The Useless Son-in-law Who Became A Crypto Genius

The last thing Noam saw was his wife's smile.

Not the angry kind. Not even the smug, I-won type. Just... calm. Polished. The same one she'd wear at those boring charity galas when she had to pretend she gave a damn about anyone but herself.

Except this time? Her lips were trembling. Tears were sliding down her cheeks like she'd rehearsed it in a mirror.

His lungs were on fire. Blood soaked through the white tablecloth faster than the wine they'd knocked over minutes ago—God, was it only minutes? The knife twisted again, and he tasted copper flooding his mouth.

The restaurant had gone to hell.

It started when the doors slammed open. Three guys in black masks stormed in like they owned the place. The tall one had a gun. The other two? Knives. Big ones.

"Everyone down! Hands on the table—now!"

Screams. Plates crashing. The chandelier overhead swayed like it might fall. People dropped into their seats, some hitting the floor entirely. Waiters froze mid-step, trays clattering everywhere.

Noam sat there, fork still in hand, thinking, 'This is way too clean.'

Too coordinated. Too theatrical. His gut screamed that this wasn't some random robbery. But before he could even process that thought, one of the masked assholes grabbed him by the collar and yanked him up.

"Please!" Alina's voice cut through the chaos, high and frantic. "Don't—don't hurt him! Take whatever you want, just please, not my husband!"

Her chair screeched as she stood, reaching for him with trembling hands. Tears streamed down her face, and damn, she looked believable. If he hadn't spent years watching her lie to his face, he might've actually bought it.

The thug slammed him against the table. Glasses tipped over, red wine bleeding across white cloth.

"This one's the example," the guy growled, pressing the blade to Noam's chest.

"No!" Alina lunged forward, but Cassandra and Douglas held her back, their faces pale with what looked like genuine terror.

The room held its breath.

And then the knife went in.

Someone screamed. A woman sobbed. A man shouted something about calling the cops, but nobody moved—not with that gun pointed at the crowd.

The pain was—fuck, it was blinding. Stole the air right out of his lungs. He collapsed against the table, vision blurring at the edges.

Alina dropped to her knees beside him, grabbing his hand. Her sobs echoed through the restaurant, raw and desperate. "Noam! Stay with me, please—somebody help him!"

Tears everywhere. Her hands pressed against the wound like she could somehow stop the bleeding through sheer willpower.

To everyone watching, she was the perfect wife. Broken. Terrified. Fighting for her husband's life.

But as the world started fading to black, Noam caught it.

That tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth.

A smile.

Small. Hidden behind all those tears. But it was there.

The coldest damn smile he'd ever seen.

Her lips moved, barely a whisper: "I'll make good use of your investment, darling."

And then nothing.

–––––––––––

When Noam's eyes snapped open, he expected—hell, he didn't know what he expected. Hospital lights? Pearly gates? Maybe just more darkness.

Instead, he got the smell of mildew and old laundry hitting him like a slap.

The ceiling above him was cracked plaster, stained yellow from water damage he remembered bitching about years ago. Years ago. Wait—

He shot upright, hands flying to his chest.

No wound. No blood. Not even a scar.

'What the—'

He was sitting in a cramped, shitty room. The kind he'd sworn he'd never have to see again. Creaky bed. Cheap plastic desk drowning in unpaid bills. That ancient laptop with the fan that sounded like a dying lawnmower.

This was his old room. The room he'd lived in as the Carvers' live-in son-in-law.

A knock rattled the door.

"Noam!" Shrill. Annoyed. Dripping with contempt. "Are you still sleeping? Get up, you useless lump! Breakfast isn't going to serve itself!"

His blood turned to ice.

He knew that voice. Cassandra Carver. His mother-in-law.

'No. No, this can't be—'

The same moment. The same words. Time was looping.

"What the hell?!"

He stumbled to his feet, catching his reflection in the cracked mirror above the desk.

Late twenties. Black hair falling into sharp green eyes that somehow still managed to glow even in this dim lighting. Strong jaw, lean build—handsome, sure, but worn down. Beaten down by years of being called useless.

He let out a sharp laugh that startled even himself.

He'd died. He was sure of it. Could still feel the phantom sting of that knife. But here he was, standing in the room he used to curse every single night.

'The year Bytegold went public...'

His chest tightened. That was it. This was the year everything had started. The year he'd watched from the sidelines while others got rich overnight. Bytegold had exploded, turning nobodies into millionaires, and he'd been too scared, too broken, to even try.

Not this time.

Noam clenched his fists.

He'd been given a second chance.