After the divorce from Anastasia Stacey, the only option left was a quiet kind of downgrade. I married a woman who spoke little, wore faded, thrift-store T-shirts, and always had her hair pulled back into a hasty, messy knot. She’d haggle over every fifty cents at the grocery store. My old friends, the ones who still spoke to me, would look at my life and make condescending jokes: "Your lifestyle took a hit, Cal, but did your taste have to as well?" I just laughed it off. “I told them how I’d smashed Paul Hayes’s laptop into his head in front of the entire Stacey Capital board,” I’d say. “Anastasia sacrificed me to save him. The fallout was nuclear. I was an untouchable after that.” “When I got out of prison, the shame was a physical thing. Dogs would cross the street to avoid me. I was lucky anyone would have me.” As I spoke, my hand moved with practiced precision, filleting a fresh halibut. I bagged it for the customer and called out to the next person in line. “Fresh catch, ma’am. Take your pick.” The person froze, and then a shaky, unmistakable voice whispered, “Cal... you did all this... just to hurt me? To punish me for sending you away?” 1 I didn't look up. My dulling fillet knife slammed down on the wood block, scattering scales and blood-tinged water onto the tiled floor. Anastasia Stacey stood there. She was wearing a perfectly tailored, unbothered cream suit that looked wildly out of place next to the stench of the fish market. She stared at my hands. They were raw, chapped, covered in shallow cuts and the winter frostbite. Those hands used to type memos and sign multi-million dollar contracts; now they were coarse and stiff, like dry driftwood. “If you’re not buying, move along. There’s a line behind you.” I wiped my hands on the front of my apron and reached for the next customer's basket—an elderly man named Mr. Rodriguez. Being ignored seemed to be the worst insult. Anastasia’s composure cracked. She stepped forward and, in a flash of manic impulse, swiped my knife off the counter. It clattered on the concrete floor, bouncing twice. “Calvin Brooks, the youngest executive in Stacey Capital history, a Finance grad from Stanford, is gutting fish?” She practically yelled the last part, her voice a mix of disbelief and tightly coiled rage. It drew the eyes of the surrounding vendors and the morning shoppers. “Do you think this is going to make me feel sorry for you? Do you think I’ll regret testifying against you?” Her eyes were overflowing with the kind of high-society pity that felt worse than contempt. She clearly believed I was performing, trying to use my own degradation to manipulate her. I bent down and picked up the knife, rubbing it against my rough canvas apron. “Ma’am.” I kept my voice flat. “That knife cost me thirty dollars. You’ve chipped the blade. You owe me.” I looked at her, then turned to Mr. Rodriguez. “And I don’t know you.” Anastasia was stunned. She was prepared for a fight, for tears, for an apology—but not for a petty demand for thirty dollars. The crowd began to buzz. “Who is that woman? Dressed like she’s on a magazine cover, coming here to hassle a decent man.” “Looks like an old flame. She’s probably here to gloat now that he’s down on his luck.” “He works hard. She needs to mind her own business.” The whispers drilled into Anastasia’s ears. Her face cycled through shades of white and pink. Her assistant, standing awkwardly behind her, made a move to intervene, but she waved him away. She fixed her stare on me, trying to find some trace of the adoration I used to have for her. There was nothing left. Only a profound, dead emptiness. “Stop playing dumb, Cal.” She ground out the words, lowering her voice to a furious hiss. “Your father would spin in his grave if he saw you like this. Your hands were meant to sign documents, not scoop out guts! If you needed money, why didn’t you go to a proper firm? With your background…” She paused, a sharp, cold smile forming on her perfect lips. “Oh, I forgot.” “You have a felony record. I made sure of that.” “So, what is this? A spiteful act of revenge?” The familiar, self-righteous arrogance returned to her face. I ignored her. I turned back to the tank, netted a fresh red snapper, and brought it to the block. I pressed down, the knife moving expertly. Fish blood sprayed out, splattering directly onto the hem of her designer skirt. Anastasia flinched back, a look of visceral disgust crossing her face. I packaged the fish without a word, handing the bag to Mr. Rodriguez. “That’s twenty-five, sir. The QR code is on the wall.” I never looked at her. That blank dismissal was the only weapon I had left. She pulled out a crisp, white linen handkerchief, her hand hovering as if to wipe the specks of blood from my face. I tilted my head away. The handkerchief froze in mid-air. “Ma’am.” I pointed to the wall. “The knife was thirty. Loss of business is twenty. Total, fifty dollars.” “Pay up and stop wasting my time.” 2 Anastasia’s hand dropped. She crumpled the pristine handkerchief in her tight fist. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she struggled to contain her fury. “Money? Is that all you want?” She sneered, pulling out her checkbook and quickly scrawling a number. Then she pulled a thick wad of cash from her wallet. Splat. She tossed it all—the check and the cash—onto the blood-and-guts-covered counter. “Shut down your stand,” she commanded, her tone brooking no argument. “Come have lunch with me and let’s talk. This is enough for you to sell fish here for a year.” A collective gasp went through the crowd. The stack of bills was easily three or four thousand dollars—a fortune to the market workers. Anastasia stood tall, waiting for me to break down in humiliated rage and throw the money back at her. The old Cal would have. He couldn't stand being insulted. I looked at the wet, blood-stained bills. I didn’t hesitate. I snatched the damp pile of cash, weighed it in my palm, and stuffed it into my tattered, sewn-up leather waist pouch. “Thank you, boss.” I gave her a curt nod, devoid of any shame. “Anything else? Need me to scale or gut another one?” Anastasia’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Cal… are you serious?” Her voice trembled, her pointing finger shaking. “Have you no dignity left?” “You once froze me out for three days because I didn’t get you a limited edition watch. And now, for this petty cash, you’ll drop all your pride?” I pulled off my fish-stained apron. Underneath, I was wearing a faded, cheap T-shirt with a stretched-out collar. “Dignity, how much does that cost a pound?” I countered, grabbing a nearby hose to rinse the grime off my worn boots. “Let’s go. You wanted lunch, right? But first, a warning: I won’t get past the host stand at any of your high-end places. I don’t meet the dress code.” Anastasia was speechless. She just scowled and followed me. I led her out the back, through the narrow, reeking alleyway behind the market. It was the access point to the run-down walk-up where I lived. The ground was slick with sewage and rotting produce. The air hung heavy with a mildewed stench. Anastasia picked her way along, terrified of ruining her expensive leather heels. “Walk two blocks in these shoes, and you’ll understand why I love cash,” I said, not looking back. At the alley mouth, our landlady, Dolores, was blocking the path, cracking sunflower seeds. Seeing me, she spat out the shells immediately. “Hey, Cal! That power bill from last month? Pay up or I’m shutting off your unit!” “Just opened shop, Dolores. Right now.” I offered a conciliatory smile and pulled out a few of the bills Anastasia had just given me. I handed them over without counting. Dolores’s face instantly softened. “Oh, look at you, hitting the jackpot! Alright, alright. I’ll give you a few more days.” A little further down, Mr. Rodriguez, the junk collector, was pushing his overloaded cart, its wheel jammed in a pothole. I didn't hesitate; I ran over and helped him heave it free. Afterward, I didn’t forget to haggle. “Mr. Rodriguez, you stiffed me fifty cents on that last batch of cardboard. Gotta square up today.” Anastasia stood watching, her face growing paler, her expression tightening with every transaction. She watched me scrape for pennies, nod humbly to my landlady, and navigate this suffocating, lower-class world with utter familiarity. The stark reality of it was like a series of hard slaps to her face. Finally, she broke. She grabbed my arm and pulled me to a stop. “Stop it!” she hissed. “Cal, stop the act.” “I don’t believe you can live like this. Move out. I’ll find you an apartment. I’ll get you a job.” She pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. “I’m transferring you a million dollars.” “Just promise me I never have to see you embarrass yourself in a place like this again.” She was desperately trying to use her wealth to wash away her own guilt, or perhaps just to buy back her peace of mind—to prove that she hadn’t completely destroyed me. I stood still, letting her work. A few seconds passed. Ding. It wasn't the successful transfer notification. It was a failure message. Anastasia frowned, confused. “What? Bad service?” She tried again. Failure. The system notification flashed: Recipient account frozen due to 'judgment debtor' status. Restriction on high-value transactions. Anastasia’s hand froze mid-air. She slowly looked up at me. I met her gaze, a sharp, bitter smile twisting my lips. “Mrs. Stacey, you forget so easily.” “Three years ago, to force my hand, you personally filed the motion to freeze all my assets and blacklist my credit.” “It seems the system you built is still standing.” Anastasia’s face went white. She opened her mouth to argue, but no sound came out. The very tool she had used to break me was now the wall preventing her "charity." The irony was delicious. A deep engine rumble cut through the alley’s noise. A black Maybach pulled up, ridiculously conspicuous. The door opened. A polished, custom-made leather shoe stepped out. I looked at the car and spoke to Anastasia, my tone completely neutral. “Your husband is here.” “Aren’t you going to greet him?” 3 Paul Hayes emerged from the car, immaculate in a bespoke Armani suit. A limited-edition Patek Philippe glinted on his wrist—the very one Anastasia had purchased at auction last month as an anniversary gift. He pulled off his sunglasses, his eyes darting between Anastasia and me. Then, he pasted a warm, sympathetic smile onto his face and rushed over. “Ana, darling, what are you doing in a place like this?” He slipped an arm around her waist, clinging to her possessively, while his eyes cut me like razor wire. “Ugh, what an awful smell!” He clapped a hand over his nose and dramatically backed up, fanning the air with his free hand. “This stench is sickening. Let’s get you out of here, Ana.” He grimaced, the disgust entirely unfeigned. Anastasia’s body stiffened, but she didn’t push him away. She only looked at me with that same complex, unreadable expression. Paul, seeing my silence, moved closer, feigning sudden recognition. “Oh my God, is that Cal?” He covered his mouth in mock shock. “How could you… how did it come to this?” He extended a hand, as if to pat my shoulder, but stopped short, clearly afraid of contaminating himself. “Cal, I know you were distraught when you smashed my work laptop and nearly cost me my career…” He touched his immaculate new laptop bag, his eyes instantly welling up. “But I forgave you a long time ago. You weren’t in a stable place. Seeing you like this… it truly breaks my heart.” He looked on the verge of tears. Anastasia, whose face had been etched with a flicker of regret, hardened instantly. The memory of the violence erased any nascent pity. “Hey, Cal, how much for this fish?” Paul suddenly changed tack, pointing to the bag in my hand. “Since we ran into you, I have to support your business, right?” He reached out to take the bag from me. I didn’t let go. “Mr. Hayes, your hands are too precious to touch garbage.” I tried to lower the bag to the ground. Paul, however, made a sudden, exaggerated grab for it. “Oh, don’t be shy, buddy!” In that moment, whoosh. The bag turned over. The water, along with the dead fish, spilled out, soaking me completely. My already filthy T-shirt was now drenched and clinging to my chest. “Oops! I am so sorry, so clumsy!” Paul yelped, leaping back to avoid the spill. “This fish is so slippery!” As he cried out, his eyes were glued to Anastasia’s reaction. Seeing her scowl, he instantly changed his tone. He pointed at the fish on the ground and shouted: “Cal, is this fish spoiled? The smell is rank! Are you selling rotten fish to people? What if someone gets sick? And I heard that, you know, being in prison, you can sometimes pick up…” He trailed off, but the implication was clear. The surrounding neighbors and shoppers, who were already enjoying the spectacle, leaned in closer. “What disease? Is it contagious?” “Selling bad fish is terrible. I won’t buy from him again.” The tide of public opinion instantly turned against me. For a street vendor, a bad reputation is a death sentence. I stood there, letting the dirty water drip from my hair. My face was expressionless. Instead of lunging at him like I had three years ago, I simply bent down and scooped the fish back into the bag. Then I stood up, looking Paul straight in the eye. “Mr. Hayes.” My voice was quiet, but every word cut through the noise. “My fish were delivered this morning. The people on this block have been eating them for six months without issue.” I glanced pointedly at his slick, over-gelled hair. “The only way this fish is dead is if it was poisoned by the hair gel dripping off your expensive head.” A wave of laughter rippled through the onlookers. Paul’s face turned the color of raw liver. “You!” He pointed a trembling finger at me. “Cal is honest. He never cheats anyone,” Dolores chimed in, chewing loudly on her seeds. “Right,” Mr. Rodriguez agreed, pushing his cart closer. “He’s a good man. You rich folks should stop bullying him.” The public tide instantly swung back. The working-class crowd disliked Paul’s pompous cruelty far more than my supposed crime. Paul turned to Anastasia for backup. “Ana, look at him…” Anastasia looked at me, soaking wet but standing ramrod straight. A look of sheer, miserable irritation flashed in her eyes. She clearly found the entire scene mortifying. “Enough!” she snarled, yanking her arm out of Paul’s grasp. “Haven’t you made enough of a scene?” 4 After snapping at Paul, Anastasia turned her attention back to me. Her brow was deeply furrowed, her gaze a high-handed judgment. “Cal, if you’d been half this level-headed three years ago, you wouldn’t have gone to prison.” Her tone was filled with a patronizing disappointment. “If you hadn't been so impulsive, so violent, we wouldn’t have ended up here. This is all your fault.” I felt a sudden, cold wave of laughter rise in my chest. Three years ago, at the shareholder meeting, Paul had leaned in and whispered to me, “Your parents’ car crash was karma. They were in Anastasia’s way.” Then he’d added, “She’s been mine all along. She tells me that every time she’s in my bed.” I’d lost control. I’d grabbed the first thing I saw—a laptop—and thrown it. Anastasia only saw the assault. She didn’t listen to a single word of my explanation. To protect Paul and for the sake of what she called “integrity,” she’d handed the evidence to the police herself. And now, she was standing here, lecturing me on self-control? “Mrs. Stacey is right,” I conceded, wiping the water from my face. My voice was hoarse. “I deserved it.” “I was blind.” Anastasia’s face darkened. “What is that supposed to mean?” She pulled another stack of bills—maybe six hundred dollars—from her wallet and, adding it to the damp pile on the counter, pushed it all toward me. “Paul was childish and ruined your work space. Take this, go buy some clean clothes.” “Don’t make a spectacle of yourself here. Go home.” Paul, though chastised, smirked, seeing his wife use money to shame me. He assumed a man like me would gratefully pocket the cash. After all, what is pride worth when you’re worried about the rent? I looked down at the money, then up at Anastasia’s self-satisfied expression. I reached into my patched-up pouch and took out the cash she had given me earlier—the blood-stained, wet bills. I grabbed the new stack, balled it all up, and threw it with force straight at her chest. Thwack. Anastasia was stunned. Paul was stunned. “I don’t want it,” I said, looking her dead in the eye, each word heavy and deliberate. “Your money is filthy.” “Take your dirty cash and get out of my sight.” Anastasia exploded. She had never been treated with such contempt, especially not by the man who had once worshiped her. “Calvin!” She shrieked, the veins in her neck bulging. “Stop this pathetic performance! What do you have now besides the stench of fish?” “Your life is ruined! Who else in the world would even look at you now, except me?” Paul seized the opportunity, his voice dripping with malice. “Now, Ana, don’t upset yourself. Cal’s current situation is truly regrettable.” He looked me up and down with vicious contempt. “He can’t even hold down a proper job, let alone get married and start a family.” “I mean, I hear men who’ve spent time inside… their bodies, you know…” He paused, letting the rumor hang in the air. “Who would risk marrying him? He’ll probably die alone and childless.” My hands clenched into fists, my fingernails digging crescents into my palms. I was about to break. Just before the explosion, a rush of tiny footsteps echoed in the alleyway. A small figure burst through, crashing right into my legs. A boy, maybe two or three years old, wearing a clean but faded little tank top. He wrapped his arms tightly around my thigh, looked up, and called out in a clear, happy voice: “Daddy!”
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "390704", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel