Everyone in the group exchanged glances—Nathan, Camille, and the others—all wearing the same expression: disbelief. These security guards were actually blocking the wife of one of the building's priority residents? Vivienne‘s face flushed. Anger and humiliation surged through her simultaneously, leaving her unable to tell which emotion burned hotter. "Are you fucking blind, or have you all lost your minds?!" Her voice exploded through the lobby, sharp and furious. "I am Vivienne Calloway! Norman Calloway's wife! I’m a priority resident of this building! You have no right—" "Nuh, never heard of you.” The lead guard cut her off with a cold laugh. “And who the hell do you think you are? Some random bitch throwing a tantrum at the entrance?" “Get lost!” “This is a high-end residential community, not some place where any nobody can walk in whenever they want.” The guard looked at her with undisguised mockery. He wasn't afraid of her. Mr. Calloway had already given Mrs. Walker i

Twenty minutes later, the convoy of cars pulled up in front of a house on Elmwood Street. A residential area on the west side of Corholt—rows of neat but modest homes, streetlights that were half-dim, and front yards that had never quite been properly kept. Not a slum. Just... ordinary. But compared to the forty-second floor penthouse Vivienne had just walked out of tonight, this neighborhood looked like a dump. At one point, Norman had bought the Desmond family a house in Hartwell Heights—one of the most exclusive residential areas in Corholt, with a private garden, a three-car garage, and neighbors whose names regularly appeared in the city's business pages. A more than decent home. A home that frankly exceeded anything this family deserved. But the Desmonds had sold it at half price just to move it fast, blown through the money in a matter of days, and ended up here. On Elmwood Street. In a rented house with paint peeling at the corners. Camille and the others got out and

The next morning, Norman woke up before his alarm went off. He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling of his bedroom—the same ceiling, in the same apartment, but feeling completely different from the night before. Light. That was the only word for it. His body felt light in a way he hadn't experienced in a long time—or more precisely, had never experienced in his previous life, because before last night, that weight had been there so long he'd forgotten what it felt like without it. The memories from his previous life were still there. Clear, sharp, unfaded. Vivienne signing off on his death without a flicker of expression. The two of them engineering the accident. Twenty-two years of marriage that turned out to be nothing but scaffolding—a hollow frame built to keep him working, keep him producing, keep him from ever getting suspicious. That was no nightmare. It was worse than that. But it was over. Norman sat up on the edge of the bed, made one tight fist—hard enoug

Paul Shaw. Twenty-three years old. Dropped out of high school in his third semester. No diploma, no steady job, not a single accomplishment worth mentioning. What he did have was a worn-out leather jacket, a tongue that knew how to string pretty words together, and connections to a few street gangs on the east side of Corholt whose names showed up in criminal reports far more often than anywhere else. But somehow, with sweet words and sweeter promises, this bastard had managed to make Lily Calloway fall. Fall hard. Too hard. The more the family pushed back, the deeper Lily dug the hole for herself. As if every rejection from her parents was proof that her love for Paul was something special—something only the two of them could understand, and no one else ever could. Lily cried. Lily argued. Lily swore she would never marry anyone but Paul, no matter what her family said. And Paul—he just stood behind Lily and let her fight for the both of them. Then Lily got pregnant. Out of w

The more Norman remembered, the heavier his chest became. He remembered his father's face at the doorway of that warehouse—Charles Calloway, a man he had never once seen cry in his entire life, standing there with his mouth open and eyes that couldn't process what was in front of him. Not because he didn't want to. But because the human mind sometimes has its own defense mechanisms, refusing to accept a reality too crushing to swallow all at once. His mother collapsed on the spot. Her knees hit the dirty warehouse floor, and the sound that came out of her was beyond crying. Both of them fell ill almost immediately after. No one ever said it out loud, but everyone in the Calloway family understood—there are wounds that push past the body's ability to carry them. And wounds like that don't need a weapon to kill. Charles suffered a heart attack two weeks later. In a hospital bed, with oxygen tubes and a softly beeping monitor, the man who had built the Calloway family empire from n