Wealth Is Power! (Marvel Comics)

The straight razor glided down my jaw, shaving off the last shreds of shaving cream. My face in the penthouse mirror stared back at me, almost unsettlingly perfect—a face chiseled by the best goddamn bargains money had to offer. White hair, coiffed just enough to seem careless. Blue eyes, sharp and appraising. I rinsed the blade under warm water and exhaled slowly through my nose.

"Daddy, she's still crying."

Steelea's voice purred into my mind like a sheet of silk caressing naked skin. A little too affectionate, a little too entertained. If I didn't know better, I'd say she was enjoying this.

I set the razor down and reached for a towel. "How bad?"

A window opened in my peripheral vision, a private view of Susan Storm's hospital room, thanks to Steelea's open access to the Baxter Building security feeds. The hospital cameras were ironically harder to hack than the Baxter Building—privacy laws, encrypted networks, the usual—but nothing was beyond Steelea's reach.

Susan sat slumped on the hospital bed, her head in her hands. The white sheets were tangled, her hospital gown twisted at the knee. Her blonde hair was a tangled mess, strands clinging to tear-damp cheeks. Her whole body convulsed with each stifled sob. Grief had gutted her.

I let the image remain, committing it to memory. This was it. The most naked, the most vulnerable she'd ever been. And it was all my doing.

I threw the towel over the counter and propped myself up against the sink. "Any visitors?"

Steele dramatically sighed. "Johnny and Reed, of course, are occupied with Secret Wars. Ben? Otherwise occupied. Her father has passed away. It is just herself, young Franklin, and a couple of nurses dropping in and out."

I grinned. Perfect.

Franklin perched on the bed, his small fists clenched around his mother's arm. The boy's eyebrows were furrowed, his face scrunched up in intense concentration, oblivious to the cameras.

I drummed my fingers against the marble countertop. "He knows."

Steelea hummed a thoughtful response. "Not knowingly. But that little reality-warping brain of his? It's reacting. If you had to hazard a guess, Daddy… what is he thinking?"

I had already realized. It was clear. The kid was attempting to fix something that could not be fixed. At least, not in this universe.

I grinned. "He's searching for her."

Steelea's tone was sarcastic. "Bingo."

In the comics, Franklin had inadvertently sent his unborn sister—Valeria—into a different universe, where she was being brought up by another Susan Storm and a heroic Doctor Doom. The kid's powers were greater than anything even the most threatening mutants could ever hope for. And now that there was no one to mentor him, he'd do the exact same thing he did in the comics. All I've done was expedited the inevitable inherently meaning that I've kept my tracks clean like I've never had a hand in this the first place.

I used a hand to touch up my hair some more, watching as Susan pulled Franklin in close, making promises that wouldn't mean jack shit in the grand scheme of things.

"How much of this can we conceal?" I inquired.

Steelea scoffed. "Daddy, please. I've buried your Nazi past and defeated the Supreme Court. I'm already scrubbing residual data, corrupting any security record that might point fingers in your direction. As far as the world is concerned, this miscarriage was a tragic accident. There's nothing left to trace."

That was good. That was perfect. But my brain—my overclocked, supercharged, downright unfair brain—was five steps ahead already. Steelea could erase the digital trail, perhaps, but human errors? Those needed a human touch.

I moved away from the mirror, flexing, and could feel the material of my bespoke shirt stretch with muscle.

"She will need someone," I whispered.

Steelea nearly purred. "She is alone. Bereaved. There are no men in her life. And then you come along, the gorgeous, rich billionaire with a troubled past and an available shoulder."

I grinned. "I'll require a reason for being there."

Steelea remained silent for a half-second—enough time for a billion calculations to flash through her lovely, crazed mind. Then: "You've just made a huge donation to the hospital. Complete renovations to the maternity ward. A true, public act of goodwill from notorious Simon Steele. Naturally, you're stopping by to check in and see how it's progressing, ensure your money is not being wasted."

I smiled broader. "And what if I should happen to walk past Susan's room?"

Steelea laughed. "What a coincidence!"

I settled the cuffs of my suit, shrugging my shoulders.

Before I could think, I was walking out of the elevator into the hospital lobby, the shiny marble beneath my feet a reminder of the weight of my arrival. Antiseptic odor and discreet flower arrangements mix into the air, sickeningly sterile, but I don't mind. I can almost smell the money and power shrouding the buildings. Steel and glass, all immaculately in its designated position—just my kind of thing.

The texture of my custom suit is armor, despite it being a mere sheet of cashmere and silk. It's not the suit that constructs me. It's everything else—the connections, the power, the intellect that can perceive five steps ahead while everyone else remains on step one.

Steelea's voice hums in the back of my mind, a breath on the edge of my perception. "She's on the third floor, Daddy. Room 315."

I smile to myself, smoothing the cuffs of my shirt again, making sure the sleeves are just the right length. As if it matters—everyone already does. Even the nurses with their tight, professional smile can't help but throw a glance as I pass, their eyes lingering over my buff physique. The whisper's have already started before I even reached the elevator.

The infamous Simon Steele. The billionaire with the mysterious background.

Infamous, yet welcome nonetheless. Desired still.

I walk slowly, slowly so that they can see. The point is, I really do not care if they do see me or not. I have all the time in the world.

As the elevator doors slide apart, I encounter a nurse who is having a hard time keeping her composure. Her eyes flick rapidly, questioning whether she should be surprised or adopt a professional facade. She opts for the latter, forcing a strained smile.

"Mr. Steele, can I help you?" she asks, her voice a little too high to be utterly genuine

"Here merely to look at the renovations," I tell her, lowering my voice just sufficiently that I will come across as warm, congenial. "I contributed fairly significantly, and I'd love to see where you are at now."

She quickly nods, clearly eager to accommodate, and waves down the hall. "The maternity wing, sir. Up ahead."

I step around her, my feet slow, my thoughts already circling the situation Steelea described. She'll be in her bedroom, her face hidden in her hands. Sobbing, still. Her daughter's death. The world believes she's mourning in solitude.

I'll be there. Play along. Be the guy who's "accidentally" there to provide her with comfort.

When I turn the corner, I see it—Room 315. I take a moment, lingering in front of the door for a second, letting it all come together. I know what comes next.

As I come in, I will be certain to move slowly, carefully. Susan does not even look up at first. She sits in front of the window, absorbed in her own grief, her shoulders shaking with stifled sobs. The room is still. Her face, as beautiful as it is smeared with tears, is white, taut.

Franklin sits next to her, his tiny hands holding onto her arm as if it were a lifeline. The boy's eyes are huge, so desperately attempting to be brave. I can see the terror in his eyes—he's too young to understand the seriousness of the situation, but he senses that something is wrong.

"Ms. Storm?" I say quietly, letting the door shut behind me.

Susan's head jerks up at my voice, her eyes puffy and red from crying. She blinks rapidly, clearly startled to find herself face to face with someone. There is confusion on her face for a moment, then recognition—because, naturally, she's heard of me.

"Mr. Steele?" she croaks, her eyes suspicious but too tired to be shielded. "What are you doing here?"

I offer her a calming, soft smile, the kind that relaxes people. "I was here to check on the renovations," I say. "My people told me the maternity wing was being totally redone, and I figured I'd just come on down myself."

She nods, her mouth tightening, as if she is pushing herself physically to keep herself together. I can see the weariness in her eyes. The weight of loss.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—" Her voice cracks, and she looks down at her knees, clearly struggling to remain composed.

I move in, my voice gentler now. "I know you're having a difficult time. If you want to talk, I'll listen." I offer her my most empathetic smile I can manage, playing the empathetic billionaire for all it's worth.

Franklin, who has been sitting there quietly, slowly raises his eyes to mine, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he sizes me up. Something about the boy. Even being as young as he is, you can look into his eyes and see brains there. He's attempting to size me up. But I already know what he's thinking. The boy's talents are the kind that'll dig down into your very soul, attempting to find places of weakness, of cracks. And I just can't be seen to offer any.

I glance at him, nodding. "It's okay, Franklin. I'm not here to intrude. Just here to help in any way I can."

His brow furrows, but he says nothing. He just stares at me as though attempting to decide whether I am a threat or not.

Susan draws a shaking breath and looks up at me again, tears still damp on her cheeks. "Thank you," she whispers, hardly able to believe someone like me would notice her pain.

I smile, edging a little nearer. "Don't thank me. I realize how hard it must be for you at the moment. But I'm here if you need me. To help in whatever way I can."

It's all deliberately staged, a slow build-up of comprehension, of warmth. The kind of actions which make others relax, even when they shouldn't.

I step forward, easing my posture as if we were two people speaking in whispers. I remain silent for a moment, then let the distance between us be bridged for a moment as I recognize it is Susan's turn to break the tension. Indeed, she does.

"Would you... would you like to sit with us for a while?" she asks, the desperation in her voice. It's almost pathetic, the way I've been able to coax her into asking me in.

I nod, sitting down beside her. I glance at Franklin again, trying to gauge his reaction. He's still wary, still standoffish around me, but I can see him unwinding, his guard dropping ever so slightly.

"How's the rest of the family handling it?" I ask Susan, turning.

She shakes her head, a small sob escaping her mouth before she can catch it. "They're... all on a mission. Reed and Johnny are off-world. Ben's in the same situation too. It's just me and Franklin."

"That must be difficult," I say, my voice steady. "But you're not alone. You have each other."

Franklin shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his little brow furrowed as though weighing my words. He's so damn observant.

"Are you... really here to help?" he inquires, his tone small but sharp.

I bend close, regarding him directly, letting a flash of my mind through—something he can't hope to grasp in full, perhaps, but at least enough to keep him fidgety. "I'm here to help, Franklin. In any way I can."

The silence continues to spread, but now it's as if it's in motion. As if something is starting to sprout, both in Franklin's head and in Susan's heart.

I've done my part. I've planted the seeds. It's only a question of time before they sprout.

That's the game, though. Patience.

As I'm leaving the room, I know that I've left my mark. The groundwork has been laid, the trap set. And as I step out of the room, Steelea's voice echoes in my head, the cream on the ideal cake.

"Good work, Daddy," she says, and I know there's enjoyment in her voice.

I don't respond right away. I just soak in the glow of the victory, knowing full well that Susan Storm and Franklin Richards will have their lives intersecting with mine again. Hopefully just Susan Storm.

I'll be closer next time and so I stay behind to finish my duty to the repairs that I've paid for. More goodwill can't hurt.

Even if it was all a show.

* * *

I'm in my penthouse once again, a room since the Supreme Court case has felt like a stronghold. The city lights twinkle outside, casting crisp shadows on the minimalist decor and shining floors. It's scented with expensive leather and the faintest whisper of cologne, a perfect mix of decadence and power. Control shouts from every element of this room, and yet there's a gnawing at the back of my mind. Tonight, it's Elena.

As I remove my shoes, the door opens again. She enters, looking every bit the version of herself that I've been anticipating. Elena's a stunning woman—tall, white, blue eyed with dark hair that flows in waves down her back, her eyes sharp and calculating like a predator, watchful. She has this untamed energy, a flame, something dangerous in how she moves. She's never been safe, but ever since I've been isekei'd... now she's mine.

"Simon," she whispers, low and husky, a soft purr of closeness. She doesn't hesitate before crossing the room to me. The manner in which she walks, pure confidence—a sense of knowing precisely what she's searching for, and that what she's searching for is standing right in front of her.

I don't say anything. I bridge the gap between us in a few long strides. I grab her by the nape of the neck and pull her in. The kiss is slow, tentative at first, like we're just testing the moment. But I quickly lose control. She's been away long enough. I feel her body relax into mine as my hands find their way to her contours. My fingers trace the familiar curves, the soft teasing curve of her waist, then down. My hand catches the curve of her ass, that big, beautiful ass I've claimed before.

She gasps softly, her head jerking back just far enough for her to look at me straight on. Her lips are parted, breathing shallow. I can see by the expression on her face—the mix of lust and something else. Something more. Something deeper. She wants me. And she knows that she does. That's the problem. She's too much like me. She has the same cold calculating mind, but without the skills, without all the tools that are available to me. Without the malevolence.

I cannot let her get too close. Not at all.

However, she's useful. She's too useful.

"You've been gone too long," I growl, my tone a little grittier than I intended it to be. I don't care, though. I pull her back in, kissing her once more, more aggressively this time, taking what I want. I'm a man of domination, and presently, I want all of it. She plays along, arms around my neck, pulling me deeper, but even as she does so, I can feel that she is thinking, too, as am I.

I take a step back, leaving a space of breathless tension between us. My arms around her waist, I pull her close, my words drawn out, deliberate.

"I've been thinking of the future, Elena. Rebuilding Steele Enterprises."

She blinks, her brow creasing slightly. "What about it?"

I lead her to the sofa, holding my grip firm enough to remind her of who's boss. "I''ve decided to take a step back from the day-to-day, Elena. I've been rebuilding something much larger, and now... I need someone to run the new company."

She regards me, eyes squinting by just a little, that hint of challenge there, always. She's not stupid. She knows what she's hearing. "You want me to run it?"

"Precisely," I reply, my voice level, the words calculated. "You're perfect for the role. You've been my right hand for so long, Elena. Smart, ambitious. But you're still too much of a wild card. I'll be the one pulling the strings from behind the scenes, of course. You'll be the face of the new Steele Enterprises, the public face, the CEO. You'll give the orders. I'll counsel."

Her lips curve in a small, thoughtful smile. She's never been slow-witted, and I know she's turning the offer over in her head, balancing the advantages and disadvantages. She's smart enough to see the power in it. She's smart enough to see that if she accepts, she's not just getting a seat at the table. She's taking a throne.

"But why not you?" she insists, her own eyes now razor-sharp as ever, challenging me, yet with a hint of vulnerability in the background. "Why put me in that position?"

"Because," I say to her, my voice deepening, intensifying, "I need someone I can control from the shadows. Someone who believes in me. Someone who loves me." I trail off on that last sentence, the gravity of it hanging in the air, between us.

Her eyes shone with something. A tightening, a shift. She's understood. The truth she cannot deny, no matter how much she might wish otherwise.

She swallows hard, tension-cold air filling her mouth. I can feel her battle raging, her pride and her loyalty in conflict. She's not used to being second in power, but she knows she's not second. She'll represent the face of the empire, but I'll be the mind.

"Fine," she finally says, her voice strong but beneath it is something else—something more sinister, as if she's agreeing because she knows she has to. "I'll do the job. But let this be understood, Simon. I won't be your puppet. If I'm in charge, I'm in charge."

I smile, but it's a starving smile. "You'll be in charge, Elena. But I'll always be present, nudging your hand when you need it."

She doesn't say that, but I can see it in her eyes. She's thinking, just like me. She's not going to let go so easily. But that's okay. I don't want her weak. I want her strong, to believe she's in control, while I pull every string.

"Good," I say to her, finally breaking the silence. "You'll be CEO. And you'll make it happen. You always do. I'm counting on you."

Elena's jaw hardens, her expression unemotional. But I know she's already thinking. I can hear the wheels turning in her mind. She's plotting. Like me.

I lean back, letting the silence linger for a moment. It's always better when they think they're in charge, when they think they're gaining the upper hand. Elena will be building up Steele Enterprises, but she's playing my game. And I'll keep her exactly where I want her.

That's the best of it. She'll never quite have any idea what I'm up to.

"You won't regret it," I remind her, the sentence a breezy but suggested menace. "And don't you forget, Elena, nobody ever plays the game better than I."

Her lips twist into a half-smile, a smile that looks completely fake. It's the look of someone who's about to learn how far the game actually goes.