Jackson Milton learned very quickly what silence sounded like. It wasn’t quiet, it screamed. He sat in the living room long after night had swallowed the city, the television off, the lights dimmed to a dull amber glow that did nothing to warm the space. The house… his house felt foreign now. Like a hotel he’d overstayed in. Like a place already preparing to forget him. His phone lay in his palm, there were no new notifications, no calls, no messages. Not from Helen, not from his father who wants nothing to do with him… and worse yet none from Dianna. He refreshed his inbox anyway, hoping but nothing! “Don’t do this,” he muttered, thumb hovering over Dianna’s name again. He told himself he wasn’t begging that he was explaining. That was the lie he clung to, he dialed. It rang once and then twice. Then it went completely dead. Straight to voicemail, Jackson’s chest tightened painfully. He stood abruptly, pacing the length of the room like a caged animal

The days bled into nights, every ticking second brought Jackson closer to a cell that would swallow him whole. Then, amid despair, Harry stopped pacing. His eyes sharpened. “There is someone,” he said slowly. Sarah looked up, hollow-eyed. “Who?” Harry swallowed hard. “Steven.” The room went dead silent immediately. Helen stared at him. “After everything we did?” “What choice do we have?” Harry replied bitterly, “He has the money… the influence.” “And every reason to refuse,” Sarah whispered. Harry exhaled. “Then we beg.” The word tasted like ash, but desperation stripped dignity without mercy. A message was sent, not a demand, not a justification or a plea. The response came the next morning, Steven Kahuna would see them. Not at his office, not at his home but at one of his resorts. He decided, short, precise and controlled, he had decided that he would listen but on his own terms. And for the first time in their lives, the Milton's prepared not as a po

Not long after, a call came when the mansion was at its quietest. Not the peaceful kind of quiet but the kind that settles after disaster, when even the walls seem to listen. The Milton residence, once alive with staff, advisers, and constant movement, now was a shadow of what it once was. Too large for the four people inside it and too heavy with what had been lost. The phone rang once and then the sound echoed sharply against marble and glass. No one moved, it rang again a little more longer this time, insistent and unapologetic. Helen flinched, her spine stiffened as though the sound itself carried intent. She exchanged a brief glance with Sarah, then with Harry, but neither spoke. Jackson sat stiffly in an armchair, his hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles had gone white. The phone rang a third time, “I’ll get it,” Helen said, forcing the words out. She crossed the room slowly, every step heavier than the last. Her fingers hovered over the phon

The elevator doors slid open with a muted chime. Ding!! Jackson stepped out at exactly 6:57 a.m. Too early would look desperate and too late would be unforgivable. The corridor leading to Steven Kahuna’s private office was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that made a man painfully aware of his own breathing. Floor-to-ceiling glass reflected Jackson back at himself, his well pressed suit, rigid posture, eyes shadowed by sleeplessness. He looked composed, but inside, his nerves were stretched thin, pulled tight like wire. An assistant approached him with professional calm. “Mr. Milton,” she said. “You may go in.” Today there was no waiting and that alone unsettled him. Steven Kahuna’s office was vast but restrained, there was no unnecessary luxury. Everything had a purpose, dark wood, clean lines, a panoramic view of the city below like a kingdom laid bare. Steven stood by the window, his back to the door. Jackson stopped a few feet in, unsure whether to

Day forty-five did not arrive quietly as a normal day would rather, it crashed into Jackson like a cold slap to the face. He woke before dawn, heart racing, the taste of metal sharp on his tongue. For a split second, he didn’t know where he was—then the weight returned all at once. The room, the house, even the clock and worse the number 45 glared at him from his phone screen like an accusation. There was just fifteen days left to come up with such a huge amount of money and he was yet to get even half of it. Jackson sat up slowly, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together as if in prayer, except he wasn’t asking for mercy anymore. He was past that stage, mercy had been offered once, and it had come with a price tag and a countdown. Now there was only what he had, what he owed and worse what time was stealing. He stood and went to the mirror, the man staring back looked thinner and very stressed. His eyes were darker now, permanently shadowed, like someone who h