One hundred and forty billion reasons

The Grand Celestine Hotel blazed with golden light, its marble facade glowing against the night sky like a monument to wealth. Rohen Ashtekar stood at the edge of the circular driveway, his navy valet blazer stretched tight across his shoulders, gold trim tarnished from too many shifts. His hands, calloused from opening car doors, scarred from scraping ice off windshields in winter, trembled as he adjusted his crooked name tag.

He didn’t belong here. Not tonight.

Through the towering glass doors, he could see them: the Veymar family and their glittering circle of elites, champagne flutes raised beneath crystal chandeliers. An orchestra played something classical and expensive. Women draped in diamonds laughed behind manicured hands. Men in tailored tuxedos discussed mergers and yachts.

And at the center of it all sat Matriarch Isolde Veymar, sixty-eight years of cold aristocracy wrapped in emerald silk.

Rohen pushed through the entrance.

The music didn’t stop, but conversations did. Heads turned. Eyes narrowed with recognition and disdain.

“Is that—”

“The valet?”

“What’s he doing inside?”

Olivier Veymar, Isolde’s golden-boy grandson, spotted him first. He stood near the champagne tower in a custom Armani suit, his smirk sharp as a blade. “Did someone let the help in through the front door?”

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

Rohen’s jaw tightened, but he scanned the room desperately. He needed to find someone—anyone—with a shred of compassion. His sister Mira was dying. The autoimmune disease ravaging her kidneys had progressed beyond the medications the public hospital could provide. She needed experimental treatment. Treatment that cost more than Rohen would earn in ten lifetimes of parking cars.

Treatment that Isolde Veymar had been funding. Until three days ago.

A woman in pearls whispered loudly to her companion, “Heard he parks cars for pocket change. How does Lira stand the smell of gasoline on him?”

Rohen forced himself forward, weaving through clusters of guests who stepped aside as if poverty were contagious. His wife Lira stood near the grand staircase, elegant in a simple gray dress that looked plain beside her cousins’ designer gowns. Her eyes found his—wide, pleading, terrified.

She shook her head slightly. Don’t.

But he had no choice.

Rohen approached the center of the ballroom where Matriarch Isolde held court on a velvet throne-like chair, surrounded by fawning relatives. She noticed him immediately, her expression cooling to frost.

“Matriarch Isolde.” Rohen’s voice came out rougher than he intended. “Please. I need to speak with you about Mira’s treatment. The hospital said—”

“I know what the hospital said.” Isolde’s voice cut through the murmur of the crowd like a scalpel. “I instructed them to cease all payments.”

The room went silent.

Rohen felt his chest tighten. “She’ll die without it.”

“That,” Isolde said, setting down her champagne with deliberate precision, “is no longer my concern.”

“She’s seventeen years old—”

“And you are a leech.” Isolde rose from her seat, and the crowd parted for her like subjects before a queen. “For two years, this family has carried your burden, sheltered you, fed you, tolerated your presence in my granddaughter’s life. And what have you given us in return? Humiliation. A son-in-law who reeks of car exhaust and can’t afford to buy his wife a decent meal.”

Rohen’s fists clenched at his sides. “I work. I provide—”

“You provide nothing.” Olivier stepped forward, joining his grandmother. “You’re a stain on this family’s reputation.”

The guests murmured agreement. Rohen saw the cruelty in their eyes, the way they savored his humiliation like fine wine.

Isolde circled him slowly, appraising him like a particularly disappointing piece of livestock. “However, I am not without mercy. I will restore your sister’s funding. On one condition.”

Hope flared in Rohen’s chest, desperate and painful.

“Divorce Lira.”

The words landed like a punch to the gut. Across the room, Lira gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.

“No.” The word came out instantly, reflexively.

Isolde’s smile was thin and poisonous. “Then your sister dies. The choice is yours.”

Olivier laughed, and others joined in. Someone—Rohen couldn’t see who, called out, “Make it interesting! How much is he worth?”

“I’ll bid three million for the divorce!” a portly man in the back shouted.

“Four million!” another voice joined.

Rohen stood frozen as the crowd transformed his marriage, his dignity, into a spectacle. Numbers flew through the air like confetti. Five million. Six million. The guests treated it as entertainment, their faces flushed with champagne and malice.

Then a familiar voice cut through the chaos.

“Eight million.”

Dante Severan emerged from the crowd, impeccably dressed, his expression smug. Rohen had known Dante since university, had watched him pursue Lira relentlessly, offering her wealth and status she’d always refused. Now he stood there like a victor claiming his prize.

“Eight million dollars,” Dante repeated, stepping closer to Rohen. “More than you’ll earn in a hundred lifetimes. Take it. Set your sister free. Set Lira free to be with a man who can actually provide for her.”

The room held its breath.

Rohen looked at Lira. She was crying now, silent tears streaming down her face, shaking her head.

He looked at Isolde, at Olivier, at Dante, at the sea of cruel, expectant faces.

And he felt something crack inside him—not his resolve, but his fear. What did he have left to lose? They’d already taken everything but his pride.

“No.” His voice rang clear and hard across the ballroom. “No amount of money will ever make me abandon my wife. And my sister will survive without your blood money.”

Isolde’s face darkened. “You fool—”

“I’m done.” Rohen turned toward Lira, meeting her eyes one last time. “I’m done begging from people who think compassion can be bought and sold.”

He walked toward the exit, his uniform suddenly feeling less like a mark of shame and more like armor. Behind him, the crowd erupted in laughter and jeers.

“He’ll be back!” Olivier called out. “Crawling on his knees!”

“Let him go,” Isolde said coldly. “Let him watch his sister die knowing he chose pride over her life.”