The Dollar Game

[Carter de Volthström]

Timothée de Volthström & Tobias de Volthström

The Paris skyline shimmered in glass and gold as the sun dropped beyond La Défense. Through the boardroom’s towering windows, the city was elegant in its indifference. An empire behind glass.

Timothée Volthstrom adjusted his cufflinks with quiet contemplation. His suit was black Hermès, tailored within a micron. A single Montblanc pen lay centered before him on the matte obsidian table. The CEO of Banque Volthstrom Internationale did not need displays or datapads. When Timothée spoke, systems moved.

Tobias entered without announcement, as was his habit. Dark coat, no tie, face sharp and eyes sharper. He paused only to glance at the view.
“You still like watching the sun die,” he said. “You’ve always been a romantic.”

Timothée smiled faintly. “And practical. In finance, when the markets close at dusk, the truth comes out.”

Tobias took the seat across from him, silent for a breath. He had been asked to come to Paris to discuss something too important to do so by distance.

Timothée raised an eyebrow. “They’re going to sign. Both capitals. It’s all but signed, and the Ascendancy will announce integration next week.”

Tobias was surprised, certainly, but allowed a pause long enough to fill with power. Then: “You’ll need to make them solvent.”

“They’re already stable,” Timothée replied. “We injected six billion last quarter through sovereign development loans. No official ties to us, of course.”

“Of course.” Tobias folded his hands.

Timothée continued, “But the Americans are bleeding. New York’s liquidity crisis has metastasized. Twenty-five regional banks are near insolvency. We’ve suspended dollar-swaps through Zurich. They can’t borrow their way out.” Timothée glanced toward the city. “And yet they haven’t collapsed.”

“Not yet,” Tobias agreed. “That’s the art. Texas and Mexico must flourish first. We don’t just want the U.S. to suffer. We want them to envy.”

Timothée looked back at him, eyes cool. “You think it should be spectacle.”

“I want pressure,” Tobias corrected. “When the American citizen sees Texan highways glowing with CCD magrail, when Mexico’s youth are getting CCD education grants and their own banks are denying overdrafts, then they’ll beg for unification.”

Timothée said nothing. His fingers traced the edge of his pen. “You’re proposing we finance both sides of a fracture,” he said at last. “Flood two states with wealth while letting the rest of the continent rot.”

Tobias inclined his head. “Correct.”

There was a pause. The air between them held the weight of centuries. How many Volthstroms had sat in offices of opulence deciding the fate of nations built on their coin. Then Timothée exhaled, clipped and sharp.

“I’ll authorize the increase. But I want a public face. Someone visible in Texas. A Volthstrom.”

Tobias tilted his head. “Carter is already in Moscow. He’s managing the eastern corridor.”

“I’m aware. And Guillaume is in his shadow.” Timothée leaned forward slightly. “But I need more than quiet brilliance. I need presence. Cameras. Diplomacy. Prestige.”

Tobias’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t think Carter’s capable?”

“I think,” Timothée said carefully, “that Carter is hungry. And that hunger can be… redirected. Publicly, if needed.”
The implication hung there. Tobias didn’t rise to it. He never did. “We'll have what we need,” he said. “Stability in the south. Collapse in the north. And by summer, Washington at our doorstep.” Timothée leaned back again, satisfied. “And your other affairs?” he asked. “Your constellation of private holdings… is it all aligned?”

“Perfectly,” Tobias said. “Though there is one small matter in Moscow I’m watching.” Timothée waited for more, but Tobias did not elaborate.