Chapter 3

Emma's voice carried not just shock, but something else too—something faint, almost imperceptible… excitement?

Chris hadn't had time to dwell on it when Emma said quickly, "Chris, that doesn't mean we can't still be friends! So if you're in trouble, just tell me. If I can help, I will!"

A warm current spread through Chris's chest.

But borrowing money from his ex-sister-in-law… that still felt a little awkward.

Yet when he thought of the massive payout coming from the Westridge Terrace demolition, his hesitation solidified into grim resolve.

"Yeah," he admitted, the word tasting like ash. "I... I need some money."

What was pride, anyway? He'd left his dignity at the door the day he became Katie's househusband. He could scrape it back together later, after the dust from Westridge Terrace settled and his bank account was full.

Taking a deep breath, as if stepping off a cliff, he forced the number out.

"I need a lot, actually... three hundred thousand. Is that even possible?"

Even as he said it, he winced. The amount sounded absurd, even to him.

This wasn't three grand. Not even thirty. This was three hundred thousand dollars.

But on the other end of the line, Emma didn't even blink.

"Three hundred thousand? No problem. Send me your account info. I'll wire it right now."

Chris was speechless.

He stood there, phone pressed to his ear, utterly stunned.

She... agreed? Just like that?!

Three hundred thousand dollars.

He had been testing her, a desperate Hail Mary thrown from a place of complete hopelessness. And Emma had answered with a casual, breathtaking finality that left him reeling.

"Emma, you—"

"Chris, don't overthink it," she cut him off lightly, as though anticipating his doubts. "I just want to help. Hurry and send me your digits."

In a daze, Chris rattled off the digits, half convinced he must be dreaming.

A few minutes later, his phone buzzed with a new message.

[Bladwyn Bank: A transfer of $300,000.00 was credited to account ****1234. Your available balance is now $300,269.75.]

Chris stared at the screen, his eyes wide and unblinking.

Emma… she actually had that much money—and she just handed it to him, no questions asked?!

A wave of warmth surged through him, flooding his veins and filling him completely.

In this world, aside from the occasional relative or old friend holding onto the past, someone had actually chosen to trust him so completely—to help him without a second thought.

His grip tightened around the phone, his voice catching. "Emma… thank you."

"Don't be silly," she replied with a soft laugh. "Use it as you need. Don't rush to pay it back."

He nodded hard, even though she couldn't see it.

After a pause, he said solemnly, "Emma, I'll never forget this. And… if you still have some money left, I suggest you check out the old Westridge Terrace apartment complex. Buy a few units if you can."

"Westridge Terrace?" she asked, puzzled. "That old apartment complex? Isn't it run-down and shabby?"

"Trust me," Chris said firmly. "Take a look. If you're interested, you should buy it in the next few days."

Though she didn't understand, she answered cheerfully, "Alright. Since you say so, I'll make some time."

When the call ended, Chris sat in silence, his heart still pounding.

That money wasn't just help in his darkest hour; it was a divine weapon dropped into his hands.

He now had 350,000 dollars.

That should be enough.

The very next morning, Chris marched straight to the west side of the city with his bank card in hand, heading for Westridge Terrace's decaying neighborhood.

He stepped into a halfway-decent-looking real estate agency.

The agent lit up when he heard Chris was buying property—only to dim again when he realized it was at Westridge Terrace.

"Sir, the Westridge Terrace units are cheap, sure, but the conditions are…"

"Show me the listings," Chris cut him off. "I plan to buy plenty today."

The agent took him on a tour, and sure enough, the place was flooded with listings. Owners were desperate to sell, practically giving their properties away. The cheapest went for less than two hundred per square meter.

By the time they returned to the agency, Chris dropped onto the sofa with the quiet dominance of someone who had already decided.

"I have 350,000 dollars," he said calmly.

The agent's eyes went round as saucers.

350,000 dollars?! He'd just stumbled across a walking fortune!

"Now, list every property I can buy for that sum. Sort them from lowest to highest price. Call the owners. All of them. I'll take everything you can line up.

"Remember—everything. I want it all. We'll head to the property bureau immediately."

The agent's jaw hung slack. "A-all of them?!"

In all his years, he had never seen anyone buy property like this—especially not in a neighborhood so despised that even stray dogs avoided it.

"Yes. Every last one," Chris said with iron resolve.

The agent gulped. He trembled with excitement at the thought of his commission. "R-right away! Sir, please wait. I'll make the calls!"

His hands shook as he dialed number after number.

"Hello, Mr. Randy? That Westridge Terrace unit of yours—sold! Yes, really! Bring your deed and ID!"

"Ms. Sylvie? Congratulations, your place just went! Hurry over to finalize it!"

Within minutes, the office was buzzing like a kicked beehive.

After making his last call, the agent rubbed his palms together and sidled over, his face lit with a practiced smile—though barely concealing the curiosity brimming in his eyes.

"Sir, uh… if you don't mind my asking... Westridge Terrace? I have to be honest, we don't get many investors looking there."

Chris lifted the teacup from the table, took an unhurried sip, and replied evenly, "They're for staff housing. The price is right. Condition is irrelevant."

The agent's eyes widened with sudden realization.

"Oh! So that's it! I knew there had to be a reason! At these prices, it really is a bargain for staff housing."

One by one, stunned homeowners arrived, their faces alight with disbelief and barely suppressed glee. They all knew how impossible it was to sell here—years on the market without a bite. And now someone was buying the lot of them? It was like a dream come true.

Afraid Chris might change his mind, they pressed him to finalize the deals at once.

So, flanked by a crowd of eager sellers, Chris marched into the property bureau.

Transfers. Signatures. Payments.

One unit. Two units. Three…

By the time the bureau was closing, the last contract was sealed.

Eleven units.

Every one of them now bore his name.

When the stack of brand-new property deeds landed in his hands, Chris finally let out the breath he'd been holding.

Exhaling long and deep, he felt a surge of quiet triumph.

Now all he had to do was wait for the redevelopment announcement in two days' time.

As he stepped out of the bureau, emotions surged in his chest.

Just then, a crisp electronic chime rang in his mind.

[Emma is currently viewing properties at Westridge Terrace. If the host heads over now, you'll run right into her!]

Chris's heart stirred.

She had known he was divorced from her sister, yet she had lent him such a staggering sum—without even asking for an IOU.

That kind of trust was priceless.

He had to thank her properly.

Without hesitation, Chris set off for Westridge Terrace.

At the very least, he owed her a meal and his gratitude face-to-face.