The Butterfly Manifesto

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There were maybe fifty people crammed into the room when we launched into our set. It wasn't a stadium show; it was just three girls making noise in a common room. The chords beat through the mediocre acoustics in the room, but by the time we finished the room applauded with the enthusiastic energy of students in desperate need of a study break. I handed my guitar back to Reggie, grabbed a soda, and leaned against the back wall.

This was the part I was still figuring out.

I watched the guys in the room. In high school, I had avoided boys strictly out of ethics; having Matthew’s adult memories floating in my adolescent head meant keeping a rigid distance. College was a different story since we were adults, legally speaking. The ethical barrier was gone, but I realized I had a deficiency when it came to skill. With so little practice in high school, not to mention the fallout with Jake, my confidence in flirting was shaky at best. I quickly discovered that initiating was no issue. All a cute girl had to do was stand in a room long enough and eventually someone would strike up a conversation with her.

The issue I had was what to do with them once they started talking to me. I was decidedly not looking to date, and what’s more I wanted to stop creeps or clingers before they even walked up to me. I developed what I called an “unattainable aura” fueled by a polished look, shrewd indifference, and polite aloofness. The rabble kept their distance, and it was only the confident ones who dared approach me. That, or the simple ones who were too handsome or sweet to know they should be intimidated.

"You guys were loud," said a voice to my right.

I turned. Sean was standing there, holding a plastic cup. He looked comfortable, unbothered by the noise or the crowd.

"Good," he clarified, leaning against the pillar next to me. "But loud. You play that thing like you're angry at it."

"It's cathartic," I said, managing a small smile.

"I bet." He took a sip of his drink. "You're different when you have a guitar. Less serious."

"Gee, thanks, Sean."

He laughed, and for a second, I let myself relax. He was charming and easy to talk to, and he didn’t seem to notice my awkwardness. Maybe it didn’t matter; he was chatting up the girl on the guitar, after all, and I could spout the Magna Carta and it would sound fascinating to him. We chatted for a while, moving from topic to topic easily. Eventually, the crowd started to thin out.

"I think I’m gonna head home," I said.

"Already?" He looked surprised. "I was thinking of grabbing food at the Div after this."

"Early morning tomorrow," I disclosed. "Rain-check?"

"Yeah. Rain-check." He smiled, not pushing it. "Until next time, Brown."

I slipped out the side door into the chilly night air. It felt good to leave on my own terms, not because I was running away, but simply because I was done. Outside, the wind on 59th Street was biting. The black Lincoln Town Car was idling at the curb, blending into the shadows. I slid into the back seat, the silence of the luxury interior cutting off the noise of the campus instantly.

The following morning, the city was gray, but in the private conference suite on the 40th floor of the Northern Trust building, the coffee was hot and the air was expensive. I sat at the head of the mahogany table. Despite being the youngest person in the room, I reminded myself I was no mere clerk or intern; I was the Principal.

Linda was at my right, notepad ready and already scribbling. Thorne sat opposite her, looking tired but refined as usual. Next to him was Spaulding, the domain broker, and Peter Vance, my attorney. At the far end sat Nick O'Toole, my intelligence consultant, who was looking uncomfortable in a suit that was too tight across the shoulders.

"Spaulding," I said. "Let’s hear it."

"Wires cleared this morning," the broker said, sliding a sheet across the table. "Twenty-eight units closed. Tech buyers are paying asking price without blinking. Net to Butterfly Capital, after commission, is one hundred and thirteen million."

"Combined with previous holdings," Thorne said, his voice tight, "that puts your total liquidity at one hundred and thirty-five million dollars." He looked up at me. "Ms. Brown, you are holding more cash than some sovereign nations. In a market that is up forty percent. Keeping this in money markets is...it's practically negligence."

"It's safety," I said, sipping my tea. "I'm not chasing the melt-up, Thorne. Keep the bond ladder."

"But the NASDAQ is higher than it’s ever been—"

"This is what I promised Northern Trust when I began banking with them," I cut in. "Discipline. Restraint. I want 'boring.' Utilities. Consumer staples. Have you executed the buy orders I sent over?"

Thorne sighed, checking his notes. "Berkshire Hathaway is…certainly boring. But Marvel Enterprises? A fifty-thousand-share starter position?"

"Exactly."

"It's a comic book company one step out of bankruptcy," Thorne argued. "It's zombie paper, Ms. Brown."

"It's IP arbitrage. Have the shares registered directly to Butterfly Capital. I want them to know later that I was here now.”

Thorne rubbed his temples but nodded. I turned to O'Toole.

"The Sun-Times building," I requested.

O'Toole didn't open his folder. He just tapped it. "It's hot. Our inspectors drilled three cores at 3:00 AM. Deep saturation of ink, heavy metals, and industrial solvents. If anyone tries to dig a foundation there, the EPA could shut them down for years."

"Perfect," I said. "File it deep. I’ll need it later."

"Copy that."

"One more thing," I said. "I need a probe into the Democratic Party infrastructure. Specifically in Florida. Detailed. And as soon as possible."

O'Toole paused. It was a bizarre request; random, political, and specific. But if he felt uncomfortable, he revealed nothing. He simply nodded. "I'll put eyes on it."

"Make it a priority, along with the Boeing inquiry I requested," I ordered. "Thorne, O'Toole, Spaulding—thank you. Room, please."

They filed out quickly, leaving me alone with Vance and Linda. The heavy door clicked shut.

"Mr. Vance?"

"We're in the queue," Vance said, lowering his voice. "The motion to seal the 1991 birth certificate amendment was filed in Hennepin County. We secured the waiver of publication, so no newspaper ads."

"And the records?"

"My associate located the physical microfiche in the district archives," Vance said. "He stated an opportunity with Y2K. The state is digitizing everything in the new year. We have a window to ensure the 'Matthew' file is missing and unavailable for when it is scanned. The only files left to enter will be from middle school and onward."

"So it's done?"

"Pending the judge's signature...yes. By January, the paper trail will be gone. Only Maya Elizabeth Brown will legally exist."

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. "Thank you, Peter."

As he left, Linda slid a sleek black folder across the table. "One last piece of business. Wednesday afternoon departure. It's all arranged."

I smiled. "Thanks, Linda. Have a good weekend.”

"Of course, Ms. Brown."

She walked out, leaving me alone in the silence of the boardroom. I looked out at the Chicago skyline. I’m sure most of my instructions seemed random, but perhaps keeping employees guessing was one way to assert control. Every day I was getting closer to the first test of power I had been anticipating for years.

One thing was for sure: I was getting better at this.