Chapter 2

After a sleepless night, I left the house like a zombie.

The mortgage loomed like a mountain on my shoulders. Even time to grieve was a luxury.

Between the intense work and my depression, I was dazed when an oncoming luxury car hit me.

Ironically, the person who got out of the car was Isabelle.

Seeing me covered in wounds, she froze.

"Call the police. Call an ambulance."

I was pinned under my scooter, my phone knocked away. All I could do was ask Isabelle for help, my face covered in blood.

She said nothing, until Tristan Harrington got out of the car and naturally put his arm around her.

"What, you know him?"

Isabelle blurted out, "I don't know him! He's just some delivery guy!"

In that moment, the tearing pain in my heart far exceeded any physical suffering.

"Fucking bad luck. Running into some broke asshole first thing in the morning trying to scam us."

Tristan Harrington spat at me, then turned and hooked his arm around Isabelle's waist. "Don't bother with him. He won't die. I've got plenty of money-I'd rather pay lawyers than give these poor dogs anything."

She looked back at me hesitantly a few times, then pressed her lips together and resolutely got in the car.

Exhaust swept across my face as I lay paralyzed in the road, my eyes caked with blood, my ribs stabbing with every breath.

I lay in the road for twenty minutes. Finally a passerby called an ambulance and got me to the hospital.

"Mr. Morgan, surgery requires family consent. Please contact your family."

Seeing my silence, the doctor added awkwardly, "These are hospital rules. We all have to follow procedures."

With the only finger I could move, I called Isabelle.

Against the noisy background of a bar, Isabelle lowered her voice. "Didn't I tell you not to call during work hours?"

Even though I was prepared, my chest still tightened with pain. "Come to the hospital to sign something. It'll only take a few minutes."

Suggestive sounds came through the phone, along with Isabelle's uneven breathing.

"It's just minor injuries. Are you really making such a big deal?"

"Derek, it's bad enough you have no ambition and deliver food. Don't cause problems and stress me out."

With that, she hung up.

When I called again, there was only the cold automated message that the phone was off.

Right. I was just a delivery guy. How could I compare to a flashy rich heir?

He wore tailored suits and threw money around, while I wore sweat-soaked t-shirts and raced against time for each delivery.

I looked at my sun-darkened, peeling arms and felt both pathetic and ridiculous.

Why bother?

I had billions in family assets I could claim, but I chose to eat bitterness I didn't have to.

"Mr. Morgan, contact family as soon as possible. Any more delay and we might have to amputate."

The doctor's words snapped me back to reality.

After five years, I dialed that long-unused number again.

"Dad, come to the hospital to sign for me."