Chapter 2 - The Setup**
The sterile white lights of St. Jude’s emergency ward hummed overhead as Dr. Marcus Vance finished reviewing Phedra’s extensive medical file. I sat rigidly in the plastic chair beside her hospital bed, an intravenous drip slowly pumping saline and vital nutrients into her withered veins.
“Mr. Hayes,” Dr. Vance said gravely, pulling me out into the quiet hallway. “Your wife’s condition is critical. She is suffering from severe malnutrition, advanced stage-three lymphoma, and systemic infection. If you had arrived even two weeks later... we wouldn't be having this conversation.”
A cold, heavy stone formed in my chest. For eleven months, I had busted my knuckles in a freezing Canadian factory believing my hard-earned wages were keeping my wife alive and comfortable. Instead, my family had starved her, humiliated her, and left her to die in a storage shed while they lived in hedonistic luxury.
When I returned to the hospital room, Phedra was awake, her large, mournful eyes tracking my movements.
“Damian, please,” she whispered, her fingers weakly clutching my sleeve. “Don’t fight them. They’re your family. Just take me away from here. Let’s go rent a small apartment. I don’t care about the money anymore. I just want to live.”
I gently kissed her knuckles, smoothing the dry skin of her hand. “You’re going to live, Phedra. I promise you that. But nobody who hurt you is going to get away scot-free.”
I spent the next three hours organizing her care, placing her under the direct protection of a private medical team, and ensuring that no member of my family could access her room or influence her medical decisions.
Then, I executed the first phase of my plan.
I drove back to the house on Elm Street just past midnight. The place was dark, save for the flickering blue glow of the massive living room television. When I walked through the front door, Godfrey was lounging on the leather sofa drinking a beer, while Selina sat at the kitchen island reviewing mail.
They both spun around, bristling with defensive hostility.
“Where is that ungrateful parasite?!” Selina hissed, crossing her arms. “Did you drop her off at a charity ward? Because we aren’t paying a single dime for her hospital bills!”
I closed the front door behind me with a quiet, deliberate click. I walked slowly into the kitchen, pulled out a chair, and sat down directly across from my mother. I didn't look angry. In fact, I wore a calm, almost distracted expression.
“She’s getting the care she needs,” I said evenly.
Godfrey sneered, walking over with his beer bottle in hand. “Good. Because we’re sick of her drama. And listen here, Damian—since you’ve finally decided to grace us with your presence after four years of abandoning us, we need to talk about the house extension. The contractor needs another fifteen thousand dollars by Monday to finish the master suite. Transfer it to mom’s account.”
I looked up at my brother, letting a slow, calculated smile touch the corners of my lips.
“Fifteen thousand?” I murmured softly. “Is that all you’re worried about?”
Selina narrowed her eyes, sensing a shift in my tone. “What is that supposed to mean?”
I leaned back in the chair, crossing my legs, and pulled a folded legal document from my jacket pocket, placing it gently on the granite countertop.
“While I was in Calgary,” I began, my voice steady and hypnotic, “things changed at the plant. There was a massive industrial safety lawsuit filed against the parent corporation over chronic chemical exposure and ventilation failures. Every long-term worker on the floor was included as a primary plaintiff.”
Godfrey paused, lowering his beer bottle. “A lawsuit?”
“A class-action settlement,” I corrected smoothly, tapping the corner of the document. “The final mediation concluded just before I caught my flight home. Because I logged more overtime hours and hazardous shifts than almost anyone else in the facility, my individual settlement tier was calculated at the highest bracket.”
Selina’s breath hitched. She leaned forward across the island, her eyes locked hungrily onto the paper. “How... how much?”
I let out a slow sigh, pretending to hesitate. “After legal fees, taxes, and currency conversion... the lump sum deposited into my private account yesterday morning was exactly one million, two hundred thousand dollars.”
The kitchen went dead silent.
You could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator in the background. Godfrey’s jaw dropped slack, his eyes wide as dinner plates. Selina’s hands began to tremble violently as she reached out toward the document, her greed instantly overriding every ounce of common sense, maternal guilt, or suspicion she might have possessed.
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A million dollars. To them, it wasn't just money—it was a golden ticket to endless status, luxury, and power. And they believed, with absolute arrogance, that they were entitled to every single cent.
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