Feel Alone

When I go home for the holidays, I find out that my dad has installed a facial recognition machine at the front door. "You'll have to pay an entry fee of 50 thousand dollars. Will you be paying by card or payment code?" I thought my dad was joking at first. As I laugh, I attempt to walk through the front door while pushing my luggage forward. But my mom passes me a price list with an icy look. "That'll be 200 dollars for dragging stuff across the floor. You'll also be charged 1,000 dollars per hour for using up the air." I'm stunned by her words. "Mom, stop messing around already!" But when I walk into the house, I realize that the air inside has disappeared. Unable to breathe, my face soon turns bright red out of suffocation as I kneel down on the floor. My mom huffs coldly again. "If you want to live, then pay up!" With great difficulty, I dig out my phone and pay the fees. Once the transaction is done, I can feel air rushing through my nostrils and into my lungs. For a few moments, I pant heavily. As I stare at my cold-looking parents, I finally feel that something is off. So, I scramble up to my feet and rush for the door. But that's when I find out that the front door is already welded shut. There's a payment code pasted on the door as well as a message. "Exit fee. One million dollars."

My mom ran a clinic her whole life, charging just five dollars for cold medicine. After I took over the clinic, I followed her teachings closely, doing my best to care for the folks in our community. However, after I charged an influencer 30 dollars for medication, I got blasted online as a scam clinic that was out to rob people blind. The entire town showed up at my door, young and old alike, demanding I return the 'overcharged' fees. I gave them exactly what they wanted and refunded every penny before shutting down the clinic for good. "There you go, just like you wanted. The clinic's closed. From now on, if you've got health concerns, feel free to drive 30 miles to the county hospital for consultation. I wish you all good health." The very next day, they were back at my door again. Only this time, they were begging me to reopen.

There's a month to Angela Thompson's wedding, but she's no longer sure whether to proceed with it. The reason for her doubts? Her fiancé, Carl Swain, wants to have a child with his good friend's widow, Lucy Hogg. Carl says, "Keith was my best friend. He died so suddenly, leaving Lucy alone in this world. She tried to take her life a few times, you know. Maybe having a child will help her get past this." Angela can't understand it. She says, "Lucy can adopt or marry someone else if she wants a child. She can even go to a sperm bank abroad if she wants! Why do you have to be the one to have the child with her?"

I spent six months and over $20,000 to plan a family vacation. However, when my mate’s childhood sweetheart Victoria heard about our trip, she begged to join us. Alexander didn't hesitate. He cancelled my spot in the protected convoy and gave it to her instead. He forced me to travel alone through deadly Shadow Pack territory - a thirty-six hour journey where three wolves had died last month. The whole family supported Alexander's decision without a thought for my safety. So I changed my travel plans. I headed north instead of south. I spent three months enjoying myself, ignoring their mindlink message. That's when the family started to panic...

I see an anonymous poll online after Aidan Spencer returns to me and our family. "Does a man feel guiltier to his wife or mistress after cheating?" 99% of the voters chose "mistress". I turn to Aidan. "Do you agree with this?" He puts down his book, a hint of indescribable fatigue in his cool gaze. "I'm already back with you, Lily. What else do you want from me?"

My mom is 71 years old. Thanks to her arthritis acting up, she's in so much pain that she can't descend the stairs at all. She tentatively calls me and asks if she can rent an apartment that comes with an elevator of its own. But my wife, Lucy Glaser, brings out the household ledger and points at the red numbers on the pages. "Last month, you bought yourself a tie, which is 300 dollars beyond our monthly budget. Yet now you're planning on adding another impulsive expense?" Only then do I realize that I don't even have the freedom to buy myself a tie despite earning an annual salary of tens of millions of dollars. My mom is still trying to explain herself in a humble tone over the phone. "Oh, please don't feel troubled about it, Caleb. I was just asking on a whim. I've already grown used to my old home anyway…" After I end the call, I feel rather stuffy in my chest. What's there for me to feel troubled about? After all, I'm a partner of a top-tier law firm who earns tens of millions of dollars every year. The one who keeps standing in my way is Lucy, who's only a mid-level lawyer yet insists on controlling my finances. She also calls herself the best candidate for the household asset allocation.

After being reborn, the first thing I did was forge a medical report diagnosing chronic kidney disease. In my previous life, my nephew had been diagnosed with kidney failure, and he needed a transplant to survive. I rushed to get a matching test and donated one of my kidneys to him. But over time, my health deteriorated. At twenty, my body felt like it belonged to someone eighty. Even simple chores like sweeping the floor left me exhausted. I couldn't go out to work or earn a living, yet my brother and sister-in-law scolded me for "pretending to be sick." "It's just a kidney." my sister-in-law snapped. "Do you expect to leech off our family forever?" She even went so far as to buy a pair of fresh pig kidneys and smash them in my face. "Since we took one of yours, here's a new pair. Happy now?" Because I had lost a kidney, I died before the age of thirty, alone in a rented apartment. The next time I opened my eyes, I was back—before my nephew's diagnosis even came in.

In the third year of our marriage, my husband's first love got a divorce. He gave her the forty-five thousand dollars we had saved for a house because she was left with nothing and struggling to make ends meet. I urged him to ask for the money back, but he pointed at my face and angrily shouted, "You used to be so gentle and virtuous—what happened? Why are you so selfish, so shallow now?" "Is forty-five thousand dollars really worth you making a fuss over?" "Chloe is starting over with nothing, raising a child on her own. Don't you feel any sympathy for her?" Fine. He was noble, he was merciful. I did not argue further, because the one who needed money for cancer treatment was him, not me.

"The Rossi family doesn't need a Don. We just need a Donna." As the only heiress of the Rossi family, this was the law that I had set when I received the Browning pistol—a pistol that resembles the ultimate authority in the Rossi family—from my Papa when he was on his deathbed. But three years ago, the police relentlessly investigated the money laundering business that my fiance, Lorenzo Moretti, was in charge of. If that business were to get exposed, the Rossi family's hundred-year-old legacy would be ruined. In order to protect my family's legacy and to allow Lorenzo to continue legalizing my family's businesses, I decided to become the scapegoat for all the crimes. On the rainy night of my arrest, I personally handed the pistol over to Lorenzo. "Protect my family for me before my return." This gave Lorenzo legitimate authority to run my family. He used the pistol to purge my subordinates and take over the family business. He even broke my law by announcing to the public that he'd become the next Don soon. An invitation with golden borders is soon leaked from the family's inner circle. Lorenzo's and another woman's names are printed on the cover. During a visit, my private lawyer says mockingly, "If you don't get out of prison now, the Rossi family might take on another man's last name for real." I just sneer in response. After that, I get bailed out of jail in advance and return home to celebrate Lorenzo's "funeral". But no matter how many times I scan my iris at the biometric scanner in the estate, the result always comes out wrong. A young woman, who's toying with the pistol, opens the door at that moment. The contempt and disdain in her eyes are plain to see. "Where the hell did a crazy woman like you come from? You came to the wrong place. This is my private turf, you know."

Married for five years, Lorenzo, the underboss of the Moretti family, had never been without a woman. He found my “noble lady” posture stiff and vanilla. Dancers from Trinacria, headliners from the city’s nightclubs, his rotating stream of mistresses could fill the entire estate. Yet whenever I was displeased, whether it was throwing drinks or kicking someone out, Lorenzo never intervened. He’d only lit his cigar with casual amusement and said, “Relax. It’s just fun. No one can touch your position.” Then a clumsy, naive maid appeared. Unlike the others, she wasn’t flashy. However, when Lorenzo returned, bloodied, she’d hand him a cup of warm tea, her eyes red-rimmed. She watched him with pure admiration while he handled the family business. Lorenzo said the estate felt cold and lifeless except for her. He said only when she panicked did he feel like a hero being needed, rather than just a husband in a political marriage. Until she accidentally broke an antique vase left by my mother… Before I could react, Lorenzo stepped in and shielded her trembling form, glaring at me as if I were the enemy. “What’s wrong with you? If you’re crazy, go see a shrink. Don’t scare her like a rabid dog!” Watching his careful, protective expression, I smiled. I guess it was time for the Moretti family underboss to be replaced.