Chapter 2

Not because I couldn't afford it.

But why should I have to?

My own daughter had stolen her mother's keepsake to please a man who called me an old bastard, and now I was supposed to spend my own money buying it back for him?

I didn't pay. I turned around and walked out.

However, I made sure to memorize the pawnshop receipt number.

When I got back to my apartment building, I pressed my finger against the scanner. The lock flashed red. Three times, it failed to unlock, the screen lighting up red each time.

"Verification failed."

Then I entered the six-digit passcode.

Wrong again.

A moment later, the door opened from the inside. It wasn't Marissa who had unlocked it.

It was Tyler's mother, Linda Ashford. She was wearing one of my silk pajamas and casually eating popcorn.

"Oh, you're back."

She looked me up and down as if she were greeting a guest.

"Tyler said you haven't been in a good place mentally lately. He was worried something might happen while you were living alone, so we moved in to help take care of you."

I looked past her into the apartment.

A girl in her early twenties sat on the couch with her feet propped up, completely absorbed in a video game. The coffee table was buried beneath takeout containers and trash.

She was Tyler's younger sister, Chloe Ashford.

"How did you get in here?"

"Marissa gave us the passcode." Linda smiled. "We're family, aren't we?"

I walked straight toward the master bedroom.

The moment I pushed open the door, I thought I'd gone into the wrong room. My clothes had been stuffed into black garbage bags and dumped in a corner of the balcony.

My desk now held Tyler's computer setup.

And Diane's memorial portrait had been tossed beside the trash can outside, one corner of the frame shattered.

I bent down and picked it up, slicing my finger on a shard of glass. Blood dripped onto the tile floor one drop at a time.

Behind me, I heard Tyler's lazy voice.

"Mom's back isn't great, so I gave her the master bedroom. As for the picture… Having a dead person's photo sitting in the room was creepy. I told the cleaning lady to throw it out while she was tidying up."

I turned around slowly, clutching the portrait against my chest, as I took a step towards him.

"Throw it out?" I raised my hand. "You call that throwing it out?"

Before the slap could land, someone grabbed my wrist from the side.

It was Marissa.

I hadn't even heard her come in. She shoved me hard.

I stumbled backward, my lower back slamming into the doorframe before I collapsed onto the floor.

"Dad, have you lost your mind?!" She stood protectively in front of Tyler, glaring at me. "Tyler hasn't been in a good emotional state lately! What if you made him sick? Could you take responsibility for that?"

I sat there on the floor. Blood from my palm smeared across the hardwood.

I looked up at the family standing in front of me.

Linda continued munching on her popcorn. Chloe never even looked up from her game. Tyler had an arm wrapped around Marissa.

And me?

I was sitting on the floor of the apartment I had paid for in full, looking like a stray dog nobody wanted.

No. According to the ranking on that seat cover, I ranked even lower than the dog.

I called the ambulance myself. When it arrived, not one of them came downstairs.

The doctor said it was a mild concussion and some soft tissue injuries. Although it was nothing serious, they wanted to keep me for observation.

Three days. A full three days.

Not a single phone call or text message. No one came to visit. No one even brought me food once.

Meanwhile, the family group chat I'd created years ago—the one I'd named "Our Loving Family"—was busier than ever.

The latest message was a long post from Marissa.

"Sorry for disturbing everyone, but my dad hasn't been in a good emotional state lately. He's been yelling at and even trying to hit Tyler at home. We had no choice but to send him to the hospital so he could rest and recover. I hope everyone understands and gives him some space so he can focus on getting better."

The replies came quickly.

"Poor Marissa. You've had it rough with a father like that."

"If you ask me, just send him to a nursing home for a few days. That'll teach him a lesson."

I left the group chat immediately. Out of sight, out of mind.

The next morning, I made a phone call—not to Marissa but to my lawyer, Victor Warren.

"Victor, I need a complete list of every asset under my name, including the ownership details of the apartment.

"I also want to understand the legal implications surrounding inherited debt after gifted property transfers."

Less than two hours after I hung up, the hospital room door opened.

Marissa walked in carrying a bouquet of flowers. The same ingratiating smile I knew all too well was plastered across her face.

"Dad—"

My eyes dropped to the flowers in her hands. They were the kind that they sold outside supermarkets for $10 a bundle.