I haven’t told my boss. I haven’t told my coworkers, either.

I’m only telling you because somebody needs to know the story — the whole story.

If I hadn’t been smart, hadn’t first hired the lawyer — the lawyers — my name would have ended up in the news. And before I hired them, I had them sign NDAs. I spent twenty-five years writing technical manuals; I know exactly how to bury a lethal clause in a wall of dry text.

But I digress.

The lawyers fixed it. Yes, it was expensive, but with my money I could afford their fees, the greedy bastards.

The lottery people insisted that I appear in public, like a trained monkey, to accept their check — their fake, oversized check which, of course, wasn’t real. Just a big poster with a lot of zeros. A number one and then lots and lots of zeros. No, I didn’t want that. I had them wire the real money into my account, and then I whisked the funds to the Cayman Islands account my new best friend, the accountant, had set up.

Shame he tried to take some of the funds, my friend the accountant. It was surprisingly cheap to ensure the accountant’s early retirement.

And the lawyers? They didn’t say a word. After our last meeting — the one where I showed them the video of how the accountant’s silence had been guaranteed — I don’t think they’ll be considering embezzlement.

Oh, don’t give me that look. You did read the NDA, didn’t you? Lots of fine print, I know, but bottom line — as long as you keep this all to yourself, you and your family and your friends and your pets will  be just fine.

Yes, I live my life calmly, no worries about long-lost relatives looking for help, no pleas from mothers of sick babies begging for aid. I live my life just as I want, just as it was before.

I know people talk behind my back: the poor loner, no friends, so boring, just a sad man and his cat living in a cluttered rent-controlled apartment. But that’s what I want. It’s been my life for thirty-eight years, and I don’t see the need to change a thing.

Well, some things, of course, have changed. I guess that’s why I hired you.

Little Brutus no longer gets bargain unhealthy cat food. There’s a firm in Wyoming that breeds steers specifically for their nutritional value for our little friends. I’m not only their customer; I own the business. Twenty-nine percent return on equity — not bad, eh?

I suppose I take Uber a bit more often these days. There’s really no way to get to Teterboro via public transit, and anyway there’s no way to reach the private jet on weekends except by car.

But I still have my job, yes, and my boss. I hated them all before I won the money, and I still hate them, but I think a man needs structure, needs continuity.

Getting rid of Larry, that backstabbing asshole, has made the whole work environment so much better. I don’t think anyone else really liked him, either. They hardly mention his disappearance anymore.

Yes, why did I hire you, you ask? As I said in the ad, I need a cat sitter. And I think I deserve some help — picking up dry cleaning, watering plants, and communicating with the boards of my firms.

I’m sure you thought it odd that I was looking for someone with an MBA to do my busywork. And I’ve run background checks, so don’t worry — your little substance abuse issues won’t be a problem. As long as you fulfill your duties, you’re free to do anything you want on your day off.

And don’t even think about the tracking chip — you’ve already said that you’re meticulous and very good at time management.

I’ll be in Gstaad this weekend. Rochelle says she knows a place with the best raclette in the entire Valais. While I’m away, please be sure to scoop Brutus’s box at least twice a day, and don’t forget to go down to the garage to feed Larry. Just slide the frozen dinner through the slot. He doesn’t mind if it’s cold.