Bitcoin Billionaire: I Regressed to Invest in the First Bitcoin!

Just as he was about to leave, the door opened once again and Rachel Teschmacher slipped through it, her heels whispering against the polished hardwood.

She carried her usual pack of files, her dark hair was swept into a neat side wave, sheathing one eye, though the other showed the emotions stirring inside her.

Her steps as well were tentative, as if she were crossing a tightrope. Beneath her composed exterior, anxiety coiled like a spring, tightening with every moment she got closer.

Darren was by his desk, a solitary figure haloed by the city's glow. His charcoal suit was impeccable, but his posture— arms crossed, shoulders rigid— spoke of a man barricaded within himself.

"I just saw Miss Sinclair leave" Rachel said softly, her voice barely disturbing the stillness. "Is everything alright?"

Darren didn't move. The silence stretched, heavy and deliberate, until it seemed the room itself was holding its breath.

"There's nothing to worry about," he said at last, his voice low, clipped, like a door closing. "You really do have a problem with the door as of late. There has to be a knock before you use the knob, don't you remember?"

Rachel gulped. "Yes. I forgot again. I'm sorry."

Darren didn't say anything .

Rachel glanced around, searching for Harper, when she didn't see her anywhere, she stepped closer, stopping just short of his desk, close enough to feel the weight of his isolation. Her fingers twitched, wanting to reach out, but she clasped them together instead.

"Not just with her and the company. I mean with you, Darren," she said, her voice aching.

Darren side eyed her. "There's nothing wrong with me, Rach. I'm completely fine."

"So why do you feel so different? Distant."

Darren's jaw tightened, a subtle shift in the line of his profile. He didn't turn.

"You're shutting everyone out," she pressed. "Even me. And you have been for months now, like you're carrying something too heavy to share. You used to trust me with more than schedules and reports."

He turned then, his steel-blue eyes meeting hers. For a moment, something flickered there— regret, perhaps, or a memory of late nights spent strategizing over coffee, that night in the hotel, that night in his home.

But the flicker vanished, replaced by a guarded coolness.

"It's not what you think," he said, the words flat and final. "I've just been busy.

"Darren, you used to tell me when you were busy." Rachel's chest tightened. "You'd sit me down, explain the next move, ask what I thought. Now it's just… orders. Cold looks. Silence."

Her voice broke slightly on the last word, and she swallowed hard, steadying herself. "I miss you, Darren. The real you. The one who saw me as more than just your secretary. The one who saved me."

His gaze softened, just for a second, and she thought she saw the man she remembered—. the one who'd stayed late to debate market trends, who'd once called her his sharpest ally. But then his expression hardened, and he looked away, back to the city that seemed to hold all his answers.

Rachel's voice reduced to a whisper as she came close. "I know that what happened with Grant scared you…"

"I'm not scared, Rachel." Darren's eyes snapped back to hers, sharp and defensive.

"Aren't you?" she challenged, stepping closer, her voice trembling with conviction. "You're still young. It's normal for you to be afraid of losing what you've built, especially when your rivals are older and more experienced than you. Please Darren, just come back. We all want to help you. I want to help you."

She came closer and touched his face with her palm. "I love you."

The air between them crackled, charged with truths neither wanted to face, and even stronger with the words she'd just uttered.

Darren's eyes glistened for a moment, his hands flexed at his sides, as if he were gripping an invisible weight. For a moment, she thought he might speak, might let her in.

But then he stepped back, retreating from the light, from her.

"We'll talk later," he said, his tone final, like a gate slamming shut. "I have to prepare for something."

Rachel's shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of her. She forced a smile, brittle but professional. "Fine. Then let me help. What do you need?"

He nodded toward the desk, his voice returning to its usual clipped efficiency. "Pick up my suit. The grey Kiton. It's at Zovari's on Fifth. Tell them to steam it twice. I'll need it for tomorrow."

She arched a brow, a spark of their old dynamic flickering. "Is there a big meeting I should know of?"

"I'll tell you about it after," he said, his eyes drifting to the door as he headed towards it.

"Okay. Whatever you need," Rachel replied as she watched him leave.

Meanwhile, across the state, in a sleek high-rise that pierced the clouds, Richard Morrison stood in his glass-walled boardroom.

The room was a fortress of modern excess having charts blooming across televised displays: Holloway Medical's expansion metrics, growth trajectories of Steele-linked data firms, and a web of minor contracts orbiting Darren's empire like satellites drawn to a star.

Morrison's jaw was set as he stared at the numbers. Archibald's return had reshuffled the Empire Companies, tilting the board in ways Morrison couldn't abide. Darren Steele's influence, once a manageable thorn, now threatened to choke his own ambitions in the health and data sectors.

Especially since he had allied with his biggest competitor.

"Enough," he muttered with venom.

Pressing a button, he summoned a list of Holloway Medical's third-party vendors. These were small firms supplying everything from diagnostics to supply chain logistics. His eyes narrowed as he tapped three names, highlighting them in red.

"Acquire silent stakes," he ordered Kessler, his assistant. "Funnel the purchases through The Morrison® Brand. I don't want flags or traces."

His assistant, a wiry man named Kessler with a perpetually neutral expression, stood at the edge of the room, beside a laptop. He nodded once, fingers already moving to execute the command.

Morrison wasn't done. He tapped another button, and the display pivoted to a blueprint of Morrison's Downtown Medical Center, a gleaming facility catering to the ultra-wealthy.

"Launch the private elite wing. Target everyone with gold-tier Holloway insurance packages. Offer exclusivity —personalized care, private suites, concierge diagnostics. Pull their clients. Hard."

"That'll draw attention. Leonard Holloway isn't blind."

Morrison's lips curled into a cold smile. "Let them notice. By the time they do, we'll have their foundation crumbling."

Kessler said nothing else and quickly executed the orders.