Chapter 2

Before Fiona could speak, Declan started laughing, agreeing, "Asher, didn't expect you to be so magnanimous now. Thanks for taking care of Fiona for so long. Don't worry, I'll take good care of Fiona and your daughter!"

Fiona seemed not to hear, tightly gripping the pen, suddenly accusing, "After twenty years, why are you doing this? After the divorce, do you think I'll let you stay at the company? A fifty-year-old man, who would hire you? At least now, as my husband in name, we can provide for you in old age."

Her barrage of questions didn't ripple my emotions.

I just laughed at myself.

Yes, our daughter is old enough to marry. Why am I still struggling?

I once used all my points to exchange with the system to live in this world for a lifetime.

The system warned me it had other hosts to attend to, and I wouldn't have a place to cry if I regretted it.

At the time, holding my beloved wife and newborn daughter, I was filled with happiness, promising that day would never come.

But after Declan appeared, my life changed completely.

All my happiness was just an illusion.

I considered divorcing Fiona, but our daughter clung to my leg, crying not to separate her parents.

My mom said I was ungrateful, not realizing my blessings. As long as Fiona and I were on the same household registration, even if Declan turned the world upside down, it wouldn't affect my inheritance rights.

But I still felt oppressed, frustrated.

Unhappy.

This brain tumor incident made me grateful for their coldness, finally deciding to leave.

Returning to the present, I said calmly, " Fiona, my future has nothing to do with you. Are you concerned now?"

I knew Fiona hated my self-pity the most.

Sure enough, she looked at me like she'd swallowed a fly, quickly signing, "Asher, you better not regret it. If you make a scene at the company, I won't let you back!"

With that, she left with Declan, her heels clicking on the floor.

The room returned to silence.

I sat on the sofa, looking at the home I'd lived in for twenty-one years.

Every piece of furniture seemed etched in my mind.

Yet I felt like an outsider.

After a while, hunger brought me back to reality.

I went to the kitchen and threw away the beef, lamb, and salmon I had been preparing. Then I cooked myself some plain noodles.

The noodles tasted of faint salt and oil.

I remembered when I first got together with Fiona.

She was a pampered heiress, yet she tried making noodles for me, covered in flour, hands burnt by boiling water.

But she didn't care about her injuries, smiling, urging me to eat longevity noodles for a long and peaceful life.

After some time, my stomach's hunger snapped me back to reality. I headed to the kitchen, where I threw away the half-prepared beef brisket, lamb, and salmon. Then, I made myself some simple noodles. They had just a hint of oil and salt.

I remembered when I first started dating Fiona. Despite being an heiress who never touched a stove, she learned to make noodles for me. Her germaphobia didn't stop her from getting covered in flour, and she even scalded her hand with boiling water. But she wasn't concerned about her injury. Smiling, she urged me to eat the noodles, wishing me a long and peaceful life.

To be honest, those noodles were cut too thick, undercooked, and seasoned so salty it could overwhelm even a salt seller. Yet, I ate every last bite.

I once thought Fiona was my everything, someone I'd never forget. But now, her youthful face is becoming a distant memory.

A sudden sharp pain shot through my head. Shakily, I took the blood pressure and pain relief pills prescribed by the doctor. Once the pain subsided, I washed the dishes, dried my hands, and started packing my belongings.

There wasn't much to pack; most of the items at home belonged to Fiona and her daughter, so I was done quickly. I stood up, looked around, and found the treasure chest I'd hidden in the closet for years.

Inside were things I once cherished: ticket stubs, photos of us, our wedding pictures. Love letters Fiona wrote me, the tie clip she gave me, and other gifts. Photos of our daughter, from childhood to now, her drawings and writings.

I had carefully sealed many in plastic. But now, I carried the chest to the backyard, placing it on the firepit where Fiona and Declan hosted their bonfire parties. Without hesitation, I took out a lighter and set the contents of the treasure chest ablaze.

The flames reflected on my face, but suddenly, it began to rain, extinguishing the fire instantly. Under the eaves, I glanced at the treasure chest, now blackened with only ashes inside. I didn't bother checking further.

After this, I deleted all my online accounts and contact information. I had always been a drifter without roots, and now, I wanted to disappear entirely from Fiona and her daughter's world.

Since I decided to leave, I wanted to finish everything properly. After packing, I drove to the company, handed over my work to my subordinate, and cleared out my office. There was truly nothing left for me to do.

Everyone at the company thought I was retiring, looking at me enviously, saying:

"Mr. Asher, you're the second-in-command of our company and retiring so early. Mrs. Fiona must really care about you. We're so envious!"

"Well, if I had a wife and kids at home, I’d retire early and enjoy life too!"

I held the documents from my office and kept silent. Over the years, Fiona was secretly close with Declan, rarely home. But on the surface, to maintain a stable image for the stock market, she portrayed us as a loving couple, often attending auctions, buying luxury cars and houses, claiming to choose gifts for her husband.

Everyone envied me, saying I was lucky to marry Fiona. Only I knew all the gifts were invariably sent to Declan. And I had to smile and say I was frugal, not wanting to flaunt wealth.

Back to the present, the HR manager saw me moving out of my office without surprise, even immediately bringing in the latest computer to my former office.

Everyone was stunned and asked:

"Manager, Mr. Asher is retiring, why are you redecorating his office?"

The HR manager glanced at me, cleared his throat, and said seriously:

"Mrs. Fiona has a new appointee for management. I hope everyone will be cautious and avoid gossip during work hours."

As he spoke, he placed a nameplate on the desk, which read:

"Vice President, Declan."

Those present were shocked, but I just smirked at myself. Over the years, I had always used the company's worst equipment. Despite numerous upgrades, Fiona repeatedly declined my requests for replacements, frowning and calling me vain.

But for Declan, she offered everything she could, never settling for less. In the past, I might have been angry or sad at such favoritism. But now, I couldn't get angry anymore.

I just sighed. Fiona was truly eager to elevate Declan; this was true love. Coming back to my senses, I nodded and turned to leave the company where I had worked my whole life.

Later, I went to a funeral shop to buy my own burial clothes. Even if I were to die, I wanted to look decent. But I didn't have much money left. Most of it went to the undertaker to ensure my burial, so I could only afford the cheapest set.

Holding the burial clothes, I walked out of the shop when a rebellious youngster on a motorcycle zoomed past me, the exhaust making me cough. A few seconds later, the motorcycle came back.

A girl wearing smoky makeup and a tank top jumped off the back, speaking sarcastically:

"Oh, aren't you still alive? Give me $10,000. I need to buy my boyfriend a new motorcycle!"

I just frowned and said coldly:

"I don't have money, Phoebe."

"You don't have money? You're lying. My mom's so generous; she'd definitely give you money."

Phoebe didn't believe it, her face full of disdain. Who would believe a rich heir like me lived so frugally?

Fiona claimed I was after her wealth, so my salary went directly to her account. Every expense needed her approval. Even if I wanted to buy a pack of cigarettes, she allowed me only $5 packs. I could only do side jobs to support the household.

After being diagnosed with a brain tumor, I asked Fiona for money with the medical report. She frowned, yelled that I was scamming her, wanting $10,000 as if her money grew on trees.

She locked me at home to reflect, while she took Declan to the Arctic to see the Northern Lights. Locked at home, I missed seeing my gravely ill mother one last time. Relatives told me my mom died with tears, blaming me for being a selfish son with a selfish wife.

I shivered at the thought, coming back to reality.

Phoebe smirked, as if she had me cornered, and said:

"Fine, if you won't, I'll ask Uncle Declan. He's handsome and rich, a hundred times better than you!"

I looked at my eighteen-year-old daughter. How did my once well-behaved child turn into this?

Since Declan returned to the country, Fiona rarely came home, leaving me to raise our daughter alone. She was sensible, siding with me, often cold to Fiona and Declan.

But at seventeen, Phoebe fell for a delinquent and became rebellious, quitting school and constantly asking me for money, even threatening me with supporting Declan as her stepfather.

I was exhausted, trying to persuade her to stay away from that delinquent. But his gang beat me up.

I was old, taking punches while my once loving daughter cheered them on, telling the old man to learn a lesson.

After that, my heart grew cold, and I stopped caring for her.

Later, while recovering for a month, Phoebe apologized, wanting to celebrate my birthday with me all day. I waited all day and only saw Declan's post on social media.

In the video, she smiled sweetly at Declan during a dinner party.

"Stepdad, wish you and mom a fun time in Florence."

She then took the big red envelope from Declan with a smile.

Seeing this social media post, I was washing vegetables when my mind went blank, and I collapsed.

Now, facing the child I raised, I felt no emotional stir.

I just said calmly:

"Fine, ask him for money."

"By the way, your mom and I divorced. Now you can openly call Declan your dad. 'Stepdad' sounds so awkward."

4

Phoebe looked at me, shocked, fiddling with her clothes, her face flushing:

"How do you know? It's all your fault for being so stingy. I had to go to him for money. He understands love!"

She eyed me, mocking:

"Divorce my mom? You think I’ll believe that? Stop pretending!"

Her gaze fell on the clothes in my hand, puzzled:

"What are you holding? It looks ugly, clothes?"

Her delinquent boyfriend draped an arm around her shoulder, cigarette in hand, and said through smoke:

"Aren't those burial clothes? Did someone in your family die?"

Phoebe stepped forward, trying to grab the package from me to take a closer look.

"I want to see what you're up to!"

I frowned, casually pushing her away.

Suddenly, she gave me a once-over and scoffed:

"Divorce my mom? Do you really think I'd buy that? Stop pretending!"

She noticed the clothes in my hand and asked, puzzled:

"What are those? They look awful. Are they clothes?"

A guy with dyed yellow hair rested a hand on Phoebe's shoulder, holding a cigarette in the other, a cloud of smoke surrounding him. He sneered:

"Aren't those funeral clothes? Did someone in your family die?"

Phoebe immediately stepped forward, trying to grab the bag of clothes from me for a closer look.

"I want to see what you're up to!"

I frowned and pushed her away.

The next moment, she fell to the ground, unprepared, and a card slipped out of her pocket.

I picked it up—it was an ID card.

The photo was hers, but the name read "Theo."

Suddenly, a severe headache hit me.

When Fiona gave birth to Phoebe, she had a massive hemorrhage, and out of heartbreak, I decided Phoebe should take her mother’s surname.

Later, as Fiona and I drifted apart, Phoebe mentioned several times that she wanted to take my surname, Johnson, and cut ties with her troublesome mom.

But I never expected she'd start using Theo's surname without telling me.

I held my head as everything went dark, like a light had been switched off.

The doctor had warned that in the later stages of a brain tumor, it could invade the nerves, causing blindness, memory loss, and even decreased intelligence.

What a mess I am now.

I squeezed my eyes shut and when I opened them again, I could faintly make out some details.

In front of me, Phoebe hastily snatched the ID card from my hand and stuffed it back into her pocket, babbling:

"Don't be angry. I just felt sorry for Uncle Theo. He's so old and childless. It's just a surname change. I'm still your daughter. Isn't it nice to have two dads who love me?"

Seeing my displeased expression, she looked at me suspiciously, wrinkling her nose with a touch of disdain:

"What's wrong with you now? Are you pretending your eyes are bad again? No wonder my mom doesn't like you—acting like a child to get attention."

I shook my head and pushed her aside.

She seemed to have more to say but ultimately didn't follow.

After walking away, my overheated mind finally cleared a bit, and with the bus ticket I had bought, I returned to my old home.

It's not far, just in the suburbs.

The house is an old apartment building.

Back then, my dad saved Fiona from drowning, and in gratitude, she took our family in. I hadn't been back in a long time.

Now, the house was covered in dust.

I cleaned the bed, closed all doors and windows, trapping all the air inside.

Then, I turned on the gas tank I had someone bring over earlier.

Instantly, the air filled with a strange smell.

But I calmly changed into the burial clothes and lay in bed, ensuring the undertaker could find me immediately upon arrival.

Just then, my phone rang.

It was Fiona.

I didn't want to answer, but I subconsciously picked up.

On the other end, her voice was impatient, urging:

"Asher, where are you? There's a dinner tonight you need to attend. Get ready in half an hour."

I replied calmly:

"I can't go. I'm about to die."

There was a loud crash from her end, like something had fallen and shattered.

Her voice turned sharp and angry:

"Asher, what's wrong with you, saying such unlucky things!"

Before I could speak, Theo's voice came from her end, adding fuel to the fire:

"Asher, are you really so broken by your divorce from Fiona that you can't go on living? Maybe you two should get back together. I don't mind; I can always be there for Fiona."

Classic manipulation. Too bad Fiona couldn't see through it.

As expected, Fiona got even angrier:

"Asher, don't act like you're in charge! If it weren't for the boss specifically asking for you, do you think I'd bother calling you?"

"Fine, come if you want. Don't come home, and don't expect to see your daughter again!"

As Fiona hung up, my grip loosened from carbon monoxide poisoning, and the phone fell to the ground.

I don't know how long passed, maybe just a few seconds, but it felt like a lifetime.

My body, weakened from lack of oxygen, was still conscious enough to feel life slipping away, my face turning purple.

Enough, I told myself.

Soon my consciousness would retreat into space.

Death, in the cool summer night, was exceptionally quiet.

I seemed to hear the faint hissing of the gas tank.

Thankfully, I arranged for someone to take care of my body.

Otherwise, in a place like this, I'd turn to bones without anyone knowing.

But then, the door was kicked open, and an uninvited guest barged in.