My Second Chance

Chapter 1: Don't Touch Me

Smack!

The slap landed hard enough to turn his head.

"The house is all we have left, and you want to gamble it away? Are you even human?"

Pain blazed across Marcus Hale's cheek. The woman in front of him snapped into focus, and his chest tightened until he could barely breathe.

His wife.

The wife who had been dead for twenty years was standing in front of him, alive.

A dream?

Marcus looked around. He was outside the office building where Claire worked. Half a minute ago, in another lifetime, a gunshot had ended everything. His blood roared. His eyes burned red. His heart hammered against his ribs.

This was not a dream.

He had been reborn.

He had actually come back twenty years.

Joy and grief hit him at once. Tears blurred his vision as he reached out with a shaking hand. "Claire... God, I've missed you so much."

For twenty years. Day and night.

Claire Jensen went still for a heartbeat, remembering the man he used to be. Then her expression hardened. She turned her face away before his palm could touch her skin.

"Don't touch me. You make me sick."

Marcus froze as the next twenty years flooded back in perfect, brutal detail.

On this day, he had lost every last dollar and come to Claire's company demanding the deed to their apartment so he could mortgage it and chase his losses. When she refused, he said things no husband should ever say.

She slapped him and had security throw him out.

That same night, trapped in a setup during a client dinner, Claire jumped from a high floor to protect her dignity. She took two lives with her.

Marcus would never forget what she looked like in the morgue, or the agony of learning she had been pregnant for more than a month.

If he had not drunk and gambled his way into ruin, would his wife, a talented designer, have been forced to overwork herself and sit through those dinners in the first place?

In the decades that followed, even after revenge, even after wealth, even after standing at the top of the world, regret still tore him open in the quiet hours of the night.

To hell with all of it.

Dream or not, he was back. He would not fail her again.

Claire would live.

She would stand beside him and share everything the future had to offer.

Marcus drew a steadying breath and bowed his head. "Claire, I'm sorry. The man I was before was garbage. You've put up with me for too long. You've been wronged."

Claire stared at him, then looked at him the way someone looks at a roach in their food.

"Marcus, if you think playing pathetic will make me tell you where the deed is, save it. You're even more disgusting like this."

He smiled bitterly. A few apologies could not untie years of disappointment.

"I'll say it once more. Believe me or don't, I swear I will never gamble again. I'll work. I'll earn real money and give you a better life. I'll spend the rest of my days making up for what I did to you."

His voice was earnest. Claire's answer was contempt.

"This is ridiculous," she said, shaking her head. "In two years you've made more promises than I can count. Have you kept a single one? Your word means nothing. How stupid do you think I am? I was stupid once. That's the only reason I married you against my parents' wishes."

Marcus had expected that. It still hurt.

"I know words won't fix this. That's fine. I'll prove it with actions."

Claire checked the time on her phone, pulled out her wallet, and counted out bills. "I only have a thousand on me. Take six hundred and leave. I don't want to see you here again."

Even knowing he was a compulsive gambler, she still gave him most of her cash. Her anger came from love worn down by disappointment, not from indifference.

That gave him hope. He caught her wrist and pushed five hundred back into her hand. "One bill is enough. I'll hit the market this afternoon. What do you want for dinner? Tonight I'll cook—"

"When will you stop? What do you want from me?"

Tears rose in Claire's eyes. "I have a meeting. Please. I'm begging you. Stop bothering me."

Marcus watched, helpless, and said the one thing that mattered. "Can you skip the client dinner tonight?"

Claire blinked. She almost asked how he knew, then shut the question down. "That's my job. It isn't your business."

"Then can you stay sober?"

Her face went colder. "I'll say it again. That's my job, you—"

"You're pregnant. You can't drink."

Claire's eyes went wide. She stumbled back half a step. "What... what did you say?"

Marcus softened his tone. "Your period didn't come last month. You've been exhausted lately, haven't you?"

Panic flickered across her face. "Ever since you became this person, when have I not been exhausted?"

"If you don't believe me, get checked at lunch. Or I can buy a test right now."

"Stay out of it! I don't want to see you. I don't want to talk to you!"

Claire spun around and ran back into the building.

Marcus sighed. Trust, once broken, could not be rebuilt with soft words alone. He needed another way to keep her away from that dinner.

After a moment's thought, he walked inside and told the receptionist, "My name is Marcus Hale. I need to see your president."

The receptionist had heard every word of the argument outside. Everyone at Verdant Design Co. knew Designer Jensen's husband by reputation, and the reputation was trash. She rolled her eyes. "Without an appointment, you can't—"

"I have important information about your former chairman."

Marcus leaned in slightly, voice low. "It concerns your president's safety and this company's future. If you don't report it, you'll answer for the consequences."

In his previous life, Marcus had killed, served time, and risen to the top of the business world. He had moved among elites long enough to carry authority in his bones. The receptionist felt like prey under a predator's gaze. Her knees pressed together.

She made a call, stood, and forced a smile. "Mr. Hale, please come in. Our president is waiting."

Verdant Design was not a giant firm, but it was respected in the industry, worked closely with major developers, and cleared tens of millions in profit every year.

The moment someone mentioned her father, Hannah Kane could not sit still.

Two months earlier, Verdant's founder, Victor Kane, had died suddenly at home. Police ruled it a heart attack. Hannah had never accepted that.

Her father cherished his health. He always carried emergency medication. The home security system had conveniently failed the night he died. Too many coincidences.

They were only suspicions. She had no proof.

Now a stranger claimed to have news about her father. She had to listen.

A knock. Her secretary escorted a young man inside.

"Ms. Kane, this is Marcus Hale."

Hannah studied him and frowned.

Messy hair. Stubble. Dark circles. Wrinkled clothes and a yellowed collar. He looked cheap, tired, and dirty. By every surface measure, he was another dead-end guy from the street.

How could a man like that have crossed paths with her father?

Yet his eyes were sharp, steady, and unnervingly confident.

Maybe appearances lied.

While Hannah assessed him, Marcus assessed her.

She was striking. Arched brows, bright eyes, flawless skin, a figure that turned heads. Nearing thirty, she wore power and allure at the same time, a combination that made her unforgettable.

In his past life, women like Hannah needed to be handled firmly from the first second. No room to push back.

Marcus turned to the secretary. "Thank you. You can go. Unless it's urgent, don't let anyone interrupt us."

The secretary blinked, agreed, and left. Hannah's eyes narrowed.

"Mr. Hale, you knew my father?"

"Never met him."

"Then how do you have news about him?"

"I have it or I don't. Whether I speak is my choice. Whether you believe it is yours."

Hannah's temper flared. She was wealthy, sharp, and used to control. Even her husband rarely challenged her. Who was this nobody to dismiss her?

Then she caught herself. Nobody?

She steadied her voice. "If the information isn't free, say your price."

"Smart. I like that."

Marcus settled onto the sofa and lit a cigarette. "Three conditions. First, order Claire Jensen to stop attending client dinners and social events. Designers design. Sales and PR do the schmoozing. Second, once that's handled, I want thirty-seven point five percent of your company's shares. I'll buy them at fair market value. Third, lend me ten thousand dollars. I'll return it tomorrow."

The unrelated demands confused her. "Do you have a grudge against Designer Jensen?"

"Opposite. I'm her husband."

Hannah blinked, then rage flooded her chest.

Claire was one of the firm's standout talents, and plenty of coworkers gossiped about her personal life. Everyone knew she had married a worthless gambler who lived off her paycheck.

Now that same parasite had walked into Hannah's office and talked about buying a huge block of shares.

The ten thousand was obviously the real play. Did he think she was some easy mark at a flea market?

"You have two seconds to disappear."

Her voice was ice. "Otherwise security breaks your legs and throws you out."

---

Chapter 2: Your Husband Did It

Marcus Hale was not surprised by Hannah Kane's attitude.

Trust did not break in a day, and it would not mend in an afternoon.

In his past life he had done too many shameful things—things bad enough that he had wanted to beat himself bloody. He could hardly blame anyone else for despising him.

The reason he had come to Hannah, beyond protecting Claire, was to change how the people around his wife saw him. Environment mattered. If the company stopped treating him like human trash, winning Claire back would be far easier.

"Ms. Kane, you don't want to know what happened to your father?"

"Scum like you isn't fit to touch my father's shoes. How could you possibly know anything about him?" Hannah shot back.

"Marcus, I'm warning you one last time. Get out before I lose my temper."

"Fine. I thought you cared about how your father died. Guess I was wrong."

Marcus shook his head, sighed, and walked out with steady steps.

Hannah's pupils dilated.

The police had ruled her father's death natural. Her husband, her relatives, her friends—everyone had accepted it. She was the only person in the world who doubted it.

So how did Marcus know?

Could he have information the police never found?

The thought hit and she called out without thinking. "Stop right there!"

Marcus turned. "Further instructions, Ms. Kane?"

Hannah clenched her jaw. "Tell me what you know. If it's true, I'll give you a hundred thousand dollars. You won't have to pay it back."

Marcus chuckled. "Sorry. I don't feel like talking anymore."

He opened the door and left.

Hannah slammed her fist on the desk. Light and shadow flickered across her face. Her chest heaved for a long moment. Still, she could not let even the smallest chance slip away. She got up and chased after him.

By the time she reached reception, the elevator doors were sliding shut on Marcus.

"Mr. Hale, please wait—Marcus—"

The doors closed. The car began to descend. Another elevator showed it was still on the twentieth floor. Hannah gritted her teeth, kicked off her heels, and sprinted into the stairwell.

The receptionist's eyes nearly popped out of her head.

The CEO was running barefoot after Designer Jensen's husband.

What in God's name was happening?

After the shock passed, remembering the unnerving authority Marcus had shown earlier, the receptionist felt a hot spike of curiosity.

At that moment, the thing Hannah was most grateful for was that her father had leased office space on the fifth floor instead of somewhere higher. She ran hard, then slower, and finally caught Marcus outside the building.

"Marcus—Mr. Hale, please wait—"

Marcus turned. Hannah stood there with one hand gripping her heels, the other braced on her knee, panting so hard the buttons on her blouse strained. Her hair was wild. Her face was flushed. She looked nothing like a CEO.

In his previous life, Marcus had known at least ten ways to get this woman into his bed by nightfall. But Claire was alive again. Something in his soul had settled. His mind had changed. Conquest no longer interested him.

After catching her breath, Hannah straightened. "If you truly know how my father died, please tell me."

Marcus scoffed. "How could scum like me be fit to touch your father's shoes? How could I know anything about him?"

This asshole. Why is he so petty?

A gambling addict living off his wife—if he wasn't scum, what was he? Had she said anything wrong?

Cursing inwardly, Hannah exhaled and bent toward him slightly.

"I apologize, Mr. Hale. I was presumptuous earlier. I was rude. Please, for the sake of your wife's employer, share what you know. I will reward you generously."

"Are you saying that if I don't tell you, you'll make my wife's life difficult?"

Marcus's voice was level. His expression was ice. His eyes seemed to cut through skin and bone straight into the heart. Hannah shivered.

"No, no, no. That's not what I mean. Designer Jensen is indispensable to this company. Even if your information is worthless, I won't take it out on her. I only hoped to borrow her goodwill and earn your forgiveness."

Marcus snorted. "What about my three conditions?"

Strangely, for all his shabby appearance, Marcus carried more pressure than any major player Hannah had ever faced. She felt no room to bargain.

"I agree."

A faint smile crossed Marcus's eyes.

"First, you're right to doubt. Your father didn't die of sudden illness. He was murdered."

The words hit like a slap. Every hair on Hannah's body stood on end.

What shocked her most was not the cause of death. It was that Marcus knew she had always suspected it.

Her husband hadn't even noticed.

"Mr. Hale... do you know who did it?"

"I do."

Hannah stepped forward instinctively. "Who?"

Instead of answering, Marcus asked, "Ms. Kane, why do you think I demanded thirty-seven point five percent of your company's shares?"

Hannah froze. Cold ran from her soles to her skull. Her legs buckled and she collapsed into Marcus's arms.

Ever since her husband had said the word pregnant, Claire Jensen's heart had been in total disarray.

"Claire... Claire?"

Her boss's voice snapped her back.

"Ah? Director, did you need something?"

Felix Morgan, head of the design department, looked concerned. "You're pale. Are you feeling all right?"

"A little dizzy, that's all."

"Let me take you to the hospital."

"No, I can manage. Thank you, Director."

Claire stood, bent slightly, and left the conference room.

"Be careful. Call me if you need anything."

Felix's voice followed her, but Claire was too preoccupied to answer.

She knew Felix was interested in her. Under normal circumstances she would never want to owe him anything. Today she had no capacity for anything except the terrifying possibility of a life growing inside her.

She grabbed her wallet and keys and hurried downstairs. The moment she stepped outside, something in her peripheral vision made her look twice.

She froze.

Her boss and her husband.

Marcus still looked scruffy and worn. Hannah stood in stockings on the pavement, clutching her heels, hair a mess, eyes red and swollen, utterly vulnerable—a shocking contrast to the iron-willed CEO Claire knew.

They looked like something out of a soap opera.

How is this possible?

Am I hallucinating?

Claire rubbed her eyes hard. The scene did not change.

Marcus spotted her. His scalp prickled. He shoved Hannah away.

Hannah stumbled, nearly falling. Grief crashed over her. She grabbed Marcus again, fingers clawing at his shirt.

"Tell me! Tell me everything you know!"

Verdant Design Co. was not large and had never gone public. The ownership structure was simple. Victor Kane had left Hannah forty-five percent. Two uncles held nine and eight point five percent respectively.

The remaining thirty-seven point five percent belonged to her husband, Alan Prescott.

Why had Marcus zeroed in on those shares with such precision?

There was only one answer. Alan was about to lose his right to own them.

Her father had been murdered by her husband.

Marcus's head spun. Sister, please turn around. My wife is right there!

He knew Hannah was beyond reason. Pretending not to see Claire, he pried Hannah's hands off him.

"Word of mouth isn't proof. Go home right now and talk to the family on the same floor across the street. Ask for their security camera storage card."

"Storage card?" Hannah had run a company. She was no fool. She understood immediately. "You're saying the kid across the street might have recorded my father being harmed?"

"Not might. Will."

"Won't the parents care that their child captured something that horrible?"

"The boy has autism. He's shy and barely speaks. Communicate carefully with his parents when you go."

Without waiting for more questions, Marcus's expression brightened as if he had only just noticed Claire. He walked over to her.

"Claire, off work? Hungry? Let's get your favorite pizza."

A storm rolled through Hannah's chest.

Marcus knew how her father had died. He knew she had always doubted it. He even knew the details about the child in the building across the street.

Who the hell was this man?

She turned to ask, but Claire was standing right there. Hannah swallowed her shock, slipped on her shoes, smoothed her hair, and handed Marcus a business card.

"I hope everything you've said is true. Otherwise I will never let you off the hook."

She nodded faintly at Claire and left in a hurry.

Claire's brow knotted. "What did Ms. Kane mean? What nonsense did you tell her?"

Marcus put on an apologetic smile. "She needed advice on something and I helped. Naturally she's skeptical. Bite the hand that feeds you—I don't know how a person like that runs a company. She'll go bankrupt sooner or later."

Watching her husband's arrogant, petty display, Claire felt a fresh wave of disgust.

"Marcus, do you get uncomfortable if you're not bragging? Ms. Kane is young, holds degrees in architectural design and business management, and is worth millions. What could she possibly need from someone like you?"

Marcus sighed inwardly but kept his tone light. "Anyway, it doesn't change the fact that we could never have an affair."

"Dream on."

Claire rolled her eyes and walked away.

Her heart was full of doubts, but she would never believe there was anything improper between the two of them.

"Where are you going, honey?" Marcus called after her.

"None of your business!"

Claire did not look back. She mounted her e-bike and rode off.

Marcus clicked his tongue and pulled out his phone. He typed a message to the number on Hannah's card: "Don't forget our deal. Because just as I know how your father died, I also know what will happen to you."

---

Chapter 3: Ten Million or Nothing

Hannah did not reply, and Marcus did not wait. He boarded a nearby bus instead.

Returning to the old neighborhood felt familiar and strange at once. As he climbed the stairs, an unexpected dread settled over him—the kind that came from standing this close to home again.

Third floor, Unit 302. The modest apartment his parents had left him. He had grown up here, brought Claire home as his bride within these walls, tasted sweetness and rot and rage, until revenge landed him in prison.

Now he stared at the peeling paint on the security door and felt his nose sting.

By the time he was released in his previous life, the building had long been demolished. He had owned mansions enough to fill a city block, yet inside he had felt like a ship with no harbor.

Click.

While Marcus drowned in memory, the door swung open and a middle-aged woman stepped out.

He blinked, then forced a smile. "Gordon, what brings you by?"

The woman was Claire's mother, Gordon Vance.

"Don't call me that. I don't have a son-in-law as cursed as you."

Gordon looked at him with open disgust, turned toward the stairs, then glanced back. "Marcus, if you've got a shred of decency left, stop dragging my daughter down. Divorce her. Now."

When Marcus had been courting Claire, Gordon had never approved of him—mostly because he was broke.

Later, when he started a business and made real money, her attitude softened a little.

The good times did not last. A partner betrayed him. The company collapsed. Drinking and gambling took over. After that, every family visit became a shouting match. Demands for divorce became as routine as dinner.

"Gordon, I love Claire. I will never divorce her. Not for anything."

The words hit boiling oil. Gordon exploded.

"What did you say? Love her? Please.

Claire was fooled by your sweet talk years ago, and you still have the nerve to say it?

My daughter is beautiful. Talented men lined up for her back then—lawyers, executives, men earning six figures. And you? Since Claire married you, has she lived a single good day?

A man living off his wife's paycheck—if I were you, I'd have cracked my skull open on the pavement years ago rather than live with the shame."

Sprayed with spit, Marcus endured the garlic on her breath and tried to explain. "Gordon, I already promised Claire I won't gamble again. I'll work. I'll make real money—a lot of it—and give both of you a good life."

"Hot air!" Gordon shouted.

"I saw through you the first day we met. A leopard doesn't change its spots, and you can't polish a rock into gold. You were born poor and you'll die poor.

Make a lot of money? Not in this lifetime."

Her voice carried. Neighbors on both sides of the hall listened without coming out. They had heard this show before.

Marcus felt his patience fray. His love was for Claire. Respect for an elder had limits.

"Ten million!"

He raised his voice so sharply that Gordon went silent.

"If I don't make ten million dollars within the next month, I'll divorce Claire like you want.

But if I do, I expect you to enjoy our support in peace and stay out of our lives."

Gordon stared at him blankly, then burst out laughing.

"Ha ha ha... Marcus, oh Marcus, you really know how to talk big!

Ten million in a month? You think you're a goose that lays golden eggs? You can't even see what you are. It's hilarious!

The whole building heard you. You might not be ashamed, but I still have to face people when I go out!"

"If you don't believe me, forget it."

Marcus turned toward the apartment.

Having once stood at the top of the world, his nerves were steel. He did not care what neighbors thought.

"Stop right there!"

Gordon called him back. "Marcus, do you stand by your word?"

He nodded. "I swear on my late mother's name."

"Fine. I'll believe you one more time.

If you really make ten million within a month, I won't push Claire to divorce you—and I'll apologize to you in front of every neighbor in this building.

Otherwise you leave with nothing, get as far from us as possible, and never show your face again."

"Neighbors bear witness. Agreed."

Gordon left. Marcus stepped inside, looked around the modest but warm home, and felt his anger drain away.

Gordon's words were cruel, but the root cause was him. He had failed as a husband. He had failed Claire too many times.

After a moment's reflection, he rolled up his sleeves and cleaned the apartment from top to bottom. He showered, changed into fresh clothes, and a deposit notification lit up his phone: one hundred thousand dollars.

Then Hannah called.

"Mr. Hale, I need to see you."

Her voice was deep and hoarse. She had obviously been crying.

Marcus felt no urge to comfort her. "I'm busy today. Tomorrow."

He hung up, left immediately, and headed straight for the antique market.

In his previous life, after Claire's death, Marcus had drowned in pain and hatred for a long time.

He became a walking corpse driven by vengeance—tracking enemies, gathering leverage, hunting for anything he could use.

Even in prison he kept the habit. He worked in the library archives, read newspapers every day, earned a master's degree, and shaved years off his sentence.

This life, reborn with every memory intact, he remembered what the papers had reported: the future arc of the world, the march of eras, stock swings, business openings at the front of every wave.

For instance, Victor Kane had been murdered by Alan Prescott—a crime an autistic boy in the building across the street had accidentally captured on camera.

And today, someone would buy a 1923 edition of Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio at a bookstore on Heritage Lane and discover a rare small-letter one-dollar revenue stamp worth millions hidden inside the cover lining.

The stamp came from the late nineteenth century, when postal authorities had overprinted existing three-cent revenue stamps with a new one-dollar denomination to meet demand for high-value postage.

The inscriptions appeared in three variants: Great Qing Post, One Dollar, and 1 dollar.

In practice, those three-cent revenue stamps could be used as one-dollar postage.

Nothing shocking about that on its own. Standard red one-dollar revenue stamps were valuable but common enough to cap around ten or twenty thousand dollars.

The reason this particular stamp had stayed in Marcus's memory was the small lettering in its name.

Postal staff had first printed fifty specimens and sent them upstairs for approval. The director rejected them, deciding the characters for One Dollar were too small and failed to convey imperial grandeur.

That rejection mattered. The small-letter red one-dollar revenue stamps became instant rarities. Only fifty existed worldwide. Their value dwarfed even the legendary Large Dragon stamp.

Media reports later stated that only thirty-two small-letter one-dollar stamps had been discovered globally. The one found at the antique market would be the thirty-third.

In recent years the collecting craze had cooled. Antique markets everywhere had grown quiet—patronage limited to serious collectors and tourists, nothing like the bustling flower and pet markets nearby.

Marcus followed his memory to a shop called Inkwell Books and stepped inside. A sweep of the room made his heart skip.

In the corner, in front of a bookshelf, stood a woman in a white dress.

Her hair fell down her back like a waterfall. The hem of her dress brushed her shoes. A coarse canvas crossbody bag rested at her waist. He could not see her face, but even her silhouette carried an ethereal grace—as if she did not quite belong to this world.

Having been wealthy and powerful in his previous life, Marcus had met every kind of woman. He was not the type to lose his head over a profile.

What unsettled him was the news photo from the stamp's discovery—a long-haired woman in a white dress.

She was the original finder.

Damn.

Had he arrived too late?

Marcus's heart climbed into his throat as he began browsing casually.

The shopkeeper, a bespectacled heavyset man, did not bother greeting customers. He read behind the counter.

The store was small—four or five shelves total. Marcus reached the last shelf in under five minutes.

This was it. If he could not find the 1923 edition of Strange Tales here, the opportunity was gone.

The woman in white was reading and sensed someone beside her. She shifted half a step—politeness or distaste, he could not tell.

Marcus glanced over. She was the woman from the news photo, even more striking in person. Her skin was nearly translucent, as if she had been raised among flowers—natural casting for a fairy tale without makeup.

Clearly a young lady from serious money.

Ethereal was not a quality ordinary people cultivated.

The woman closed her book, slid it back onto the shelf, and her slender fingers moved to a lower row.

Marcus followed her gaze. His pupils contracted. He reached out and snatched a book from the shelf.

Her fingers froze. Her brow furrowed as she looked at him.

Because that was the book she wanted.

Marcus wore an innocent expression, opened the volume, flipped through it, and confirmed it was the 1923 edition of Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio. Pinching the bottom cover, he felt a slight bulge. A small smile touched his mouth and he turned to leave.

"Sir, please wait," the woman said. Her voice was soft and delicate, pleasant against the ear.

Marcus turned. "Yes?"

Her eyes fixed on the book in his hand. "That book is mine."

"Did you already buy it?"

"No, but I was first—"

"Then it's not yours," Marcus interrupted without apology.

Displeasure crossed her face. "I had reserved that book. Name your price."

---

Chapter 4: Not About the Book

The young woman's voice stayed soft and sweet, but her tone had turned cold and commanding. Clearly she was used to giving orders. Thankfully her upbringing showed—she was sharp, not unreasonable.

Marcus smiled and shook the book. "It's not yours, and it's not mine. Right now the only person with the right to set a price is the owner of this shop."

"I had already chosen that book. I placed it exactly where you picked it up. I was going to grab a few more and check out together."

"Same answer. You didn't pay for it. So it's not yours."

The woman narrowed her eyes. "One thousand dollars. Hand it over."

Marcus raised an eyebrow. Had she already discovered the secret hidden in the cover lining?

After a beat he looked curious. "Under normal circumstances, shouldn't you wait until I buy it and then offer to purchase it from me?"

"How do I know you'd sell it then? A thousand for the right to buy it seems like a fair deal."

Classic business thinking. The rumors about Miss Shaw of the Shaw family being a rising star in commerce were not exaggerated.

Of course, Marcus already knew who she was.

Elena Shaw—heiress to a provincial dynasty with assets in the tens of billions. In an era when even the nation's richest barely cracked two hundred billion, she qualified as old money in a new century.

Marcus clicked his tongue and casually flipped pages. "The copyright page says 1923, but the paper, type, ink, and layout don't match printing from that period.

Meaning it's a later forgery—possibly modern—and worth two hundred bucks at most."

Elena paused, then nodded with genuine surprise. "I know."

"Then why spend nearly ten times its value?"

"Because I like it."

Marcus had nothing to say to that.

A powerful reason. The purest form of how rich people shopped on impulse.

He walked to the counter. "How much for this book?"

The owner glanced up with a warm smile. "The 1923 sole edition of Strange Tales, young man—you've got a good eye. Clearly a collector. Five thousand—not for profit, but to make a friend."

"Cut the crap."

Marcus scoffed. "A lazy fake that doesn't even bother to look convincing. Calling it a forgery is an insult to the word.

I'll give you two hundred. Now that's making a friend."

In the antique trade, selling fakes outright wasn't illegal. If a shop carried ten percent genuine merchandise, you could call the owner generous.

Getting caught did not embarrass the shopkeeper in the slightest. His smile held, but his gaze shifted behind Marcus.

In this business it was rarely about who arrived first. It was about who paid more. Marcus understood the implication immediately.

Before he could react, a soft voice sounded behind him. "Five hundred."

The owner's friendly smile turned cunning as his eyes moved back to Marcus.

Obviously he had overheard the earlier conversation and intended to play them both for suckers.

Marcus turned, irritated. "Miss, let's be reasonable."

Elena looked up, face pale as polished jade. "You think you're the one to say that?"

"Put irony aside. All you're doing is overpaying without gaining anything extra."

"As long as I get what I want, the price doesn't matter."

Marcus finally frowned.

He had plenty of ways to solve this. Elena could be useful later. He did not want to burn the bridge over one book.

The shop door swung open. In walked a handsome man with slicked-back hair, designer clothes, and sunglasses.

Seeing him, Marcus's lips curved slightly.

"Elena, I got the thing you wanted—"

Before he finished, the man sensed the tension in the room. He quickened his pace, stepped in front of Elena, and eyed Marcus with hostility.

"Elena, has this guy been bothering you?"

Far from pleased, Elena's expression turned colder.

"No. Don't make a scene. Wait outside."

The man would not listen. He removed his sunglasses and jabbed a finger at Marcus's chest. "Kid, you've got nerve causing trouble in Westlake City. Do you know who I am?"

Marcus kept smiling. "Do I need to?"

"Heh. You've got guts."

The man sneered, then turned. His expression softened instantly—almost placating.

"Elena, don't worry. No matter how this little bastard upset you, I'll make him pay a hundred times over."

Elena was not appeased. Her tone was colder than when she spoke to Marcus. "Serena Blake, did I not tell you to stay out of my business?"

Serena Blake flushed. "Elena, don't be mad. I wasn't meddling. But you're out with me. If I let some outsider push you around, my father would kill me."

"Nobody is pushing me around. We happen to want the same book. That's all."

Serena glanced at the volume on the counter and asked the owner directly, "How much?"

The owner was still beaming. "The young lady has offered five hundred. This gentleman hasn't bid yet."

Serena snorted. "Ten thousand. Write the receipt."

Antique dealers knew when to strike. The owner, reading Serena as someone not to cross, was about to nod when—bang—a hand slapped down on the book and startled him half out of his chair.

"Serena Blake, is it?"

Marcus's gaze was steady and deep. "Interested in making a deal with me?"

Serena felt a chill under that stare. "What deal?"

"Shut up. I just saved your life."

Serena blinked, then flushed with anger. "The hell—you dare curse me? I'll kill you first!"

He clenched his fist and swung at Marcus's face.

Marcus caught his wrist and applied pressure. Serena yelped.

"Shut up!"

Marcus's shout was sudden and fierce. Serena's heart jumped. His eardrums rang. He clamped his mouth shut.

Only then did Marcus release him. "Best not to hit a nightclub tonight. If you absolutely have to, stay away from a girl named Megan."

Serena went slack.

The reason he had not entered the bookstore with Elena was that he had been outside on the phone with friends, planning the evening's entertainment. First stop: a nightclub.

How the hell did this guy know something I decided five minutes ago?

Suspicion had barely crept in when Serena realized a bigger problem and spun around. "Elena, don't listen to his nonsense. Everything I planned today revolves around you. There's no way I'm going to any damned night—"

"Go wherever you want. It has nothing to do with me."

Impatient, Elena walked past him to the counter. "Still five hundred. Selling or not?"

The owner glanced at Serena, saw his uneasy expression, sighed in disappointment, and turned to Marcus. "Sir, are you still bidding?"

Marcus ignored him and asked Elena, "Miss Shaw, one more time—why do you want this book?"

Elena pressed her lips together. "Because someone wrote a sentence on page thirty-eight that interests me a great deal."

Marcus flipped to page thirty-eight. It was the famous story Jiaona from Strange Tales.

At the bottom, in blue ink: Kong the monk married Songniang because of Jiaona, and they became close friends through hardship. Emotion and duty cannot both be satisfied—which weighs less, which weighs more? I do not understand.

The handwriting was graceful. Clearly a woman's hand. From the sentiment, the previous owner had likely been caught in an impossible attachment—which explained the note in the margin.

Young hearts were romantic and sensitive. Liking a book for one stray sentence was normal.

As long as she did not know what was hidden in the cover.

Marcus relaxed. "Honestly, my reason is similar to yours. The drunkard's interest isn't in the wine—the difference is you want the book itself more than I do.

So let's compromise."

Elena frowned slightly. "What compromise?"

"I'll buy the book. Then we each take what we need.

The shopkeeper and Mr. Blake beside you will bear witness. The book will be yours before we leave this store."

Her frown deepened. "What exactly do you mean?"

"You'll see soon enough."

Marcus pulled five hundred-dollar bills from his wallet and set them on the counter.

Elena hesitated but did not stop him.

Disheartened as he was, the owner still issued a receipt to Marcus.

Merchandise acquired for a few dollars and sold for five hundred was already a fine day. Who could blame a buyer with sharp eyes?

When the transaction finished, Marcus gave Elena a mysterious smile, picked up a box cutter from the counter, carefully slit open the book's back cover, gave it a shake, and a small red square of paper fell into his palm.

The owner nearly dropped his glasses.

"This... this is..."

"The red revenue one-dollar stamp!" Elena said, voice full of disbelief and delight. "And it's the small-letter version!"

Only Serena looked utterly lost. He leaned in. "Red what?"

Elena, eyes locked on the stamp in Marcus's palm, quickly explained the origin of the small-letter one-dollar revenue stamp. Her gaze was hungry with longing.

"It's one of the four holy grails of Chinese philately. Only thirty-two specimens are known worldwide. Its value exceeds even the famous Large Dragon stamp."

Serena did not doubt her for a second. The shopkeeper looked as if he had lost a parent.

"Sir, may I take a closer look?" Elena asked, lifting her eyes to Marcus.

Marcus handed her the book and the stamp.

"The book is yours now. By the way, my name is Marcus Hale."

"Thank you, Mr. Hale."

Elena cradled the book carefully, pulled a magnifying glass from her bag, and leaned in to study the stamp in detail.

Marcus's impression of her deepened.

Beautiful women who browsed old bookstores and carried magnifying glasses in their purses were rare these days.

After a long while Elena finally exhaled. "I can't guarantee it, but based on the paper, ink, perforation, and gum, I believe the stamp is probably genuine.

Congratulations, Mr. Hale. You scored a monster win."

"Aren't you angry?"

Marcus watched her with interest. "After all, it was originally yours. I took it from you."

"Damn! If you hadn't said that, I would've almost forgotten!"

Before Elena could answer, Serena shouted, "Kid, get lost. Seeing as it's some stamp or whatever, I'll spare your life!"

---

Chapter 5: Less Than Ten Minutes

"Move."

Elena shoved Serena aside. "I'll say it one last time. Mind your own business."

Serena did not dare push further. He could only glare at Marcus before shutting up.

Elena steadied herself and continued. "Mr. Hale said the drunkard's interest isn't in the wine—meaning he wanted the book for this stamp.

Given what just happened, no matter how I bid against you, as long as I didn't exceed the stamp's value, you would never let go.

And I would never lose my mind and bid without a ceiling.

Truthfully, my limit was ten thousand.

So either way you would have taken the book. The so-called treasure was never mine to begin with. What's the point of anger?"

Her words were open and honest. Regret sat plainly on her face. The more Marcus looked at her, the more he approved.

Proud without arrogance. Rational without pettiness. With the right guidance she could become an excellent executive.

"Sir, willing to sell that stamp? I'll pay a million!" the shopkeeper suddenly interjected.

Marcus laughed. "You're slick as hell.

I just found a bargain and you're already trying to buy it back?

You think I'm some fool who can't read value? A million for something worth four or five million? Do you even know the word shame?"

The shopkeeper's face turned the color of raw liver.

"Damn—a scrap of paper is worth five million? You've lost your mind. Only an idiot would buy it," Serena blurted out.

He came from money, but between five million for a stamp and a weekend with a few celebrities, he would choose the weekend every time.

"Shut up. Nobody thinks you're mute."

Elena shot him a fierce look, then turned to Marcus. "If you really want to sell, I can give you four million right now. Cash for goods on the spot.

Keep in mind five million would be the final auction price—and that's not guaranteed. Even if it hits that number, after commission what you actually pocket..."

"Done. Transfer it."

Marcus's decisiveness left Elena stunned. Her instincts screamed that something was off, but she could not name what.

When the bank transfer cleared, Marcus said goodbye and left the bookstore without looking back.

Elena carefully wrapped the stamp in her handkerchief and tucked it close to her body. She was about to leave when she froze.

"What's wrong?" Serena asked.

"Don't forget what he said. Stay as far from anyone named Megan as possible."

"Huh? Why?"

"Because from start to finish I never introduced myself—and he called me Miss Shaw.

If I'm not mistaken..."

Elena drew a deep breath. Her eyes flickered. "The reason he talked with us so long after getting the book was to sell the stamp to me and get the money as fast as possible."

She was right.

Marcus was not a collector. To him antiques were currency. An auction house might earn more, but waiting ten or fifteen days was not something a couple of million could compensate for.

With his ten-million-in-a-month bet with Gordon Vance hanging over him, every minute was worth more than gold.

Netting four million on day one put Marcus in excellent spirits. On the way home he stopped at the seafood market and made a special trip to a flower shop for roses.

A decent husband did more than earn money. Small romantic gestures mattered—especially when your wife was furious with you.

Using skills honed in his previous life, Marcus poured everything into a full table of seafood. He waited. Eight o'clock came and went. Claire still was not home.

He dialed her cell. No answer. His face darkened. He called Hannah next.

"Ms. Kane, you've got more nerve than I imagined."

Since watching the video of her father's murder, Hannah had been drowning in shock, rage, and grief. She had cried herself hoarse. Marcus's threat jolted her awake.

"Mr. Hale, I don't understand. Wasn't the money already transferred?"

"Then why isn't my wife home from work yet?"

"That shouldn't be happening. I told design and sales in no uncertain terms—"

Hannah's words stopped mid-sentence. Marcus understood instantly.

"Alan Prescott took Claire out, didn't he?

Why haven't you called the police?"

"I... he..."

Hannah stammered. Marcus wanted to reach through the signal and slap her.

He had sought Hannah out today precisely because Alan Prescott had been the accomplice behind Claire's death in his previous life.

He wanted to change that trajectory. He had not expected Hannah to be this weak.

Her own father had been murdered, yet she was still weighing marital loyalty—as if anyone could decide whether to call her heartless or cowardly.

"Hannah Kane, you better pray my wife comes home safe tonight.

Otherwise you'll learn that compared to me, the husband who killed your father-in-law will look like an angel."

"Mr. Hale, you— Hello? Hello?"

The dial tone hammered Hannah's chest. She immediately called Alan.

"Did you take Designer Jensen from the design department out to entertain clients?"

"What's wrong with that?"

Alan Prescott sounded utterly indifferent. Hannah's blood ignited.

"Claire is from design, not sales. What right do you have to drag her to dinner parties?"

Alan had not expected a lecture the moment he picked up. His temper flared.

"Hannah, have you lost your mind?

Claire is the lead designer on the project. Meeting clients is part of the job.

Besides, she's gorgeous—figure like a model. It's a waste keeping her behind a drafting table. I gave her a chance to climb. She should be thanking me."

Then Hannah understood the scheme Alan had plotted—and why Marcus had demanded Claire stay away from client social events.

Marcus knew things even the police could not find. Heaven only knew what power sat behind him.

The more Hannah thought, the more frightened and furious she became. Her voice nearly tore through the phone.

"Alan Prescott, you bastard!

The Kane family has always done business with integrity. When have we ever sold our employees' bodies for profit?

I'm warning you—send Claire home right now, or don't blame me for what comes next."

Alan was so baffled by the scolding that his anger doubled.

"You're the one who's sick. What century is this? You've got to be ruthless to make money, got it?

Foolish woman. I can't be bothered. Mr. Cole is waiting to drink. We'll talk tomorrow."

The line went dead again. Enraged, Hannah smashed objects around the living room like a woman possessed.

When she finally caught her breath, the contrast between Alan's current attitude and the man he had been before her father's death buried years of marriage under instant hatred.

"Hello, is this the police? I want to report a crime..."

Riverside Tower faced the winding river and backed onto Westlake City's golden central district—one of the city's landmark buildings.

At the top sat Summit Restaurant, staffed by Michelin-trained chefs and built around fine business dining. Combined with views that swallowed the skyline, the steep average check did nothing to slow demand. Reservations were brutal.

Dining here supposedly required booking half a month out. It was a favorite for corporate banquets and influencers flexing wealth.

Marcus took the elevator to the fifty-first floor. The host at the entrance sized him up and offered a professional smile edged with arrogance.

"Good evening, sir. Do you have a reservation?"

"I'm here to find someone. The Apex Room."

Marcus moved to enter.

The host's eyes lit with understanding at the room name.

Mr. Cole, who had booked the Apex Room tonight, was known for pursuing married women. Open secret in certain Westlake circles.

The man in front had to be a husband coming to make trouble. He could not be allowed to ruin Mr. Cole's evening.

"I'm sorry, sir."

The host blocked the way. "You're not on tonight's reservation list. You can't enter."

Marcus narrowed his eyes. "How do you know I'm not on the list if I haven't given my name?"

The host's smile stiffened. "Don't play games, brother. No offense, but head to toe you probably don't cost as much as my work suit. Can you afford to eat here?

Of course, we never judge by appearances. If you were actually here to dine, I wouldn't stop you. But we both know why you're here.

So call someone to escort you up, or wait downstairs. You are not walking in on your own."

Marcus checked his watch. Less than ten minutes remained until the moment Claire fell in his memory. He swallowed rage.

"I'm warning you. Lives are at stake. If something happens, you and this restaurant won't be able to carry the liability."

"Ha! Who are you trying to scare? If someone dies, that's police business, not ours.

Besides, heh heh heh..."

The host chuckled and patted Marcus's shoulder.

"In my opinion, even if there really is a casualty, it'll be the kind that shows up nine months later. Nothing to do with us.

Look on the bright side, brother. There's an old saying—if you want peace at home, sometimes you swallow your pride.

If a rich young man takes a shine to your wife, that's fortune smiling on you. Benefits without lifting a finger. You should be grateful instead of—Ah!"

Marcus grabbed his thumb and broke it. Another crack—he kicked and shattered the host's leg.

The host hit the floor screaming like a slaughtered animal.

Two suited security guards rushed over immediately.

"Cause trouble at Summit Restaurant and you're asking for it! Get on your knees and cover your—"

"Move."

Marcus roared and struck like wind. He hit one guard in the throat and seized the other's face, slamming his head into the wall.

His stride never faltered. He charged straight into the restaurant.

In prison he had studied under a master and learned more than kung fu. The two guards never stood a chance.

Just as Marcus disappeared into the vestibule, the elevator dinged open and a young couple stepped out.

Seeing the chaos at the entrance, the woman's face changed drastically. "What happened to you? What's going on?"

The host sobbed as if he had seen salvation. "Miss, someone came to cause trouble, injured us, and forced his way inside."

---

Chapter 6: Kill Again

"The hell—rebellion, is it?"

The young man behind the girl went from smug to furious in a heartbeat. "Where is he? I'm going to kill that son of a bitch!"

"He's in the Skyview Room."

The girl snatched a walkie-talkie from a security guard and strode into Cloudcrest Restaurant with a face like winter. "This is Elena Shaw. All security personnel, assemble outside the Skyview Room immediately. Do not disturb the other guests."

Minutes earlier, inside the Skyview Room, Claire Jensen was apologizing with a strained smile.

"Mr. Calloway, I'm truly sorry. I really can't drink alcohol. I'll toast you with water instead."

Blake Calloway's gaze slid over her figure, and his expression darkened. "Miss Jensen, dinner is almost over, and from start to finish I've shown you nothing but respect. This is the first glass and the last. I hope you appreciate that."

Claire touched her stomach and forced herself to speak. "I'm sorry, Mr. Calloway, I—"

Bang!

Blake slammed his wine glass onto the table. Alan Prescott, seated beside him, rushed to smooth things over. "It's Claire's first time at one of these dinners. She doesn't know the etiquette yet. Mr. Calloway, please calm down. I'll talk to her."

He turned on Claire with a harsh glare. "What's wrong with you? Mr. Calloway is a major player in Westlake City and a patron of Verdant Design. The smallest favor from a man like him could set you up for life. Do you understand? Now pour the drink and apologize to Mr. Calloway."

Claire wanted to confess she was pregnant, but she also knew that in this industry, pregnancy often meant the end of a career. Her husband owed gambling debts, and she still had a family to support. She couldn't take the risk.

After wrestling with it, she lied.

"Mr. Prescott, I understand what you're saying. It's not that I don't want to save face. I truly can't drink liquor. Even a sip makes me sick. If I ruined the room, that would be worse than rude."

Blake's eyes lit up. He laughed. "So you can't handle liquor, Miss Jensen? You should have said so sooner. Lucky for you, I brought an excellent bottle of red. Open it, Mr. Prescott."

"Right away, Mr. Calloway."

Alan stood, went to the wine cabinet, and poured from the bottle on the top shelf. As the red liquid flowed, a small pill dropped in and vanished.

"Here we are, Claire. I didn't pour much—just two sips. Give Mr. Calloway a proper toast. Men like him don't come around often. You need to seize the opportunity."

Claire ran out of excuses. The glass held only a little wine. She told herself it wouldn't hurt the baby much, took the glass, and stood.

"Mr. Calloway, I wasn't clear earlier and spoiled your mood. I'm grateful you're magnanimous. I'm honored to work with your company, and I hope you'll continue to guide me. Thank you. Here's to you."

"Well said."

Blake lifted his glass, greedy eyes fixed on Claire's curves, wishing he could strip her down right there.

He had a taste for married women. Two weeks ago he'd seen Claire at a property expo and been struck by her beauty, then contacted Alan Prescott.

The danger of having killed her father-in-law was behind him, and Alan was preparing to swallow Verdant Design whole. He needed outside support. The two men had found each other instantly.

Selling out one designer whose husband was worthless meant nothing to him. If Blake wanted Hannah Kane herself, Alan would happily clean his wife up and deliver her to the other man's bed.

The glass had almost reached Claire's lips. Blake could barely swallow. Alan's eyes glittered with excitement.

Bang!

The private room door flew open.

"Claire!"

Claire's hand jerked. She turned, eyes wide with shock. "Marcus... what are you doing here?"

Marcus Hale strode forward, snatched the glass from her, and smelled it. His face went cold.

"Who the hell are you? Who let you in?" Alan shot to his feet, furious.

Claire recovered first. "I'm sorry, Mr. Calloway, Mr. Prescott. He's my husband. I'll make him leave right now."

She dragged Marcus toward the door and hissed, "What are you doing? I'm at work. Do you want to get me fired?"

"Claire, listen to me. Alan Prescott has no good intentions. Blake Calloway is the most notorious bastard in Westlake City. He loves other men's wives. He—"

"What are you saying? That I'm shameless?"

Claire's face went pale, her eyes red. "Marcus, you've gambled for two years while I've worked myself to death paying your debts, feeding you, taking care of you. When have I ever wronged you? And now you suspect me? Have you lost your conscience entirely?"

"No. You've misunderstood. I'm not accusing you. I'm worried they'll deceive you."

"Bullshit. For two years you've only cared about money and never about this family. Tonight, just as I'm about to close a major deal, you suddenly grow a conscience? It's ridiculous. Marcus, whatever your motives are, if you still expect money from me in the future, get out. Now!"

Claire's chest heaved. She looked angry and heartbroken, disappointment rolling off her in waves. Marcus's rage climbed, but he had no idea how to make her believe him.

Alan rose and walked over, looking down from his height. "You're Marcus Hale, right? I'm Alan Prescott, vice president of Verdant Design. As Claire's superior, young man, I have to correct you. There are many ways for a man to show love. Restricting his wife's freedom is the stupidest of them all."

His tone was sanctimonious, every word designed to drive a wedge between them. Claire was too furious to notice. Marcus already wanted to kill him.

"Director Prescott makes a fair point. I was impulsive tonight. I should have found a moment to talk with Claire first."

Marcus nodded with a humble smile. "I'm sorry for barging in. Let this glass be my apology."

Alan's face shifted when Marcus offered him the red wine. "That's Claire's glass. I can't—"

"It's fine. She hasn't touched it. I don't mind."

"You might not mind. I do." Alan's expression darkened. "Young man, I was speaking politely out of consideration for Claire. Who do you think you are, worthy of toasting me? I'll give you thirty seconds. Get out, or I'll make sure you—"

He never finished.

Marcus seized his chin, forced his mouth open, and poured the half glass of red wine down his throat.

"Marcus, what are you doing?"

Claire screamed and tried to pull his arm away, but it was too late.

Alan coughed and collapsed.

"Director Prescott, are you all right? I apologize on his behalf—"

Tears filled Claire's eyes, but Alan shoved her aside.

"Water! Water, now!"

He lurched to the table, gulped down a glass of water, then staggered into the bathroom gagging. Moments later, violent retching echoed through the room.

Claire went still.

It was only half a glass of wine. Why would Alan react like that?

"Because he spiked the drink."

Claire shuddered at her husband's words.

Her bias against Marcus was two years of heartbreak piled into one reflex, but that didn't mean she couldn't think for herself.

Everything was obvious. There was no project tonight. From beginning to end, it had been a filthy setup aimed at her body.

Grief and rage overflowed at once. Claire turned on Blake. "Mr. Calloway, I've done nothing to you. Why would you harm me?"

Now that his intentions were exposed, Blake showed no shame. "Miss Jensen, that's a foolish question. To me, you're so beautiful that alone is reason enough to bear a grudge."

"You... you're shameless."

Blake laughed and shifted his gaze to Marcus, his expression turning grave. "Do you know who I am?"

Marcus nodded. "A director at Dominion Group. The young heir of the Westlake Calloway family. Blake Calloway."

"Then you know my reach. You've ruined my evening, and the consequences will be severe. If you don't want to wake up one day missing a piece of yourself, you still have time to fix this."

"How?"

Blake's smirk returned. "Simple. Convince your wife to cooperate. If you can't manage that, holding her hands for me will do. Make me happy and you'll profit."

Claire had never imagined a person could sink so low. Blake's stare felt like insects crawling over her skin. She turned to leave, but someone grabbed her wrist.

She whirled around, panic in her eyes. "What... what are you doing?"

"What else? Helping the young master, of course."

Blake stood, laughing. "Miss Jensen, you may not read a room, but you married a husband who does. Ha—"

Claire's face went ashen. Tears rimmed her eyes. Her lips trembled. She couldn't speak.

Marcus watched, heartbroken and helpless. He sighed. "I know I've been terrible these past two years and caused you a lot of pain. But I haven't sunk to the level of an animal, have I? Don't be afraid. Just watch. With me here, no one can hurt you."