Chapter 2
It was raining when I left the hotel. I stood under the awning, counting the cash in my wallet: $327. Not enough to pay for the shirt. My phone buzzed with a notification from the hospital. “Mr. Thompson, your test results are ready. Please come in for a follow-up as soon as possible.” I didn’t reply, shoving the phone back in my pocket. The screen had a crack in it, just like my heart. It was late when I got back to the office. The entire floor was dark except for the light still on in the finance room. When I pushed open the door, Emma the secretary was hunched over her computer reviewing accounts. She jerked her head up at the sound, eyes bloodshot behind her glasses. “Mr. Thompson… the East City project…?” I shook my head, tossing my suit jacket onto the couch. The wine-stained shirt had dried, clinging to my body in wrinkles like a layer of skin I couldn’t shed. Emma’s pen clattered onto the desk. She opened her mouth, but in the end just silently took out some stomach medicine from her drawer, pouring a glass of warm water and pushing it towards me. “Pay out the wages tomorrow and then let everyone go,” I said. The pill stuck in my throat, its bitterness spreading. “How much is left in the accounts?” “Including the transfer from your personal account, just enough for three months’ severance pay,” Emma said, her voice shaking slightly. “But sir, R&D’s new product launch is next month…” I held up a hand to cut Emma off. I believe there’s karma in this world. My father died in an accident shortly after my diagnosis. The Thompson family’s former glory left with him. Outside the window, neon lights flickered. The LED screen on the opposite building was playing Foster Group’s latest advertisement, Olivia’s delicate profile especially eye-catching in the night. Three years ago on that rainy night, I had stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows of the hospital, looking at the last message Olivia had sent me on my phone. “Ethan, the biggest regret of my life is ever loving you.” I had just received my stomach cancer diagnosis. The doctor’s words still echoed in my ears. “Late stage. Three years at most.” My phone suddenly vibrated—a notification from the auction house that the payment had gone through. I stared at that string of numbers for a long time before finally opening my banking app and transferring the entire amount to a long-dormant account. The memo field was blank. The cursor blinked on and off, as if mocking my cowardice.