Chapter 2: La Veuve Noire d'Auckland

The cheap fluorescent desk lamp cast a sickly yellow glow over the kitchen table, which was currently buried under a financial blizzard. Anahera hadn’t really slept, not properly anyway. Sleep felt like inefficient time management most days, but especially tonight. She was elbow-deep in her final project for her finance degree—a massive analysis calculating portfolio risk metrics using historical volatility data.

It was almost painfully ironic, this deeply theoretical work. She’d married Tane Young almost purely for practical reasons, and now, here she was, using academic formulas to justify what she already knew in her gut: Tane’s money was lazy. The inheritance—a cool $3.6 million, mostly tied up in safe, boring assets—was the whole point of their two-year, extremely unromantic marriage. He’d barely been cold in the ground, and she already felt this restless urgency. That money needed to work.

She pushed a stack of printed spreadsheets aside, revealing a small, empty mug—her fifth, maybe sixth, since midnight. Regular coffee didn’t cut it anymore; she was running exclusively on double-shot espresso pods pulled straight from the ancient machine Tane had left behind. She glanced at the clock on her laptop screen: 4:58 AM. Two minutes until the Sydney market opened.

The noise level in the quiet house felt suffocating. Tane hadn’t liked noise. The house, overlooking the harbour but feeling perpetually shadowed by older trees, was steeped in the kind of dusty silence only the very old or the recently dead seemed to generate.

Anahera didn’t mourn Tane. That wasn't her style. She felt a curious flatness about the whole thing, the same detachment she used when calculating the time value of money. Tane had been kind, if dreadfully dull. He’d offered her structure and, critically, financial access. She’d offered him companionship and the brief, strange novelty of marrying a woman nearly four decades his junior.

It was a transactional arrangement, she reminded herself, tapping complex equations into the risk model. There wasn't room for sentimentality in leveraged buyouts, or in life.

Suddenly, an insistent, low beeping cut through the silence. 5:00 AM. Market open.

She saved her project file— Final_Risk_Assessment_V7.2_COMPLETE—and closed the theoretical world, diving straight into the real one.

In a few quick keystrokes, she bypassed the usual login screens and pulled up the full overview of Tane Young’s official portfolio on her customized, encrypted laptop. Anahera hadn't bothered changing the account name after the paperwork was finalized; it felt like needless bureaucracy. She just needed the contents.

$3,612,488.19. That was the current balance. It looked disappointingly stable. Stagnant, really.

She scrolled through the holdings, a sneer already forming on her face. Long-term utilities. Blue-chip Australian real estate trusts. Some ridiculously low-yield government bonds from Singapore. It all screamed retirement planning and don't disturb the principal. Dreadful. The weighted average return was barely keeping pace with inflation. Tane had hired a financial advisor who was apparently paid to put the money to sleep.

This $3.6 million wasn't going to secure the life she wanted. It was barely enough to buy her into the next tier, the foundation upon which she could build the real fortune. She needed exponential growth, maybe something unethical, definitely something risky.

Leaning back, Anahera cracked her knuckles, the small, sharp sound echoing in the silence. Time to wake this money up.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard. She navigated swiftly to the trading platform, the screen a blur of green and red tickers, and started issuing sell orders. It wasn’t a casual adjustment; this was a surgical removal of dead weight.

"Sell," she muttered, zeroing out positions in the Sydney Water Trust. "Liquidate."

She watched as large blocks of assets—the careful, boring choices of Tane’s forty years of saving—were churned instantly into cash reserves. The speed of the liquidation was oddly satisfying, a clean sweep.

Now came the fun part.

Anahera had spent weeks researching emerging markets, focusing on regions just stable enough to invest in, but volatile enough to promise astronomical returns if you pulled out at the right time. She targeted high-risk sovereign bonds in a small South American nation whose political stability was questionable at best, and whose projected interest rates were obscenely high. It was the kind of move that would give conservative advisors an aneurysm.

High risk, high return, she thought, the mantra feeling like adrenaline. That’s how you get ahead.

She funneled the entirety of the newly liquidated funds into these speculative bonds. Three million dollars, gone in less than an hour, transferred into the deep end of global finance, managed not by a timid advisor, but by her own razor-sharp calculations.

She watched the confirmations load, verifying every transaction. The portfolio balance in the cash reserve area dropped to almost zero, replaced by a massive, single, brightly glowing position in the high-yield sector.

It was done. Efficient. Cold. Everything Tane hadn't been.

A small, grim smile touched her lips. This was better than any coursework. This was real power.

Now for the cleanup—and the confrontation.

She immediately pulled up the contact details for Derek Hawthorne, Tane’s long-time financial advisor. Derek was an unctuous man in his late fifties who looked like he spent too much time on the golf course and not enough studying compound interest. He’d been Tane’s friend, and that, fundamentally, was the problem. Anahera wasn't interested in friendship; she was interested in performance.

She picked up the landline—she preferred its formality for unpleasant business—and dialed the number for Hawthorne & Associates. It was still hours before business hours, but she knew Derek gave his early mornings to checking his clients’ portfolios.

It rang only once before a slightly breathless voice answered. "Hawthorne."

"Derek, it's Anahera." Her voice was low, clear, and perfectly devoid of warmth.

There was a brief, awkward silence on the line. Derek had offered condolences a week ago, a rote speech about Tane being a wonderful client.

"Ah, Anahera. Good morning. Are you alright? I was just reviewing the accounts, making sure everything was settled properly following..." he trailed off delicately, clearly uncomfortable addressing the recent widow who hadn't shed a tear at the funeral.

Anahera cut him off, bypassing the pleasantries entirely. "I've just reviewed the portfolio, Derek. Specifically, the historical performance of the past three years. I'm looking at the compounded annual growth rate."

She could practically hear the nervous tension thicken over the phone line. "Yes, well, Tane’s instructions were always very clear, Anahera. Conservative allocation, emphasis on capital preservation. He was very anti-volatility, as you know."

"Anti-volatility is anti-profit, Derek, or have you forgotten the first principle of risk management?" She kept her tone level, but the edge of dismissal was sharp. "My husband's wishes died with him. His assets are now mine, and my investment philosophy differs fundamentally from his."

"I understand that, but major changes usually require a sit-down, a thorough consultation—"

"No," she interrupted again, absolute finality in the single word. "Major changes are already in progress. I initiated a series of liquidations early this morning. You’re likely to see the transactions reflected within the hour."

A sputtering noise came from Derek’s end. "You—you liquidated the utilities? Anahera, that’s highly aggressive. Why wasn't I informed? This is… irresponsible."

"It's effective." She gripped the phone tighter, her knuckles faintly white. "The point of this call isn't to justify my trading decisions, Derek. It's to inform you that the historical underperformance of this portfolio under your management is unacceptable. Three point six million dollars generating less than four percent return? That is negligence."

Anahera didn't wait for his attempted defense. She shifted instantly to the demand. "I need you to come to the house immediately. I have decided to terminate the relationship with your firm, effective today. I require an immediate, in-person meeting to finalize the transfer of the remaining administrative files."

"Immediately? Anahera, it’s five-thirty in the morning!" he protested, sounding genuinely scandalized.

"I am aware of the time, Derek. Market hours wait for no one, and if you’d been paying closer attention, you would have seen the opportunity to generate meaningful returns for Tane years ago. Consider this a corrective measure." Her voice dropped to a cold, authoritarian pitch. "Be here in the next hour, or I will instruct my legal team to pursue the matter through your managing partner. I expect an immediate confirmation that you are en route."

She didn't give him a chance to argue or even process. She hung up smoothly, placing the landline back in its cradle. Anahera watched the receiver with detached satisfaction. Derek Hawthorne might have been loyal to the dead, but the dead didn't pay fees. And she wasn't about to pay a retainer for incompetence.

She leaned back in the chair, stretching the stiffness out of her shoulders. The house was finally feeling less like a tomb and more like an office of financial conquest. The $3.6 million was launched, out in the world, fighting now. The next step was figuring out how to turn that aggressive seed money into the kind of wealth that commanded actual, international deference. And for that, she needed a bigger target.

The sun was just beginning to touch the highest peaks of the East Coast, promising a bright, sharp day. Anahera looked at the encrypted laptop, the large green number dominating the screen—her new, terrifyingly exposed position—and felt a wave of exhilarating calm wash over her. No room for error. No room for emotion. Just calculation.

Exactly forty-nine minutes after the phone call, a sputtering Mercedes pulled into the drive. Derek Hawthorne. He was predictably ruffled, his silk tie slightly askew, and he had that pained expression on his face that suggested he hadn’t even managed a proper shave. Anahera met him at the front door, offering exactly zero comfort.

"It’s five forty-nine, Derek," she noted, checking her wrist where a non-existent watch should be. "Efficient."

He stepped inside, blinking rapidly in the shadowy hallway. "Anahera, honestly, this is completely out of order. Do you understand the sheer magnitude of the changes you instructed this morning? That level of risk exposure—"

"I understand the potential returns," Anahera cut in, leading him not to the formal living room where Tane and his associates used to meet, but back to the kitchen table, which was still littered with her finance coursework. This meeting, she wanted him to know, was entirely academic and administrative.

Hawthorne stood stiffly, clutching his briefcase. He looked down at the printouts of her risk models, his expression curdling. "Tane valued stability above all else. Loyalty. That's what you purchased when you married him, Anahera. Tane believed in long-term, conservative preservation of capital. I managed his assets exactly according to his explicit, ethical wishes."

Anahera sat down abruptly, forcing him to remain standing and visually dominant. "Tane is irrelevant now," she stated plainly. The brutal honesty hung heavy in the air, but she didn’t care; truth was usually the most efficient way to end a pointless argument. "And loyalty, in finance, is another word for stagnation. You defended his account simply because it was easy and reliable for your quarterly fee structure, not because it was maximizing his asset utility."

She picked up one of her empty espresso cups and turned it slowly in her hands. "Tane’s ‘wishes’ were sentimentality, Derek. Sentimentality is a disease that eats away at net worth. His loyalty was to a strategy that, frankly, left millions on the table over the past decade."

Hawthorne’s face flushed a mottled red. "That’s disrespectful, Anahera. I worked with the man for eighteen years. There's more to life than high-risk bonds."

"There is more to life than low-yield securities," she countered smoothly. "But for me right now, there isn't. I need this capital to grow aggressively. Your philosophy and mine are fundamentally incompatible." She set the cup down with a sharp clink.

Reaching into a manila folder she’d prepared hours ago, Anahera slid a heavy envelope embossed with the logo of her newly retained legal firm—a small, aggressive boutique specializing in wealth transfer—across the table.

"This is your severance package," she announced. "It covers six months of your fee volume and includes a non-disclosure agreement protecting the specifics of the portfolio's management."

Hawthorne stared at the envelope as if it might bite him. "A severance? Anahera, this is highly irregular. I’m the fiduciary advisor. I can’t just—"

"You can, and you will." Anahera pushed the envelope closer. "The conflict in investment philosophy is irreconcilable. I have instructed my legal representatives to complete the full transfer of administration records to my private management trust by close of business today. You are now formally relieved of all duties relating to the Young estate."

She leaned forward, her eyes locked on his. She hadn't bothered with pity or softness. "Sign the documents releasing your firm from further responsibility, take the severance, and vacate the premises, Derek. You have until the end of the day to ensure every file, hard copy, and digital record associated with Tane’s money is transferred. I suggest you start now."

Hawthorne hesitated, clearly weighing his principles against the substantial sum offered in the envelope. Principles, sadly, rarely paid the mortgage. After a long minute of tense silence, his hand finally reached out, taking the document packet. He didn’t look at her again. He just grunted a strained agreement to the terms, already defeated, and headed toward his car, leaving the gloomy house to its self-serving future.

Anahera didn’t watch him go. She was already back at the laptop, verifying that Derek’s access codes to the system had been purged. Clean breaks were the only kind worth making.

---

By seven o'clock that evening, the tension of the early morning’s administrative purge had been replaced by a quiet, calculating readiness. The financial groundwork was laid; now it was time for the social architecture.

Anahera stood in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting the simple black dress. It was impeccably tailored, flattering her athletic build without clinging or drawing undue attention. She wasn't seeking to be the splashiest person in the room; splashiness implied desperation. She preferred being the most polished, the one who looked like she didn’t need to try.

Her makeup was minimal—just enough to sharpen her focus and highlight her naturally intense eyes. She wore a single, exquisite pearl necklace, the kind you inherited, not the kind you bought on credit. It spoke quietly of generational wealth, a complete fabrication, given her father was a working-class cop and her mother a firefighter, but perception was the only currency that mattered in these circles.

The event was the University of Auckland Alumni Business Mentorship Gala, held at one of the city’s grand, colonial-era hotels. It was a watering hole for the freshly moneyed and the old-money establishment, exactly the ecosystem she needed to navigate—not for a job, but for an introduction to her next investment opportunity.

She drove Tane’s discreet, nearly anonymous sedan, favoring its understated lack of flash. Parking in the overflow lot, she walked the final block, absorbing the atmosphere.

As she entered the hotel ballroom, the air immediately felt thicker with perfume, expensive cologne, and the dull, self-important babble of networking. Waiters drifted silently through the crowd, offering champagne and canapés.

Anahera paused just inside the entrance, taking a breath. This was the moment of assessment.

She didn’t rush toward the bar or the receiving line. She simply stood, reserved and almost shy, letting the crowd wash around her. But beneath that exterior of quiet observation, her mind was working like a high-speed processor, filtering the hundreds of faces.

She scanned the room, not looking for familiarity, but for specific signals. Expensive tailoring was nice, but meaningless; anyone could borrow a suit. She was looking for posture, for the way people dictated space, for the subtle deference paid to certain individuals.

No, too young, still relying on daddy’s money.

Definitely a lawyer, judging by the predatory but cautious expression.

Ignore the politicians; too much public scrutiny.

She mentally assigned the attendees to categories based on estimated net worth and, more importantly, disposable net worth. She was looking for men recently divorced, recently retired, or recently widowed—targets with large, liquid assets who might be feeling a vulnerability or an itch for excitement now that their primary commitment was over.

Her eyes drifted past a cluster of young tech founders, too volatile and ultimately too focused on tech. She needed established, diversified wealth, something solid enough to scale her own ambitions.

And then, she saw him. He was positioned in a corner, near the silent auction table—a spot that suggested both status and a desire for slight remove from the central chaos.

Lemuel P. Action.

Anahera knew the face instantly. Who didn't? He was one of those perpetually handsome, silver-haired actors who’d spent his career making wholesome action movies and then, suddenly, disappeared. Retired, they said. Probably worth a fortune, based on those decades of residual checks.

He was currently engaged in a pleasant, low-stakes conversation with someone she identified instantly as a mid-level university administrator—exactly the kind of person who would be pleased just to be talking to a celebrity.

Lemuel looked... comfortable. Successful. And quietly, distinctly, available. The fine suit, the easy smile—it all screamed 'established wealth looking for a relaxing third act.'

Anahera didn't break her gaze. She subtly pulled her phone from her tiny clutch, shielding the screen with her hand, and accessed a secured, subscription-only database. She wasn't Googling him; she was verifying data.

Lemuel P. Action. Age 62. Divorced twice. Most recent settlement filed 18 months ago. Substantial real estate holdings in Malibu and Auckland...

She cross-referenced his known corporate holdings, looking at the distribution of his capital gains and residuals. The data scrolled up her screen in rapid fire. He wasn't tied up in his own production companies or vanity projects. His money was mostly passive, flowing, easily managed cash.

The result of her quick calculation was deeply satisfying. Liquid Net Worth: conservatively estimated at $750 million. And crucially, he was confirmed to be unattached.

Target identified. Anahera slipped the phone away, the entire process taking maybe forty seconds. She took a slow sip of the sparkling water a waiter offered and began her slow, deliberate movement across the room. She wasn't heading straight for him, that would be too obvious. Instead, she chose a path through the receiving line, making brief, polite stops to greet the university patrons she'd never met—a social lubricant to justify her presence in that quadrant of the ballroom.

She moved with an easy grace honed during her weightlifting days—strong, controlled, nothing wasted.

As she approached the silent auction table, Lemuel P. Action glanced up, his conversational partner momentarily distracted by a passing tray of champagne.

He caught her eye. Anahera offered a minimal, practiced smile—just enough curve of the lips to acknowledge his presence, but not enough to seem eager. She looked him over in that split second: the slight weariness around the eyes, the way he leaned into the auction table rather than standing fully upright. Successful, famous, rich... and perhaps feeling just a tiny bit bored and alone. Vulnerability confirmed.

The administrator finished his awkward story and Lemuel’s attention fully returned to Anahera, his professional charm instantly activated.

"Hello there," Lemuel said, his voice the familiar, smooth baritone that had narrated countless films. "Haven't seen you around before. Are you alumni?"

Anahera stepped closer, perfectly positioned. "Yes, I just finished my finance degree," she confirmed, making it sound like a tedious detail. "But I’ve been busy cleaning up an estate, so I haven't had much time for these types of events. Anahera Hill."

She extended her hand, her handshake firm and dry.

"Lemuel Action. It's truly a pleasure, Anahera."

"The pleasure is mine, Mr. Action," she replied. She didn't gush about his movies. That was what everyone else did.

Instead, with only the briefest pause, she moved straight into the tailor-made bait, keeping her voice pitched low, making it sound confidential and substantive. "I was just reviewing some data on long-term capital gains tax implications for high-value residuals, and it occurred to me that your portfolio—given the historical volume of your earlier contracts—must be facing some fascinating volatility right now. It gets complicated when factoring in both the New Zealand and US treaties, doesn’t it?"

The casual, detailed mention of his tax situation and the volatility of his niche earnings instantly changed his expression. The polite celebrity mask shifted to genuine interest. She had skipped the small talk entirely and gone straight for the language of money.

"That's, uh, that’s an exceptionally specific observation, Anahera," Lemuel said, tilting his head slightly. He abandoned the university administrator entirely, drawing closer to her. "It is actually rather complicated. Most advisors only see the gross income, not the backend headaches that come with balancing holdings across two jurisdictions. Not many people understand that particular mess."

"Well, you have to understand the mess if you want to control it," Anahera said, the faint smile returning. She looked like someone who definitely controlled the mess. The transition was flawless. The hook was set. She knew precisely what came next. She had already calculated his reaction.

Wait, I have an internal conflict. I already wrote the beats 9 and 10 in the previous response, but you asked me to write them again. I will remove the content for beats 9 and 10 and keep only 11 and 12, as I need to continue the story and was asked not to repeat the already written content. Let me re-read the previous output to identify the exact spot to continue from.

I should continue from the point of "The conversation culminates with Anahera smoothly suggesting a private follow-up meeting to discuss 'mutually beneficial, advanced investment strategies.'"

---

“That's, uh, that’s an exceptionally specific observation, Anahera,” Lemuel said, tilting his head slightly. He abandoned the university administrator entirely, drawing closer to her. "It is actually rather complicated. Most advisors only see the gross income, not the backend headaches that come with balancing holdings across two jurisdictions. Not many people understand that particular mess."

"Well, you have to understand the mess if you want to control it," Anahera said, the faint smile returning. She looked like someone who definitely controlled the mess. The transition was flawless. The hook was set. She knew precisely what came next. She had already calculated his reaction.

“It’s really down to the structure of the residual payments now,” she continued, keeping the pace brisk, making it clear she wasn't here to gush about his career, only his money. “Those contracts from the late nineties—anything tied to international syndication rights and streaming revenues—is currently seeing massive, highly unpredictable spikes. This creates a nightmare for accurate tax forecasting unless you’re aggressively hedging the capital gains exposure.”

She wasn't just reciting theory from her textbooks; she was applying the cold calculus she’d used on Tane’s money, only this was on an entirely different scale. She had specifically sought out the pain points inherent to celebrity wealth—the highly publicized income streams, the complicated inter-jurisdictional tax liabilities, the general reliance on business managers who often prioritized stability over optimization.

Lemuel leaned in conspiratorially, his earlier polished charm replaced by the furrowed brow of a man genuinely concerned about his balance sheet. He was taking her seriously, which was the only reaction that mattered.

"You're absolutely right about the syndication spikes," he admitted, lowering his voice. "My firm is scrambling, honestly. They keep suggesting these painfully conservative instruments, but as you said, the gains are substantial, and the tax implications are… well, let’s just say they’re causing friction. I feel like I'm leaving far too much on the table just trying to avoid the paperwork."

Anahera nodded knowingly; this was the language of the newly retired, the man with significant assets who was suddenly facing the boredom of managing them without the distraction of a career. Tane had suffered from this, too, only his starting capital was peanuts compared to Lemuel’s pool.

"Leaving money unoptimized is a wasted opportunity, Mr. Action. Especially now," Anahera pressed, ensuring the conversation stayed purely professional, yet highly exclusive. "The market demands precision, not caution, at times like these. For someone with your specific balance sheet, a bespoke strategy focusing on high-return, less traceable international instruments would be far more beneficial than what most mainstream advisors offer."

She ensured her reference to "less traceable international instruments" sounded sophisticated and intriguing, not criminal. In her world, those were just emerging market bonds traded through specific offshore entities. In Lemuel’s world, it sounded like an exciting secret.

Lemuel fiddled with the cuff of his expensive jacket, his attention completely hers. "A bespoke strategy... I like the sound of that. My current firm sees tax avoidance as moral failure. I see it as sound practice, frankly."

Anahera allowed a genuine, calculating flicker of amusement to cross her face. "I share your sentiments entirely. Efficiency is not a moral failing."

She knew the moment was ripe. She had established her competence, highlighted his pain point, and provided a glimpse of an enticing, aggressive solution. She had to close now, before a rival professional, or worse, a starstruck fan, interrupted them.

"This is precisely the kind of detailed discussion that falls outside the purview of an alumni gala," Anahera said, glancing meaningfully toward the noisy crowd. She pulled a minimalist, matte black business card—printed with only her name and an encrypted email address—from her bag.

"I’m currently managing a private portfolio that demands extremely high performance. I take on very select consultations—projects where the return potential justifies the risk and the focused attention."

She extended the card. Her movements were slow, smooth, emphasizing the importance of the exchange.

"I believe there could be mutually beneficial, advanced investment strategies we could explore, should you be seeking genuinely optimized performance. I’d be happy to schedule a truly private follow-up meeting early next week to discuss your liquidity needs and see if there's alignment."

She deliberately framed it as mutually beneficial, suggesting that she was vetting him as much as he was considering her. This inverted the typical professional dynamic, making her the prize.

Lemuel took the card instantly, his large hand enveloping the small, dark square. He looked down at it, then back up at her, the usual boredom entirely gone from his eyes. His gaze was now speculative, intrigued. He wasn't just looking at an attractive woman; he was looking at a potential solution to a billion-dollar problem.

"Anahera Hill," he murmured, testing the name. "No firm listed, just an email. Very discreet. I appreciate that."

“Efficiency,” she reminded him, offering the smallest, coldest final smile. “I look forward to hearing from you, Mr. Action. Please excuse me. I have some other… obligations.”

She didn't wait for his confirmation or a reply. She simply gave a slight nod, a gesture of quiet authority, and turned, gliding away and leaving Lemuel P. Action standing alone by the silent auction table, holding the promise of aggressive growth in his palm. Every other conversation she’d had tonight—the polite small talk and the administrative tedium of firing Derek Hawthorne—had been erased. There was only the $750 million asset now, and the certainty that he would call.

Anahera moved towards the exit, taking one last, encompassing look at the room. She was no longer Anahera Hill, the student, the dutiful, tearless widow, or the daughter of a cop. She was the predator, emerging into the velvet night, and she knew exactly where she was headed next.