Ash’s legs were beginning to ache from the long walk, but he didn’t care. His shoes squelched softly with the water that had soaked through them when the bucket was poured over his head. The smell of detergent clung to him, sharp and sour, while patches of mud streaked his trousers where he had stumbled. His shirt stuck uncomfortably to his skin, damp and cold. But none of that compared to the heavy weight on his chest. He muttered to himself, fists clenched at his sides.Endure, Ash. Just endure. For Tessa. For Nora.His heart was heavy, yet his mind kept replaying every sneer, every laugh, every shove from the guards who pushed him away like he was garbage. The humiliation cut deeper than any wound.Then, a low hum broke into his thoughts. A car engine. A sleek, black vehicle slowed to match his stride, its headlights slicing through the shadows. Ash stiffened, his heartbeat quickening. “What now?” he muttered, refusing to look.The tinted window rolled down, smooth and deliberate,

Ash stood in front of his door, the handle cold beneath his trembling palm. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.He stared at the envelope.He couldn’t let her see. Not yet.He pushed the thought away, forcing himself to focus on the one place he still called “home.”The lock clicked open.His wife, Tessa, sat on the couch with her arms crossed, her expression already pinched tight in disapproval. She didn’t even have to say a word; Ash could feel her anger and frustration, he was too.“You’re late” Her voice was sharp, weary. “And you come home looking like that?” Her eyes darted to his shirt, to the stains, the smell. “Ash, what is it this time? Did you lose your driving job? Did you get kicked out again?”Ash dropped his eyes, setting his bag carefully near the door, away from her gaze. He couldn’t risk her curiosity leading her to open it.“I… it wasn’t my fault,” he muttered, his voice raw with exhaustion. “Things didn’t go as planned. But I’ll fix it. I always fix it.”Tessa l

“Drop me here,” President Langston muttered as they approached the lobby entrance. Ash slowed the car to a perfect halt, rolling the words carefully in his head. He had learned the hard way that one wrong response could draw unwanted scorn.The glass facade of Hawthorne International shimmered like a fortress of steel and ambition. Its sharp lines cut against the skyline, every inch screaming money, power, and distance from men like Ash. He drove carefully through the roundabout, hands steady on the leather wheel, even though the engine purred too smoothly for his nerves.Langston stepped out, adjusted his tie, then leaned down slightly into the open window. “I’ll need you back by three. Don’t be late. Park this car somewhere safe.” He ordered.Ash nodded quickly. “Yes, sir. I’ll be back by three.”Langston didn’t bother replying. He walked into the towering building, swallowed by revolving doors and polished marble.Ash sat still for a moment, his chest rising and falling in measured

Ash sat at the edge of the bed tugging his tie as if it was a noose. His wife was lying on the bed watching him.“Don’t forget to see your friend, Brooklyn. At least for Nora's school fees ” She reminded.Ash’s jaw tightened. His reflection glared back at him, weary but proud. He turned, kissed her forehead, and muttered, “I’ll handle it. Don’t worry yourself.”And then he was gone, shoulders squared like a soldier, pride covering the cracks she could see clear as day. She stood in the doorway long after, watching the street swallow him. Her chest ached.He would never go to Brooklyn. She didn't know what had transpired between them. Or his pride wouldn’t let him. But how long could pride feed a child? How long could pride pay for a brother’s bail?The thought made her throat tighten. Something had to be done.By midmorning, she had washed the dishes, swept the floor, and tied her wrapper tighter around her waist. She kept Nora in a neighbor's house, Mrs Mary. She never treated them l

Inside, Hawthorne International was alive with its usual buzz, assistants scurrying across polished floors, phones ringing, deals being struck in hushed voices. Ash felt out of place, a ghost drifting into a world that wasn’t his.And there he was. Mr. Langston. Adjusting his cufflinks with precise, measured movements, Langston didn’t immediately look up. He didn’t have to. His presence alone commanded silence.Ash swallowed hard.“Sir,” he managed, bowing slightly, as if respect alone could mask the panic rushing through him.Langston eyes lifted, icy and calculating. “You’re late.”Ash's throat closed. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.Langston stepped forward, his polished shoes clicking against the marble. He brushed an invisible speck of dust off his suit sleeve before tilting his head. “Keys.”Ash froze, but forced himself to nod. He pulled the keys from his pocket and placed them carefully in Langston’s waiting hand, praying, begging silently that fate would be mercif