Just escaped an exceptionally tedious family trust dinner. The room was filled with men and women wearing masks of hypocrisy, discussing respectable investments. It reminded me that the most authentic investments often happen in the bedroom—meticulously managing a person's shame, desires, and even their most primal physical responses as appreciating assets. Just now, I had a man on his knees at my feet, using his tongue to clean the champagne stain from my high heel, while forbidding any reaction from his penis. He failed, pitifully hardening and ejaculating into his suit trousers under my cold gaze. That shattered, trembling mix of utter humiliation and ecstasy satisfied me more than any trust fund's rate of return. True wealth is the power to make another person's soul and body crumble simultaneously. And you all are still chasing numbers on paper. Pathetic.