Too Late to Hold Me Back novel Chapter 837

On top of that, Mira's team somehow still possessed a massive war chest, allowing them to double down mere seconds before facing a margin call.

Meanwhile, the investor playing games found himself completely out of chips.

He wouldn't suffer personally, of course, since Mishka had guaranteed to absorb all the damages.

But the end result of this little gamble was that Mishka was now on the hook for a cool two billion dollars.

...

Back with Mira's team.

Less than five minutes after blowing past the initial margin call threshold, Fidelity Trust plummeted, violently crashing until it hit the downside limit.

"Hell yes! Now that is satisfying!"

Wesley shouted.

Thanks to their aggressive doubling down, every cent they had bled earlier was instantly recouped.

"Boss Mercer, what exactly just happened?"

Hank asked.

"I'd bet good money someone was just trying to mess with us to watch us squirm."

"So why did they suddenly back off?"

Wesley asked.

"Because they ran out of ammo, obviously."

That afternoon, Atlantic National continued its smooth descent, Loomis & Marlowe trended steadily downward, and Fidelity Trust remained frozen at the absolute bottom.

When the closing bell rang, the mood in the room was electric. It was the best they had felt in days. The trends were locked in, and the suffocating tension hovering over Mira and Owen finally lifted.

Their ledger showed they had already doubled their initial capital. Even if they liquidated the second the market opened on Monday, they would walk away with an obscene fortune.

That night, Hank treated everyone to a lavish dinner of Alaskan King Crab and fine Bordeaux. With the markets closed for the weekend, they could finally afford to sleep in.

Their personal grudges could wait. Right now, there was a fortune to be made.

The next morning, everyone slept in. By the time they wandered down to the dining room, lunch was already being served, so they happily dug in.

They rarely had a chance to visit Manhattan, so they decided to make a real day of it.

Their first stop was Trinity Church just around the corner. They had walked past it nearly every day but had never found the time to go inside.

Its Gothic spire pierced the concrete jungle of the financial district, while stained glass filtered the sunlight into a rich amber that bathed the ancient wooden floors laid in 1797.

Wesley had been talking about properly touring the church since they arrived. Mira, Harvey, and the others who had never been were equally eager to explore it.

Staring up at the cross atop the spire, they sought a moment of quiet peace, eager to wash away the brutal stress of calculating multi-million dollar returns.

The steps of the Federal Hall National Memorial were surprisingly inviting. Where Washington had taken his oath in 1789, his bronze statue now stood, the folds of its coat catching the harsh winds of Wall Street.

The marble stairs, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, were dotted with tourists eating sandwiches. Looking up, the glowing electronic ticker of the Stock Exchange loomed over them.

Looking down, the cornerstone bore the inscription of freedom—two distinct eras separated by over two hundred years, resting side-by-side in the daylight.