Axel
The software that made me a billionaire started because I knew an artist who deserved better than the world she was handed.
I’d been coding in my dorm room at MIT, trying to solve a problem that had bothered me since I was a kid watching someone paint in the Santoro living room—the way museum catalogs were impossible to search, how art collections sat in databases that nobody could navigate without a PhD in library science.
How talented artists struggled to get their work seen because the systems meant to elevate them were broken.
I’d built something simple: an algorithm that could cross-reference artwork by style, period, artist, and visual similarity. Something intuitive. Something that made art accessible instead of hidden behind institutional gates.
I’d shown it to a professor who’d shown it to the Smithsonian. They’d wanted to buy it. Then the Met wanted it. Then every major museum in the world wanted it.
Five years later, the software ran in three thousand museums across forty countries. The company had expanded into cultural preservation, digital archives, virtual exhibitions. I had more money than I’d ever wanted and a career I’d built telling myself it was about solving problems.
Really, I’d just wanted to create a world where artists like Delia finally had a chance.
Now I stood in a ballroom in Midtown, wearing a tuxedo I hated, about to give a speech I’d been dreading for three weeks.
“You look like you’re facing a firing squad,” Mark said beside me.
My assistant was thirty, efficient to the point of telepathy, and had absolutely no respect for brooding. He’d worked for me for four years and I’d never managed to intimidate him once.
“I’d prefer the firing squad,” I said.
“Come on. It’s just five hundred wealthy people judging your every word. What’s stressful about that?”
“Your motivational skills need work.”
“My motivational skills are perfect. You’re just impossible to motivate.” He adjusted his glasses.
“Besides, it’s for orphans. Even you can’t be grumpy about helping orphans.”
The charity gala was raising funds for youth homes across the city—specifically for children who’d aged out of foster care and had nowhere to go. The organizers had asked me to speak six months ago. I’d said no. They’d asked again. I’d said no again.
Then they’d mentioned my story of rising from nothing to something might inspire more donors like me, and I’d run out of ways to refuse.
I hated public speaking—hated being in front of cameras, hated the way people looked at you when you stood on a stage and talked about trauma like it was currency.
But I’d been twelve years old and completely alone once, and if talking about it meant other kids wouldn’t be, then I’d talk. Didn’t mean I had to enjoy it.
“You’ve got two minutes,” Mark said, checking his phone. “Try to smile. You’re convincing people, not threatening them.”
“I don’t threaten people.”
“You absolutely threaten people. It’s your whole thing.”
The emcee called my name. I walked onto the stage, faced five hundred people in evening wear holding champagne glasses, and thought about how much I’d rather be literally anywhere else.
I talked about losing my parents. About being twelve and alone and certain my life was over. About Miguel and Elena Santoro taking me in without hesitation, giving me a home when I had none.
I talked about the kids currently in group homes, about the ones who’d turn eighteen and be released into the world with no family, no support, no safety net. About how money could create programs, housing, mentorship—things that meant the difference between surviving and drowning.
I didn’t mention that I still felt like I was drowning more often than not. That gratitude and guilt were so tangled up I couldn’t separate them. That I’d spent seventeen years trying to be worthy of what the Santoros gave me and never quite believing I’d succeeded.
When I finished, the applause was polite but enthusiastic. People wrote checks. The organizers thanked me. Mark appeared with my coat and an expression that said we could leave now if I moved fast.
We almost made it.
“Axel Irving.” The voice came from behind me, smooth and confident. “Good speech. Almost made me feel things.”
I turned to find Hector Valdez holding a champagne glass, looking completely at ease in a well tailored tuxedo. He had that effortless charisma some people are born with—the kind that made rooms tilt toward him without trying.
“Valdez.” I shook his hand. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I donate to causes that matter. Kids aging out of the system—that matters.” He took a sip of champagne. “The food at these things is always terrible, though.”
“Your restaurants set impossible standards.”
“That’s the point.” He studied me with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. “So. How’s it going with the woman who made you spend obscene amounts of money expanding my restaurant chain?”
Mark made a sound that might have been a cough or might have been a laugh. I ignored him.
“Still complicated,” I said.
Hector’s expression changed—something that looked almost like sympathy crossed his face. “Complicated is expensive. Both emotionally and financially, apparently.”
“Your restaurants were a good investment.”
“They were a strategic investment.” He said it with a slight smile. “There’s a difference. One makes business sense. The other makes the kind of sense that only matters to one person.”
I didn’t confirm or deny. Didn’t need to. Hector had figured it out when I’d invested in his expansion without the usual due diligence, because I’d heard Delia casually raving about how good the food was but she had to drive two hours to the nearest restaurant chain.
“She’s going through something,” I said finally. “Now’s not the time.”
“Now’s never the time. That’s the thing about complicated.” He finished his champagne. “But for what it’s worth, spending money on restaurants she loves is probably the most emotionally intelligent thing you’ve done.”
“You’re just saying this because you’re benefiting.” I said. Hector had always been smooth when convincing others to make a deal.
“Well, I’m not the only one benefiting.” His mouth curved, knowing and unbothered.
We said our farewells after a round of drink and I barely made it to the car before my phone rang. Daniel’s name on the screen.
I answered immediately. “What’s wrong?”
“How do you know something’s wrong?”
“You never call this late unless it’s an emergency.”
He was quiet for a moment. I could hear exhaustion in the silence. “Delia fractured her ankle days ago.”
My hand tightened on the phone. “How?”
“She was dancing. Pushed too hard and it snapped.” He exhaled slowly. “She only told me now. Apparently she’s on crutches for two weeks minimum.”
“Is she—” I stopped, unsure what I was even asking. “How is she?”
“Physically? She’ll heal. Everything else?” Another pause. “I don’t know, Axel. She’s not talking to me. She says she’s fine but she’s clearly not fine and I can’t get through to her.”
Through the window, Manhattan blurred past in streaks of light. “What do you need?”
“I can’t be there until this weekend. But can you check on her? Tomorrow, maybe? I know it’s asking a lot—”
“I’ll go.”
“Just—” Daniel’s voice dropped. “Mom had another bad episode today. Maria’s there helping, we’ve got the best doctors but it’s getting worse. And I’ve got surgery scheduled all week.”
I understood what he wasn’t saying. That he was drowning. That their mother was disappearing and their father was gone and Delia was falling apart and he was trying to hold everything together by himself.
“I’ll check on her,” I said. “Don’t worry.”
After we hung up, Mark glanced at me from the driver’s seat. “Family emergency?”
“Something like that.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Shocking.” He rolled his eyes.
The next morning, I drove to Brooklyn with coffee from the place near my office and pastries I’d picked up because showing up empty-handed felt wrong.
I knocked. Waited. Knocked again.
Finally the door opened.
Delia appeared in paint-stained sweatpants and an oversized shirt hanging loosely off her frame. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a catastrophic bun, dark circles under her eyes, one ankle wrapped in a medical boot.
She stared at me like she was trying to remember who I was and why I was standing in her doorway.
I held up the coffee. “I heard you’re injured.”
Her expression shifted through several emotions too fast to track. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“You live in Manhattan. There’s no reason you’d be in this part of Brooklyn on a weekday morning.” She leaned against the doorframe, not quite blocking my entrance but not inviting me in either. “But thanks for the coffee, I guess.”
“Have you eaten today?”
“I had toast.”
The way she said it made me suspect she’d thought about having toast, which wasn’t remotely the same thing.
“Can I come in? Just to confirm that you’re actually okay.” When she looked confused, I added, “For Daniel.”
She hesitated, something warring in her face. Pride versus exhaustion. Finally she stepped aside with visible reluctance.
The apartment was medium-sized—cozy, yet somehow spacious.
Her kitchen area flowed into living space, a door off to the side that probably led to a bedroom.
It smelled like turpentine with a faint undercurrent of flowers.
Canvases leaned against every available wall, most of them blank.
Dishes were piled in the sink but nothing catastrophic. Mail covered the counter unopened.
It was the apartment of someone who’d stopped participating in basic life maintenance but hadn’t fully given up.
I set the coffee and pastries on the counter and turned to find Delia watching me with her arms crossed, chin up, daring me to comment on the state of things.
“You can report back to Daniel that I’m alive and functioning,” she said. “Mission accomplished. Brotherly obligation fulfilled by proxy.”
“How are you coping with your mother?”