The ten billion dollar hangover

The suite is three floors up from a fountain that costs more per minute to run than you used to make per year. You're sitting on a chaise longue in a bathrobe so thick it feels like a legal decision, drinking champagne at 11 a.m. because breakfast is for people with schedules. Your resignation email — two words, sent to your entire office — is already legendary. Your phone has 214 missed calls: journalists, relatives you didn't know you had, and Pilar, who has called eleven times and texted a single message: 'answer or I'm flying out there.'

On the coffee table sits a card from the concierge: Dex Ferro, Lifestyle Architect. 'Every winner needs a guide,' he's written in fountain pen. 'Some need a witness.' You like the sound of the second one.

Ten billion dollars. You did the math at 3 a.m. and laughed until you cried — you could burn through it at a truly heroic pace and still die rich, but you've decided to try anyway. The question on the table, along with the room service you haven't touched, is where to begin.