Future.
Everything we’re building.
I move down the row, checking each stall, eyes scanning automatically for signs of stress, illness, agitation.
These animals are investments.
Genetics like this don’t come cheap.
“Easy,” I murmur, running a hand along one thick neck as one of them huffs and shifts.
Satisfied, I move toward the back section where the cryogenic storage is set up.
That’s where the real money is.
Liquid nitrogen tanks hum softly, the vapor curling faintly at the top as I check the gauges.
Temperature steady.
Pressure good.
Semen straws from our top bulls stored, and cataloged.
That’s the business model.
That’s how Jersey Iron Ranch scales without needing ten thousand acres like my father.
Efficiency.
Precision.
Control.
Who the hell knew bull jizz would be worth this much?
I huff a humorless laugh under my breath.
“World’s a weird place,” I mutter.
My phone buzzes again.
Micah.
I pull it out, scanning the next message.
Micah
Your girl’s got grit, Benji. I pulled some financials. She’s legit, man. Income streams from sponsors, ad rev, merch. She built this from scratch.
I go still.
Micah (cont.):
Also, she was telling the truth. Esme never touched the joint account. Not a cent after you split. And neither did you, you fucking idiot. There’s just under twelve grand just sitting there.
My stomach drops.
I lean back against the cool metal of the tank, staring at the message like it might change if I look at it long enough.
