I was anxiously waiting in the hallway for the producer to signal me to start walking. This was the real deal. No matter how many times I’d practiced, nothing compares to the pressure of the moment itself. My clammy hands gripped the handle of my roller suitcase. I knew one of the wheels would squeak as soon as I started moving—especially since the bag wasn’t meant to carry over 120 pounds. Worse yet, one of the wheels had already cracked on the stairs coming up to the studio. Despite all the prep, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was a bad omen.

  The producer’s assistant finally approached, rattling off the usual last-minute reminders I’d heard a hundred times: “Don’t swear,” “He likes to be called Mr. Fantastic,” and so on. But my nerves were running wild. I couldn’t absorb a word. Normally, I’d just get a simple cue to walk—the assistant rarely said more than a sentence—but today everything felt off.

  The producer finally gave me the signal. As I started walking, I heard music cue up from the other room. That surprised me—I’d assumed they’d add it in post. I guess it was meant to help everyone get in the right mindset. Funny how the brain latches onto the smallest things when you’re nervous.

  In a way, I was grateful for the music—it drowned out the awful squeak of the suitcase wheel as I rolled it past two towering wooden doors, each over 10 feet tall and 4 feet wide. They looked more suited to a medieval castle than a TV studio. Honestly, I thought they were a bit much.

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  I stepped through the doors and onto the stage. Two cameras tracked me as I walked to the center of the enormous room. I stopped, feeling the eyes of six seated judges on me. I’d been instructed to stand still and stare them down for a full minute, as the cameras captured our reactions. It felt like a Mexican standoff. After what felt like forever, I couldn't take it anymore. I let go of the suitcase handle and discreetly wiped my clammy palm on the back of my dress pants.

  That was my trigger to begin.

  "I’m Jack Cross—from nowhere and everywhere. I’m seeking one billion dollars for 1% of my company, Infini."

  Before I could say another word, one of the panelists cut me off.

  "Give me a break—one billion dollars?"

  "That’s right, Mark," I replied. "One billion dollars. But before I explain what Infini is and what it does, I have a little wager to propose."

  I stepped toward the suitcase and reached for the handle. It was slick with condensation—or nerves—and slipped right through my fingers. The suitcase crashed from upright to flat on the floor with a loud thud. The noise startled the blonde marketing guru in the panel, who let out a sharp yelp.

  "Now," I continued once the room settled, "in this case is five million dollars in hundred-dollar bills. Mark, I’d like to make you a gentleman’s bet."

  I unzipped the suitcase and dramatically spilled the neatly bound stacks of cash onto the floor.

  "This is simple: if you can stay silent during my entire presentation, I will donate this five million to a charity of your choice, in your name. But if you interrupt me—I’ll donate it to a charity of my choice: the NRA. And you’ll match the donation with five million of your own."

  "A gentleman’s bet," I repeated, as they used to say.