The rage in her eyes was instant, a terrifying electrical surge. I’d only brushed her arm by accident. “Who the hell do you think you are?” Bess’s voice was a whip-crack. “How dare you even think about touching what belongs exclusively to Sawyer?” Sawyer Maxwell. Her childhood sweetheart. Her idealized other. “You filthy, shameless thing, I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t forget!” She ordered her security detail to break my legs and then demanded I be branded with the word "WHORE" across my torso—a detail I won’t linger on, except to say the searing pain was a kinder memory than what came after. Then came the ransom: a $15 million fine for “emotional distress.” I became a ghost, working seven jobs—from Uber shifts to bar-backing—scrambling for every penny to repay the debt. Yet, my existence itself was a constant embarrassment to her. Finally, she had me locked in a security-coded, soundproofed room in the basement to “reflect.” It was dark, suffocating, and the constant white noise was designed to disorient. My son, Noah, seven years old and terrified, managed to sneak me out when the guard took a break. For that small act of courage, Bess had him stripped, brutally beaten, and then thrown to the Rottweilers. “The damn bastard! How dare he defy my orders! This is the consequence!” I watched, paralyzed, as Noah’s small body was savaged. I collapsed, crawling toward Bess, begging, my throat raw with apologies. I pleaded for a sliver of medicine, anything to save him. She simply sneered, tossing a new bill at me—a monstrous $200 million. “You two pathetic wastes of space owe me this much, and you have the gall to ask me for money?” Her eyes were cold, bored. “Clear this debt within twenty-four hours, or go plan a funeral for that little animal!” My heart turned to ash. I sold my blood for a few hundred dollars and crawled back home only to find Noah’s body already cold. At the exact same time, news ripped through the City’s Elite that my wife, Bess Sinclair, had spent a colossal sum—hundreds of millions—to host a global art exhibition for her beloved Sawyer. I clutched Noah’s broken remains. The tears were an avalanche. The grief was a blunt knife, carving bone-deep into my soul. In the sterile corner of the emergency room, my son lay still, lifeless in a pool of his own blood. His small body was covered in wounds, his face barely recognizable. I knelt beside him, hands shaking, wanting to hold him but afraid to cause more pain. A tidal wave of agonizing pain washed over me, threatening to drown me whole. Nurses and orderlies walked past, completely ignoring me, too busy sharing the latest gossip, their voices high-pitched and excited: “Oh my god, spending a fortune just to make her childhood sweetheart smile? Is this what real wealth looks like?” “Of course. Only a genius painter like Sawyer Maxwell is worthy of a top CEO like Bess Sinclair!” “Seriously, I’m weeping for someone else’s love story!” Their jarring, oblivious chatter felt like slow, deliberate torture. I touched the thin wad of cash in my pocket. Not enough to buy a decent urn. In my despair, I had no choice but to call Bess. After an interminable wait, her furious voice blared through the receiver: “Damon Kincaid! You actually have the nerve to call me!” “My punishment was a chance for you to correct yourself! Who gave you permission to run away?” “You damaged the lock on the room, so you owe me another fifteen million! If you don’t pay, I’ll have the guards find that little bastard and finish him off for good!” It was always a ridiculous reason. Always a new layer of humiliation. For seven years of marriage, Bess had invented endless ways to shame me. I was used to it, but then a man’s voice cut in, familiar and sickeningly smug: “Damon, old boy, you know you have to take your medicine when you mess up.” Sawyer. “Sister was merciful not to kill you. Can’t you just learn how to be a good boy for once?” A sharp, searing spike of pain pierced my heart. But for Noah, to bury my son, I ground my last fragments of dignity into dust. I spoke, my voice barely a whisper: “Please, lend me a thousand dollars more. I’ll find a way to repay you.” “I just want to bury No—” Bess’s shriek was hysterical, cutting me off: “Shut up! Don’t use that little animal as an excuse! Even dead, he’s not worth a single penny of mine!” “I’m warning you, if you don't pay up, breaking your legs will be the least of your worries!” The roar nearly shattered my eardrum. I slid powerlessly to the floor, tears streaming down my face. Around me, the nurses’ laughter continued to ripple. On the large screen visible outside the window, a loop played: Bess and Sawyer in a lavish embrace, a sweet, triumphant kiss. In that moment, everything inside me died. I used my last cash, kneeling until my knees were bruised and my forehead bloody outside the funeral home. They finally, begrudgingly, agreed to cremate my son. The roaring fire consumed everything. It burned away the last vestige of hope I had left, reducing it all to dust. I couldn’t even afford the urn. I stripped the shirt from my back, wrapping my son’s ashes inside, and carried him home. The moment I pushed open the front door, the cloying, clashing scent of perfume and stale cologne hit me. I gagged, a primal wave of nausea hitting me, and stumbled toward what used to be Noah’s small bedroom. Clothes were scattered everywhere, expensive silk and leather shoes, tangling around my ankles. They felt like mocking chains, celebrating my failure. I shook them off, but the filthy trace of their affair clung to me. The pain was so sharp it made my whole body tremble. I fought to keep the sobs down, reaching under Noah’s bed to pull out a creased, worn photograph. In the picture, I was smiling, holding Noah tight. Behind us, Bess stood with her back turned, her expression distant. She had always been cold to him. This stolen shot was his only cherished possession, his only memory of his mother. All I could do now was let it accompany him on his final journey. I carefully placed the photo inside the wrapped ashes and prepared to leave. Footsteps echoed just outside the door. “Well, well. If it isn’t the Sinclair house dog. Did someone peel you off the floor and send you home?” Sawyer leaned against the doorframe, his eyes full of contempt. I looked at him coldly, offering no response, just tightening my hold on the bundle in my arms. His eyes narrowed. He stepped forward, reaching out to snatch the makeshift shroud. “What did you take!” I held on desperately. “Don’t touch my things!” Sawyer let out a dismissive laugh. “What in this house is yours, Damon? Nothing.” “Even your wife is mine. A man who’s useless as you are should just kill himself.” He lifted his chin, proudly exposing the fresh, crimson marks of intimacy on his neck. It was a blatant provocation. Normally, I would have fought him to the death. But now, all I wanted was to give my son a proper rest. I didn't even lift my eyes, numbly trying to move past him and out the door. Sawyer suddenly erupted. He brutally kicked me hard in the lower back, yanked my hair, and tore the shirt—the bundle of ashes—from my grasp. “You dead weight! You don’t get to take anything of mine!” As he pulled, the shirt ripped, and the pale gray dust scattered across the hardwood floor. I let out a raw, desperate shriek, scrambling on my hands and knees, trying to gather the ashes with my bare fingers. A stiletto heel slammed down, crushing my hand. I followed the line of the leg up, meeting Bess’s gaze. She looked down at me, her eyes openly disgusted. “Damon Kincaid, you are truly repulsive.” Her icy voice was a razor blade slicing straight into my soul. I bit down hard, but the pain was too profound to articulate. Sawyer draped himself around Bess’s waist, feigning distress. “I just worried Damon might take something by mistake, but he suddenly lunged at me.” “I shouldn’t have interfered, I guess. After all, Damon is the man of the house… I deserve to be attacked.” I reached for the photo, my voice a painful, broken plea. “I’m sorry. I just want my things back.” “I promise I’ll disappear. I won’t ever appear in front of you again.” Bess’s eyes fell to the picture under her foot. She bent down, picked it up, and shook the ashes off it. The image of us became clear. She gave a small, light laugh, then, without a hint of hesitation, she tore it in half. “No!” I screamed, my eyes blazing with despair. “A useless piece of trash paper, and you treasure it so much. How pathetic.” The fragments drifted down, mimicking the pieces of my shattered heart. I raised my head, my throat hoarse. “Bess Sinclair, that was my son’s last memory! How could you destroy it?!” A flicker of doubt crossed Bess’s face. “Last memory?” I pushed myself up onto my knees, meeting her gaze, my lips trembling. “Noah is dead. Are you satisfied now?” A moment of heavy silence. I foolishly thought I might see a spark of remorse in her eyes. Instead, she laughed—a sudden, sharp bark of pure delight. “Good! That little mistake should never have existed.” “You weren’t actually expecting me to clean up his body, were you?” Her high, cutting laughter was a knife twisting in my heart. I froze. My vision blurred. A loud, ringing static filled my brain. Bess kept speaking, her words without a hint of human decency. “He’s dead, so what? Why are you telling me? Can I resurrect him?” “He had that idiot’s blood—your blood—in him. He was lower than a stray dog. He was a burden alive, and now he’s finally out of the way!” I covered my ears, desperate to block out the hateful sound. An endless, freezing coldness crept up from my feet. The last thread of hope I held snapped completely. She was truly incapable of guilt. Incapable of a single moment of regret. I clenched my fists, my nails digging deep into my palms. Blood traced paths down my fingers. “Bess Sinclair, do you even have a heart?” “Noah was your own flesh and blood! He was so small, and he’d fall asleep clutching your photo, calling for his mother!” “What crime did he commit for you to hate him so much you wanted him dead?!” My words hung in the air. Bess’s hand lashed out, an open-palmed slap across my face. “Who do you think you are to lecture me?!” “You two pathetic leeches, you eat my food and wear my clothes, and you dare to defy me?” “His crime was having a useless father like you!” I held my burning cheek, a trickle of blood wetting my lip. Sawyer stepped forward, a smug look in his eyes, but feigned concern. “I’m so sorry, Damon. I honestly didn’t know you’d wrap ashes in a shirt.” “But a dead person’s remains are bad luck. Why don’t I help you clean it up?” He reached for a handheld vacuum. A surge of hot adrenaline hit me. I lunged at him. Before I could reach him, Bess’s kick caught me square in the chest. I went flying backward, landing hard, coughing up blood onto the floor. “You dare to touch Sawyer?” “If you ever lay a hand on him again, I will make you beg for death!” I gasped for air, clutching my chest. My eyes were filled with desolate emptiness. “Bess,” I choked out. “Let’s get divorced.” She laughed as if I’d told the funniest joke. “Divorce? While you still owe me money? You think you have the right?” “Until the debt is paid, you are not leaving the Sinclair estate!” I gritted my teeth, pushing off the floor through the blinding pain. My eyes were wet, but I refused to let the tears fall. The kind, gentle Bess I married had died in the past. It was a pathetic joke that until today, I’d still hoped that she might remember our good times and that we could somehow return to what we once were. Through my blurring vision, I looked at her, my tone utterly final. “Fine. I’ll pay.” The moment the words left my mouth, I grabbed the heavy, decorative letter-opener from the side table and plunged it into my abdomen. The sound of the blade tearing skin and muscle was sickeningly loud in the silent room. Bess frowned, her pupils suddenly widening. I swallowed the metallic taste of blood and looked at her, a bitter smile on my face. “If I use my organs to pay you back, will that be enough?” Bess froze for a second, then her face twisted in fresh anger. “Damon Kincaid, what the hell are you doing?!” “Don’t think this pathetic trick will make me feel sorry for you!” The intense pain was a fire scorching my insides, yet it was nothing compared to the complete devastation of my heart. My blood pooled on the floor. “Not enough? Then again!” As if I felt nothing, I yanked the blade out and aimed it toward my chest. Bess lunged forward, snatching the letter-opener away. She was furious. “Are you crazy! How much is your miserable life worth anyway?!” “I’m warning you, you owe me every penny, and you will pay it back!” Sawyer, who was cowering behind her, tugged timidly on her sleeve. Bess immediately turned, tenderly wiping a fleck of my blood from his face, before violently shoving me to the ground. “If you want to die, do it somewhere else! Don’t scare Sawyer!” I struggled to my feet, gathering the final trace of ashes and the torn photograph, clutching them to my chest. Holding my bleeding abdomen, I staggered toward the door. “Thank you for letting me leave. I’ll send the divorce papers once the debt is cleared.” Bess scoffed, her voice laced with final contempt. “You? A worthless piece of filth no one would buy even if you tried selling yourself? You’ll never clear the debt in eight lifetimes!” “You’ll come crawling back to beg me!” I said nothing more. I gave her one last, cold look. Biting back the pain to remain conscious, I left that gilded cage. Sawyer held Bess’s arm affectionately, pretending concern while his eyes wished me the worst. “Is he just leaving, Gen? Should we be worried?” Bess glanced at me, her tone dismissive. “Don’t worry. That parasitic coward is too afraid of death to actually die.” My body swayed in the biting cold wind. But it was nothing compared to the agony in my heart. I’m sorry, Noah. Your dad failed you… I stumbled down the street, two long trails of blood marking my path. Ignoring the horrified, confused stares of passersby, I crawled to the Organ Donation Center. Lying on the cold operating table, my consciousness began to fade. A fragile smile touched my lips. I’m sorry, son. I couldn’t protect you. Let your father use this broken body to ensure you rest in peace. … A week later, Sawyer Maxwell’s exhibition opened as planned. Watching the throng of people, Bess felt a strange unease. A cold, nagging feeling that she had overlooked something vitally important. “Bess, what’s wrong? You look awful.” Sawyer walked over, his face etched with worry. She squeezed his hand, forcing a smile. “Nothing. Maybe I’m just a little tired.” When she closed her eyes, a fleeting image of Damon, covered in blood, flashed in her mind. Just then, her phone vibrated. A jolt of pure panic went through her. Her fingers trembled as she pulled out the device. The screen displayed a notification: a transfer of $15 Million.
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