The Billionaire Secret

Rock Bottom

The apartment was freezing. The heat had been shut off three days ago, another consequence of Lisa's systematic dismantling of our life together. I sat on the bare mattress, wrapped in my work jacket, watching my breath form clouds in the cold air.

One week. That's all it had taken for my life to completely unravel.

The divorce papers had arrived exactly as Lisa promised—a courier delivered them the very next morning. Lisa's father had hired Reeves & Holt, the most aggressive divorce attorneys in the city. I couldn't afford to even consult with a lawyer, let alone hire one to fight them.

My phone buzzed. Another text from an unknown number that I recognized as one of Richard's business associates: "Job opportunity canceled. Position filled. Do not contact again."

That made six potential jobs that had mysteriously disappeared in the past week. I didn't need to be a genius to figure out what was happening. Richard was calling in favors, making sure no one in the construction industry would touch me. In a business built on connections, he was making me radioactive.

I stared at the stack of bills on the floor beside me. Electric disconnection notice. Water shut-off warning. Final rent demand. My bank account showed $27.32, not even enough for a single night at the cheapest motel.

The worst part wasn't the cold or the mounting bills. It was the silence. None of our supposed friends had reached out. Not a single call or message asking if I was okay. Lisa had gotten to them first, spinning whatever story Richard had crafted about me.

My phone buzzed again. This time it was an email from my only remaining client.

*"Mr. Sanders, Due to concerns raised about your financial standing and reliability, we've decided to terminate our contract effective immediately. A replacement project manager has been secured. Per section 4.3 of our agreement, we're withholding final payment due to incomplete deliverables..."*

I threw the phone against the wall, where it left a small dent before clattering to the floor. That was the $3,000 I'd been counting on to at least find temporary housing and food for the next month.

My stomach growled painfully. I hadn't eaten anything substantial in two days, just a few packets of ramen and some stale crackers I'd found in the back of a cabinet. The refrigerator stood open and empty across the room—I'd unplugged it days ago to save electricity.

A knock at the door startled me. I wasn't expecting anyone, and my landlord had already made it clear I needed to be out by tomorrow.

I opened the door to find two men in uniforms from the city marshal's office.

"Mark Sanders?" the taller one asked, not bothering to hide his disdain.

"Yes," I replied, my voice hoarse from disuse.

"We're here to serve you with an eviction notice," he said, handing me a document. "You have 24 hours to vacate the premises."

"But the landlord gave me until tomorrow," I protested weakly.

The second marshal shrugged. "Landlord filed for an emergency eviction citing property damage and abandonment. Judge approved it this morning."

I glanced back at the dent in the wall from my phone. Had the landlord come in when I was out looking for work? Was that enough to claim "property damage"?

"If you're not out by noon tomorrow, we'll be back to remove you and your belongings," the first marshal added.

After they left, I slid down against the closed door until I was sitting on the floor. My hands were shaking as I read through the eviction notice. Richard's name wasn't on it anywhere, but I could feel his presence between every line. He wasn't just cutting me out of Lisa's life—he was methodically destroying mine.

I spent the night packing what little I had left into a duffel bag and my old backpack. Most of our furniture belonged to Lisa anyway, purchased with her salary when she'd still believed in our future together. All I really had was my clothes, my work tools, and a few personal items.

By morning, exhaustion and hunger had made my movements slow and clumsy. I struggled to focus as I took one last look around the apartment that had been my home for the past two years.

On the counter near the door, I spotted something gleaming. Lisa's wedding ring. She must have left it there the night she walked out. I picked it up, turning it over in my palm. The small diamond caught the weak morning light.

For a moment, I considered pawning it—it would give me enough for a couple weeks at a motel, maybe food. But something stopped me. Not sentimentality, but determination. I pocketed the ring instead. One day, I'd give it back to her. Not out of hope for reconciliation, but as proof that I'd survived what she and her father had done to me.

I stepped out onto the street with my bags, no idea where I was going. The November wind cut through my thin jacket, and a light drizzle had started to fall, promising to become heavier as the day wore on.

My phone was almost dead, but I used the last of its battery to check my bank account again. $27.32 stared back at me. Not even enough for a taxi to the homeless shelter across town.

I started walking, my tools heavy on my shoulder. Three blocks from my former apartment, I passed the construction site where I'd gotten my first big job as a project manager two years ago. The old foreman, Mike, was outside having a cigarette.

"Mike!" I called out, hope rising in my chest. We'd gotten along well, and he'd always said I did good work.

He looked up, recognition crossing his face, followed immediately by discomfort.

"Mark," he said, avoiding eye contact. "Heard about you and Lisa. Tough break."

"Yeah," I said, shifting my bag. "Listen, I'm in a bit of a situation. Any chance you need an extra hand? Even just for a day or two?"

Mike took a long drag of his cigarette, still not meeting my eyes. "Wish I could help you, buddy. But we're fully staffed. And honestly..." he lowered his voice, "got a call from Richard Winters the other day. Said some things about you that... well, I can't get involved."

My heart sank. "Whatever he said, Mike, it's not—"

"Look," he cut me off, "I got a family to feed and a mortgage to pay. I can't risk crossing Richard Winters. Guy's connected to half the developers in this city." He flicked his cigarette away and turned back toward the site. "Sorry, Mark. You should try another town. Fresh start, you know?"

As Mike walked away, the rain began to fall harder. Within minutes, I was soaked to the skin, my bags growing heavier as they absorbed water.

I trudged on, trying each construction site I passed. Each time, the response was the same—awkward refusals, sidelong glances, mentions of Richard's name in hushed tones.

By sunset, I was shivering uncontrollably, my stomach cramping from hunger. The rain had turned to sleet, and my fingers were numb. I found myself in the downtown area, ducking into the entrance of a parking garage just to get out of the weather.

I slid down against the wall, dropping my bags beside me. For the first time since Lisa had walked out, I felt tears burning in my eyes. I'd lost everything—my wife, my home, my career, my reputation—in the span of a week.

A security guard spotted me and approached with a stern expression. "You can't stay here, buddy. Move along."

"Just... just five minutes," I stammered through chattering teeth. "To warm up."

His face softened slightly. "Look, I get it, but I'll lose my job if my supervisor sees you. There's a shelter on 8th and Harrison."

"It's... it's full," I lied, too ashamed to admit I couldn't even afford the bus fare to get there.

The guard sighed, looked around, then pulled a ten-dollar bill from his wallet. "Here. Get yourself somewhere warm tonight. But you gotta go now."

I took the money, humiliation burning through me. "Thank you," I managed.

"Been there myself," he said quietly. "It gets better. Just gotta survive today so you can fight tomorrow."

I nodded, gathering my sodden bags. Ten dollars. Enough for a fast-food meal and maybe a bus ticket to the shelter. One night of safety, then what?

As I stepped back into the sleeting rain, a sleek black car drove past, slowing as it approached. Through the tinted window, I caught a glimpse of the driver—Richard Winters himself, Lisa's father. Our eyes met for a brief moment before his car accelerated away.

He'd been watching me. Tracking my descent. Making sure I was fully broken.

I stood there in the freezing rain, staring after his disappearing taillights, a new emotion cutting through the despair and exhaustion.

Rage. Pure, clarifying rage.

I wouldn't just survive this. I would rebuild. And one day, Richard Winters would regret the day he decided to destroy me.

But first, I needed to find somewhere to sleep tonight. Somewhere to plan my next move. Because rock bottom, I realized, wasn't a place you stayed. It was just the solid ground you pushed against to rise again.