected anymore. That the government is watching. That his personal safety net no longer exists.

The call will come tomorrow morning. The banker’s voice will be cold, formal. Mr. Carver, I regret to inform you...

And then? The scramble begins. The desperate attempt to move funds that can no longer be moved. The frantic calls to lawyers, PR teams, former allies. He will beg. He will threaten. He will demand.

None of it will matter.

The board will hold an emergency meeting, whispering about “instability.” His name will disappear from the firm’s website by the end of the week. The news will leak. The lawsuits will come.

And when the dust settles, when the headlines turn to someone else, Vincent will find himself alone.

A relic of a world that doesn’t need him anymore.

I let out a small breath of satisfaction and close the file.

The city hums below, full of people scrambling, hoping, fighting for their own survival.

I smile.

They never see it coming.

They never stop to think about who is holding the pen, who is deciding what’s denied and what’s granted.

Names don’t mean much in this business. But if Vincent ever stops screaming long enough to read the letterhead on his rejection, he’ll see mine.

Salvatore Serra.

And then he’ll understand.

Another good day.

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Mother Combs is calling for mysteries told in exactly 650 words—no more, no less. The challenge? Craft a story that hooks the reader, builds suspense, and delivers a twist that lingers. Whether it’s a classic whodunit or something entirely unexpected, every word must count.