Chapter 2: A Turn of Fate

The door to the Finance Director's office on the third floor of the hospital was locked from the inside by Victor.

The room wasn't large. Gray filing cabinets lined the walls, and venetian blinds sliced the afternoon sunlight into strips.

I sat in the leather chair, Victor's iPad resting on the coffee table in front of me.

An asset list scrolled across the screen.

Zurich Bank Account: Available Balance $5,000,000,000.

100% equity transfer documents for Olympus Capital, stamped with the electronic seal of the Swiss Federal Notary Office.

That company's name had appeared on the front page of the Wall Street Journal no less than fifty times over the past twenty years.

It had just completed the acquisition of twelve landmark buildings in Manhattan, with a total value of eight billion dollars. It managed assets exceeding five hundred billion dollars.

I stared at those numbers, my fingers unconsciously rubbing the pocket watch my mother had left me. She'd pressed it into my hand through the car window gap before she died. The brass casing had been worn smooth and shiny.

Eighteen years.

That night when I was eight, the butler stuffed me onto a cargo ship that carried me across the ocean to New York.

The moldy mattress at the orphanage. Washing dishes at a restaurant in high school, scalding oil splashing onto the back of my hand, leaving scars. The prenuptial agreement I signed when joining the Wilson family—every clause telling me: you have nothing.

Last night, Michael flicked a one-dollar coin at my feet.

The root of all my suffering pointed to that family. Rosecrest.

My grandfather, my uncles, those people raising their glasses in celebration of my parents' deaths in their Zurich mansion.

"Strictly speaking, these assets are the wealth your father Adrian Rosecrest accumulated during his lifetime." Victor's voice was soft, but each word struck my heart. "The family board is merely fulfilling its fiduciary duty under the will."

I didn't look up. "My father... did he know what would happen?"

Victor was silent for a moment. "After he learned your mother had been poisoned, he spent three days transferring every asset he could. Then he fled with you both."

"He didn't choose to stay and fight."

"Because he knew what your mother needed first was a living husband, not a martyr."

I closed my eyes.

The words my mother wrote in her diary before she died surfaced in my mind:

Survive first, then seek the truth.

I opened my eyes. "How much does Margaret's surgery cost?"

"Transfer to Boston General Hospital, aortic aneurysm resection, plus post-operative recovery—two million dollars total."

"What about Erin?" My voice dropped lower. "What's the situation with the Wilson family?"

Victor pulled a folder from his briefcase and pushed it in front of me.

"Mrs. Wilson has issued an ultimatum." Victor said. "Either Erin divorces you, or she gets kicked off the Wilson Group board. Your mother-in-law Catherine was publicly humiliated in her social circle this morning. The neighbor Meredith Parker posted about last night on the community forum."

I flipped through the photos, my expression unchanged.

"There's one more thing." Victor's tone became more cautious. "There are still people within the family who don't want you alive. Three directors behaved abnormally after your mother's death, and one of them is still on the board. If you return to Zurich in a high-profile way now, you might follow in your mother's footsteps."

I closed the folder.

"The nun's surgery fee—pay the balance now."

"Yes."

"As for Erin, don't make any moves for now."

"Understood."

"As for the family..." I stood up, putting the pocket watch back in my pocket. "The fact that I'm alive—for now, only you and grandfather know. Have grandfather continue pretending to be sick. I need time."

"Yes, sir."

Victor bowed deeply and left the room.

3:15 PM, I stood alone at the hospital billing window.

I took a black credit card from my briefcase.

No bank logo, just the embossed gold word "Olympus" and the black card border of American Express.

Marissa, the cashier, had worked here for fifteen years and had seen all kinds of insurance cards and credit cards, but now her hand hovered above the POS machine, hesitating for two seconds.

She swiped the card.

"Unlimited Credit Line" appeared on the screen.

Transaction successful.

One million dollars transferred from some account in Zurich to Boston General Hospital's dedicated account.

Marissa's hands shook as she printed the receipt, dropping the paper twice.

I bent down to pick it up and said calmly, "A card an elder left me. This is my first time using it too."

My voice was steady.

But my heartbeat was racing like it would explode from my chest.

Eighteen years.

A dishwasher earning four dollars an hour, an antique shop assistant ordered around by everyone, the "trash" who wasn't even allowed to use the silverware at the Wilson family Christmas dinner.

All of it was ground to dust the moment the POS machine beeped.

Walking out of the billing window, I even felt the hallway floor swaying slightly.

It all felt so unreal, I wondered if I was dreaming.

7:30 PM, Forest Hills, Queens.

The Wilson family's three-story house was lit up. Through the front yard's holly hedge, you could hear arguing in the living room.

I pushed open the door.

Catherine was sitting on the sofa waving her iPad. On the screen was the community news website headline: "Wilson Family's New Member Embarrasses Himself at Charity Gala, Gets Thrown Out."

The photo showed last night's gala—me being held by security guards, Michael laughing beside me, showing all his white teeth.

"Do you know your performance last night made us unable to hold our heads up in the entire Queens social circle?!" Catherine's voice was shrill, her finger nearly poking my face. "Eleanor has given an ultimatum—either you two divorce, or Erin gets kicked off the board!"

Erin stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes were red, but she bit her lip to keep the tears from falling.

"Mom, that gala was a trap from the start." Her voice was hoarse. "Michael deliberately seated us in the corner. Those people's humiliation was premeditated."

"Premeditated?" Catherine laughed coldly. "The only premeditation was you marrying this loser! Harrison Blackwood was asking about you just last week. His father is on the Johns Hopkins Medical School board, he drives a Bentley, lives on Long Island's Gold Coast! You could have been Mrs. Blackwood, but now you're tied to this loser who can't even find a decent job!"

Robert sat in the corner armchair, head down, smoking.

Five or six cigarette butts were already piled in the ashtray.

He never looked up.

Catherine noticed me at the door and turned her fury on me. "You still have the nerve to come back! You know you're not good enough for her, so why do you keep clinging to this family?"

I lowered my head.

"I'm sorry, Catherine. I know last night caused you trouble." I paused. "If my presence really affects Erin's career, I can move out for a while."

"No!"

Erin suddenly exploded.

She rushed over from the window and grabbed my hand, fingers interlaced.

"He's not moving out! This is our home!" Erin turned to Catherine, her voice trembling but without a hint of backing down. "I won't divorce, never! No matter what you say, no matter how grandma threatens me, I won't leave him!"

Catherine opened her mouth, stunned by her daughter's intensity. Robert finally looked up, glancing at me with a complicated expression.

I didn't speak. I just squeezed Erin's hand tighter.

11:20 PM.

The small bedroom on the third floor was only 150 square feet, nothing compared to Michael's suite downstairs with its walk-in closet and private bathroom. But this was mine and Erin's home, the only place in the entire Wilson family that belonged to us.

Erin pulled a manila envelope from the nightstand drawer and handed it to me.

"I know about Sister Margaret's situation." Her voice was soft. "Take this first. I know it's not enough for two million, but at least it can cover part of the deposit."

I opened the envelope. Inside was a stack of cash and several checks, totaling one hundred forty-two thousand dollars.

I recognized that number.

Erin had won an award in an architecture competition last year. The prize money was exactly one hundred forty-two thousand dollars. She'd been so excited, saying she'd use it to register her own design studio. It was the first time she felt she could break free from the Wilson family's constraints.

Now she'd put all that money in this envelope.

For a nun she'd never met. Just because she was her husband's benefactor.

"The medical expenses are already taken care of."

I pushed the envelope back, my voice soft. "This afternoon, an old friend of my father's found me. He said my father had a trust fund in Europe that can now be accessed. The two million has been paid. Sister will be flown to Boston General Hospital by private medical jet tomorrow morning."

Erin froze.

"You never mentioned he had an inheritance."

"Because I was only eight when he died." I wasn't lying, but I wasn't telling the whole truth either. "That old friend had been looking for me and only recently found a lead through the orphanage records."

Erin was silent for a long time. Finally she nodded and put the envelope back in the drawer.

"The company's only hope now is to get the design contract for Olympus Capital's 'Manhattan Heights' project in New York." She changed the subject with a sigh. "That project has a three hundred million dollar budget. If we can participate, it won't just save the company—I can prove my design abilities too."

"Grandma's putting all her hopes on Michael," Erin's tone turned bitter. "She's having him suck up to Roderick Vanderbilt. Supposedly he can help get an introduction to Olympus Capital's New York director."

My expression didn't change.

"You really want to do that project?"

"I dream about it." Erin laughed self-deprecatingly. "But right now I can't even get my foot in the door."

12:10 AM. Erin was already asleep.

I stood by the window, looking at an encrypted email Victor had sent on my phone.

Subject line: "Initial draft of the strategic plan you requested."

Four items:

First, Olympus Capital's New York "Manhattan Heights" project was about to launch, with a total investment of five billion dollars. Vice President Claire Davenport had prepared three candidate design firm lists, awaiting final decision.

Second, the Astor family patriarch was critically ill. His granddaughter Sophia was searching through private channels for a doctor who could treat Mr. Astor. This ninety-three-year-old man was a living fossil of New York high society. Saving him would be a ticket into that circle.

Third, Don Marco of the Bellano family requested a meeting, claiming to have "important intelligence about old enemies of the Rosecrest family." A power node in New York's underworld—exactly where I needed to infiltrate.

Fourth, the Wilson family's financial reports showed the group's cash flow was extremely tight. If they didn't get the Olympus Capital project, they'd trigger debt default in three months at the earliest.

I finished reading the email and deleted it.

I looked back at Erin sleeping in bed.

Erin, from tonight on, everything will change.

I'll make the entire Wilson family bow and scrape before you.

I'll make those who humiliated us beg on their knees for mercy.