2025-06-05 06:19:28Carl’s walkie-talkie buzzed as he called Amanda. She quickly showed up at the gate, annoyed. “Why’s he here?”
Jake leaned close to the gate, speaking quietly but firmly, looking at Carl. “Tell Amanda I’m not signing the divorce papers yet. I want to save our marriage.” It was a lie, but he said it anyway.
He noticed Carl’s sympathetic look and hoped Amanda’s guilt would let him in. Carl passed on the message, Amanda sighed. “Fine, let him in. But keep an eye on him.”
The gate buzzed and opened. Carl grinned. “You’re pathetic, Jake. Good luck.” Jake nodded, looking defeated.
Their insults only pushed him harder to follow his plan: take their abuse, get into their house, get what's rightfully his, and get his revenge.
He walked up the gravel path and saw Amanda at the mansion door, wearing a sharp navy dress, her eyes showing both pity and irritation. “You’re embarrassing me, Jake,” she said coldly, though her voice shook slightly. “You can stay in the guest room. Don’t touch anything.”
“Thanks, Amanda,” Jake mumbled, keeping his head down. His phone buzzed with a text from Lila: Holt’s at Pier 20, I'm Watching. Jake ignored it, focusing on the Carters. “I’d play the fool for now”.
As he dragged his feet toward the guest room, his sneakers scuffed against the mansion’s polished marble floors. The room they gave him was small, dusty, and far from where he needed to be. Useless. Richard’s study, full of locked files, was down the hall. Diane’s laptop, often left open in the foyer, was his best bet. He had to be nearby if he wanted to catch anything.
He spotted Amanda standing under the chandelier, in her sharp navy dress, he walked hurriedly to her.
"Amanda," he said, with a calm voice, "I can’t stay in that guest room. We’re still married—I should be near you.”
She looked at him with an annoyed expression, but for a brief moment, her face showed that she felt guilty.
“Fine,” she snapped. “Across from my room. But don’t get any ideas, Jake.”
He nodded and moved into the new room. It wasn’t much—peeling wallpaper, an old bed—but it was right across from Amanda and Ethan’s room.
The morning sun didn’t do Jake any favors, just casting a harsh light on his reality as Amanda knocked on his door, with a loud voice. “Get up, Jake! My Lamborghini’s a mess, and you’re at least good for cleaning it,” she snapped.
Out in the sticky Chicago morning heat, Jake scrubbed the sleek yellow car, sweat dripping into the soap suds while Greg lounged on the porch, smirking. “Nice work, carwash boy,” he taunted, enjoying the show. Amanda marched out, tossing a rag at Jake like he was nothing. “Done? Good. Drive me to the firm, but don’t you dare step foot in my Lambo—your raggedy clothes would ruin it, you won't enter one in your lifetime.
Take your beat-up Honda and follow me, but keep your distance. I don’t want that junk heap scratching my car.” Her words burned him but Jake just swallowed his pride and mumbled, “Yes, ma’am.” As he followed her roaring Lamborghini in his rattling old Honda, the wide gap between their cars was like a spotlight on his shame.
At Carter & Associates, Jake walked behind Amanda, holding her fancy briefcase. His old sneakers squeaked on the shiny floor, and the staffs around started whispering and staring—“There goes Amanda’s stray dog,” someone said.
Amanda didn’t care about the attention. She looked back and said, “Jake, wipe my desk. Your hands are already dirty, so you might as well use them.” A few paralegals laughed while he grabbed a cloth and started cleaning. Then she added loud enough for everyone to hear, “Be careful not to mess it up, you’re not used to handling expensive stuff.”
She shoved a stack of coffee-stained files into Jake’s arms. “Shred these,” she said sharply, “and don’t bother trying to read them—you wouldn’t understand anyway.” A nearby clerk laughed under their breath, “What is he now, her maid?” Amanda just smirked and said, “Exactly.”
Jake’s hands trembled as he pushed the papers into the shredder. Amanda let out a loud, annoyed sigh and said, “God, Jake, you’re embarrassing,” and that stung more than everyone laughing at him. Greg, lounging in a chair nearby, flicked a paperclip at him with a smirk. “Fetch, loser,” he said, grinning.
Jake’s stomach rumbled as he stepped into the dining room the next morning. The rich smell of bacon and eggs filled the air, making his hunger even worse. Diane, Amanda’s mother, looked at him her face like she was irritated.
“You don’t eat with us, Jake,” she snapped. “Sit on the floor.”
His cheeks burned with shame, but he said nothing, he sat on the cold marble floor with his knees tucked under him.
Amanda glanced over, her eyes full of something close to pity.
“You’re taking me to the market today,” she said. “So stuff something in your mouth and wait outside. Hurry up.”
Previous Chapter
Latest Chapter
Chapter Six Hundred and Thirty
A hundred and fifty years after Jake Sullivan walked into the river, the canyon woke to find Jake’s apple waiting on the bare ground as it always did (perfect, red, warm).Only this year the apple was split cleanly in half, as though someone had taken one deliberate bite and set the rest back down.No one had touched it. No child had been brave enough. No elder had been curious enough.The two halves lay side by side in the grass, juice still glistening, scent drifting across the square like a memory that refused to stay buried.By sunrise the entire settlement had gathered (five, maybe six thousand now, spread across both rims and down the river valley). They stood in a quiet circle the way their great-grandparents once had around a dying silver tree.Ember Sullivan (Asha’s granddaughter, ninety-one years old, hair the color of late snow, eyes still sharp enough to map a ridge by starlight) knelt and lifted one half of the apple.She did not hesitate.She bit.The taste rolled th
Chapter Six Hundred and Twenty-Nine
Fifty-one years after Jake Sullivan was laid beneath the ordinary tree, the canyon celebrated its hundredth harvest festival.The tree (now two hundred feet tall, trunk thick as a house, roots sprawling across half the old cemetery) had become the heart of Defiance in every way. Children climbed it, lovers carved initials in its bark that vanished by morning, and every autumn it dropped Tomorrow apples by the wagonload. People no longer spoke of the silver tree except in stories told to wide-eyed young ones who thought the Maw was a dragon.Hope Sullivan died peacefully the winter before, at ninety-nine. They buried her beside her parents, and the tree dropped one perfect red apple onto her grave that never bruised, never rotted.That night, for the first time in a century, the tree spoke.Not in wind. Not in Jake’s recorded voice.It spoke aloud, in the canyon, in the dark, in a voice every soul from the oldest elder to the youngest child recognized instantly (rough, smoke-cured,
Chapter Six Hundred and Twenty-Eight
They buried Jake Sullivan on the first day of autumn, when the cottonwoods were bleeding gold into the river and the air carried the first bite of winter.The whole canyon shut down. No school bells, no hammers on anvils, no children shouting in the square. Even the goats stood quiet in their pens. Thousands walked behind the litter of woven wildflowers and cedar boughs, but no one spoke above the hush of boots on dust and the soft creak of wagon wheels. The river itself seemed to lower its voice, as if it understood the weight of the man it had carried in life and was now carrying in death.Hope walked at the front, one hand resting on the edge of the litter, the other cradling the mended violin against her chest like a child. She was seventy-eight now (the same age Jake had been when he walked away), hair silver as moonlight on water, face carved deep by sun and grief and joy in equal measure. Her eyes were dry. She had cried every tear she owned the night the runners brought him
Chapter Six Hundred and Twenty-Seven
Jake Sullivan was seventy-eight the year the Tree stopped giving.He noticed it before anyone else, because he still walked to the silver tree every dawn the way other men check the weather or their pulse. That morning the branches were bare, the fruit gone, the bark cold for the first time in fifty years.He stood there a long time, palm against the trunk, waiting for the familiar pulse of thirty-three thousand names.Nothing answered.He was not afraid.He was tired in a way that went past bone, past marrow, into the place where stories are born and end.He did not tell anyone what he felt. Not Hope, not Asha, not even the Tree itself. Some knowings are private, even from the people you love.Instead he went home, kissed Elara’s stone on the way past the cemetery, and began packing.A simple pack this time. One canteen. The knife he had carried since the Long Walk. The cracked violin Lilah had pressed into his hands the week before she died, saying, “You still owe me a song, o
Chapter Six Hundred and Twenty-Six
It happened without warning, the way the best and worst things always do.One morning in late summer, the silver tree bore no fruit.Not a single luminous orb hung from its branches. The leaves were still perfect, still shimmering, still warm to the touch, but the harvest that had fed the canyon in body and memory for three generations simply failed to appear.At first no one worried. Trees have off years. The old-timers shrugged and said they’d eat regular apples and remember on their own.But the next morning the leaves began to fall.Not the gentle, one-per-year ritual leaves that never withered. These were ordinary leaves, silver turning dull, drifting down in silent thousands until the ground beneath the Tree looked like a moonlit snowfield.By the third day the trunk had gone cold.Asha (now thirty-three, mother of two, elected to the canyon council because someone had to be) stood beneath the bare branches with her daughter Ember and felt the same chill her great-grandfather Ja
Chapter Six Hundred and Twenty-Five
Asha Sullivan was twelve the year the last person who had seen the Maw died.Old Marta (once Mrs. Guzman, once simply Marta, once no-name at all) slipped away in her sleep at ninety-four. She was the final living soul who could still describe the sky bleeding upward. They buried her beside the Memory Wall with a silver leaf tucked beneath her folded hands, and the canyon closed the circle.That spring, the schoolchildren asked Hope to tell them the story of the shadow one more time.Hope stood on the porch that had once belonged to her parents (now hers, though she still thought of it as theirs) and looked at thirty bright faces who had never known a night without stars they could trust.She told them the short version.“There was a darkness that tried to make us forget how to choose. We chose anyway. That’s all.”The children nodded solemnly, then immediately asked if they could use the trebuchet to launch watermelons instead of pumpkins this year. Hope said yes, because some lessons
You may also like
Unexpected Trillionaire.
Max Luthor89.9K viewsThe Consortium's Heir
Benjamin_Jnr1.7M viewsUnknowingly The Billionaire's Heir
Winner Girl78.1K viewsRise of the Student Trillionaire
Ty Writes157.9K viewsThe Loser Who Bought The World
Doctor Blaze 814 viewsThe Rejected Live-in Husband Returns
The Phenomenal 546 viewsThe Veritas Heir
Ugo Lee284 viewsThe Ghost Doctor
April-Ink197 views