Chapter 2

Monica hadn’t said a word yet, but Tim, standing silently beside her, broke into a wide grin, his voice dripping with satisfaction.

“Carter, I didn’t expect you to be this enlightened. Honestly, I should thank you for taking care of Monica all these years. Don’t worry—moving forward, I’ll take great care of her and your daughter.”

Monica acted as if she hadn’t heard him. Her hand gripped the pen so tightly her knuckles turned white. Then, out of nowhere, she snapped.

“Twenty years, Carter. Twenty years, and you pull this stunt now? What’s the point of all this? Can’t you just let things end peacefully?”

She leaned forward, her voice sharp and cutting.

“And what do you think happens after the divorce? Do you seriously believe I’ll let you stay at the company? A fifty-year-old man with no connections—what company would even take you? At least as my husband, you could live comfortably off our family’s wealth. But now? What’s your plan, huh?”

Her words, meant to sting, didn’t faze me in the slightest.

I gave a small, self-deprecating smile.

She was right—our daughter was old enough to be married. What was the point of me kicking up a fuss now?

Years ago, I used every resource I had—every favor, every ounce of credit—to bargain with the system for the chance to live a lifetime in this world.

The system had warned me, its tone clinical:

“You only get one shot at this. I have other hosts to assist. Once I leave, there’s no turning back. If you regret it later, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”

At the time, I wasn’t thinking about the consequences. My arms were wrapped around Monica, who was holding our newborn daughter. I was drunk on happiness, so much so that I’d promised with absolute certainty, “I’ll never regret it.”

But that was before Tim returned.

Before he destroyed the fragile illusion of our perfect life.

What I thought was happiness turned out to be nothing but a mirage.

Years ago, I’d considered leaving Monica. I even brought it up once, but our daughter had clung to my leg, sobbing, begging us not to divorce.

My mother scolded me then, too:

“You don’t know how lucky you are. As long as your name is on the marriage certificate, Tim can cause all the drama he wants, but it won’t affect your inheritance.”

I stayed, telling myself I was doing it for Julia. For my mother.

But I wasn’t happy.

I felt smothered.

This time, though, the brain tumor changed everything. Monica and Julia’s indifference, their coldness—it set me free.

Snapping out of my thoughts, I looked at Monica and replied, my voice calm:

“Monica, my life after this has nothing to do with you. Unless... are you actually concerned about me now?”

I knew she hated it when I acted like this—calm, detached, and impossible to provoke.

Sure enough, her face twisted as if she’d swallowed something bitter. She stared at me, disgusted, then snatched up the pen and scribbled her name onto the divorce papers.

“Fine,” she spat. “But don’t come crawling back later, crying and begging for another chance. You’re not stepping foot in the company again.”

With that, she grabbed Tim by the arm and stormed out, her heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor.

The house fell silent once again.

I sat on the couch, staring at the home I’d lived in for over twenty years.

Every piece of furniture, every decoration, was etched into my memory.

Yet, I felt like a stranger here—as if I’d always been just a guest.

After a while, hunger pulled me out of my daze.

I went to the kitchen and tossed out the half-prepped ingredients: beef, lamb, salmon—all the things Monica and Julia loved. Then, I boiled a simple pot of noodles for myself.

The noodles were plain, seasoned with nothing but a pinch of salt and oil.

As I ate, I thought back to the early days of my marriage.

Monica had been a spoiled heiress, completely unfamiliar with housework. Yet, for my birthday, she’d insisted on making me a bowl of noodles, tying an apron over her designer dress and covering herself in flour.

She’d burned her hand in the process, but she’d brushed off the injury, laughing as she urged me to eat.

“Eat up,” she’d said. “Longevity noodles for a long, happy life.”

The noodles had been terrible—thick and undercooked, the broth far too salty—but I ate every bite, convinced that Monica was my forever.

Now, her youthful face was just a blur in my memory.

A sharp pain shot through my head, pulling me back to the present. I grabbed the painkillers the doctor had prescribed and swallowed them dry.

When the pain subsided, I washed the dishes, dried my hands, and pulled out a suitcase to start packing.

It didn’t take long—most of the belongings in the house were Monica’s or Julia’s.

Once I finished, I went to the closet and retrieved an old chest I’d hidden away for years.

Inside were all the things I’d once cherished:

Ticket stubs from dates with Monica. Our wedding photos. A tie clip she’d given me as a gift.

Julia’s childhood drawings, her handwritten notes from school—all carefully preserved in plastic sleeves.

I carried the chest to the backyard, setting it on the firepit Monica and Tim used for their fancy dinner parties.

Then, without hesitation, I lit a match and watched the flames consume everything.

The firelight flickered across my face, but I felt nothing.

Suddenly, rain began to fall, snuffing out the fire in an instant.

I glanced down at the charred remains of the chest. Most of it had turned to ash. I didn’t bother inspecting it further.

Afterward, I deactivated all my social media accounts and deleted my contacts.

I’d always been a drifter, a man with no roots. Now, I was erasing myself entirely from Monica and Julia’s world.

Once my suitcase was packed, I drove to the office to hand off my responsibilities and clear out my desk.

As I packed up my things, my coworkers stopped by, their faces full of admiration.

“Carter, I can’t believe you’re retiring already! Monica must really adore you to let you step down so early. We’re all jealous!”

“Yeah, if I had a wife and kid like yours, I’d retire early too. Enjoy life, man.”

I forced a smile, saying nothing.

None of them knew the truth.

Over the years, Monica had built the image of a perfect marriage for the sake of the company. Publicly, we were the model couple—attending charity galas, buying luxury cars, and flaunting our wealth.

But every gift she “bought” for me ended up in Tim’s hands.

And I had to play along, pretending to be modest and frugal while she showered him with everything I’d supposedly been given.

As I carried my files out of the office, I overheard the HR manager giving instructions to a team.

“Get the new VP’s office ready,” he said, glancing at me briefly. “Make sure it’s perfect. Monica’s bringing in someone new.”

Curious, one of the employees asked, “Who’s the new VP?”

The HR manager smirked slightly, then revealed a nameplate:

“Vice President: Tim Evans.”