The Zillionaire's wrath

The notification chime on my phone cut through the cemetery silence like a sharp, clean blade.

 I stood before my mother’s fresh plot, the last of my meager savings in my pocket, clutching a single, wilting rose. I blinked back the tears behind my eyelids, my lip trembling as I stared at the disturbed dirt.

I hadn’t been there when she kicked the bucket—I’d been stuck in a soul-crushing job interview that, predictably, hadn’t panned out. I had arrived to meet only silence and the cold finality of a hospital bed that had already been stripped of her presence.

My phone vibrated again against my thigh. A spark of hope flared in my chest. I fished it out, my thumb slick with nervous sweat, eyes scanning the screen. 

An email. Finally!

A glimmer of light in a tunnel that had been pitch black for two complete years.

"Oh, thank God," I mumbled, turning my back on the headstone, my heart beginning to race with anticipation.

I tapped the screen. The smile on my face flickered for a moment, then withered instantly. My heart hammered against my ribs, bulging in my chest as I read the cold, digitized rejection. It was a canned response, robotic and cruel as usual.

Dear Henry Rowland…

My eyes skipped to the final line, bypassing their useless corporate excuses. …we are deeply sorry, but…

"How?!" The scream tore from my throat, a ragged, ugly sound that rang through the silent cemetery.

I leaned against a nearby tree, my breath hitching as my world tilted drastically. How? I was a top-tier graduate. I had the degree from Harvard, the drive, the potential—but for two years, the world had treated me like a ghost in my own city.

 I had watched my bank account hit zero and stay there. My future was literally rotting in real-time and all I could do was watch.

"What the hell is going on?" I whispered, the bitterness tasting like bile at the back of my throat. 

I let the rose fall from my hand, watching it hit the damp, uncaring earth. My father had died the day of my first interview. My brother, a few months later. Now, my mother was gone, and I hadn’t even been there for her final seconds to hold her hand. 

The guilt was a physical weight, crushing the air from my lungs until I felt like I was drowning on dry land.

“I’m so sorry… Mom…” I sniffled, the sound pathetic even to my own ears. I turned away from the grave, my boots dragging in the dirt. I was an orphan. A failure. A…a fucking nothing.

A sharp buzzing snapped me back to reality. My alarm was ringing. I stared at the screen and my stomach dropped into my shoes. 9:00 PM!

My anniversary!

Three years with Samantha and she was the only thing I had left in this world—the only person that I truly cared about. I loved her with a desperation that bordered on sickness. I’d walk through fire for her if I had to. I’d give her my last breath. 

My excitement warred with a cold, creeping panic. I prayed, please don’t let her mother be there.

Her mother had turned into a nightmare the moment my money had dried up, constantly stripping away my dignity, reminding me exactly how "worthless" I was without a paycheck.

But Samantha was different. She believed in me. She had to. That was the only lie I had left to hold onto.

I sprinted to the nearby mall, my lungs burning, the cold night air biting at my skin. I reached the counter, grabbing the last of the money in my pocket. I bought a small cake and a modest bouquet. The self-loathing that overwhelmed me was suffocating. 

I hadn't been able to afford a proper tribute for my mother, yet here I was, scraping the bottom of my bank account for a woman who was supposed to be my partner.

Stop it, Henry, I scolded myself. You’re doing this for love. You’re doing this to prove you’re still a man who cares.

"That would be…" the cashier started, her voice bored.

"Everything I have," I muttered, my voice barely audible as I slid the cash across the counter.

I walked out into the night, the city lights of New York looking like taunting, distant stars. I didn't even have enough for a bus ride, so I tipped the last of my change to a cabbie just to get closer to her building, then hoofed it the rest of the way. I plastered a fake, painful smile on my face, rehearsing the words in my head. I had to get this right.

“I know I don’t have much, Samantha, but I’ll give everything for you. Just a few more months…”

No. It wasn't enough. It was never enough. I climbed the stairs to her floor, my legs shaking, my heart a drum of anxiety. I walked down the hallway, ready to pour my soul out, when a sound stopped me cold.

A feminine moan, high-pitched and raw, echoed from one of the apartments. I froze, my hand hovering over my pocket. I tried to convince myself it was just someone else.

"Mm…mmh! Fuck! Yes… right there… don’t stop, please!"

My brain scrambled to dismiss it. Not her. It couldn't be her. I kept walking, but the sounds grew louder, more frantic, dragging me toward the end of the hall like a magnet.

The moans were coming from her door.

"Oh yes! Fuck me harder, William!"

The name hit me like a physical blow to my guts. William. I remembered her mentioning him on a call two days ago, about some business or the other.

My blood turned to ice, my bones vibrating with a sudden, sickening chill. This wasn't a nightmare. My girl—my only refuge—was tearing my heart out behind a thin wooden door.

"Samantha?" I choked out, my voice breaking.

The bouquet slipped from my numb fingers, scattering across the floor. I stood there, paralyzed, while the sounds of their betrayal roared in my ears.