chapter 2

Samantha walked into the garage like she was entering a place meant to humiliate me by existing.

She didn’t take off her sunglasses.

She didn’t look around.

Her eyes locked on me with pure disdain, like I was something she had stepped on and hadn’t wiped off yet.

“Jack,” she said slowly, arrogantly, “you really think you did something last night.”

I didn’t respond.

I kept tightening the bolt, metal clanking loudly in the silence.

That irritated her far more than any insult.

She took two steps closer, heels sharp, voice lowering with contempt.

“You talked back to Vincent,” she said.

“You embarrassed me.”

“You embarrassed the Rossi family.”

I finally looked up.

“You mean I embarrassed you in front of your lover,” I said.

“Yeah. I remember.”

Her lips curled.

“You’re still delusional,” she said.

“You are nothing.”

“A bought husband.”

“A servant with a temper.”

She laughed lightly, like she was indulging a stray dog that barked too much.

“You think raising your voice changes who you are?”

I didn’t answer.

I reached into my pocket and took out my phone.

That made her pause.

I pressed play.

Her own voice cut through the air, sharp and careless.

He doesn’t count.

He’s too pathetic.

Everything he earns is already mine.

The garage went dead silent.

Her expression froze for a heartbeat.

Then her face flushed red with humiliation and rage.

She yanked her sunglasses off.

“You little piece of trash,” she snapped.

“So that’s it.”

She didn’t deny it.

She didn’t panic.

She sneered.

“You just want money.”

She reached into her bag violently, pulled out a thick stack of cash, and threw it straight at my face.

Bills slapped against my cheek and scattered all over the concrete floor.

“Take it,” she said coldly.

“Our marriage was bought off.”

She turned around immediately and stormed out, heels striking the ground like she was crushing insects.

The door slammed.

The garage fell quiet again.

I stood there for a moment.

Then I laughed.

A rough, low laugh, full of mockery.

I bent down.

I picked up the money.

Slowly.

One bill at a time.

I didn’t rush.

I enjoyed it.

“In my last life,” I thought, “I lost the money and still begged.”

“This life,” I corrected myself, “I’ll take the money first.”

I stacked the cash neatly in my hands.

Five hundred thousand dollars.

Seed money.

Not dignity.

Not pride.

Just fuel.

That night, I walked into a betting shop packed with noise, smoke, and desperation.

People were yelling at the screens.

Someone was already crying.

I walked straight to the counter and dumped the entire stack of cash down.

“All in,” I said.

The clerk froze.

“…All of it?”

“All.”

The people nearby turned to look.

Someone laughed loudly.

“Holy shit,” a guy behind me said, “this idiot’s burning divorce money.”

Another snorted.

“Give him five minutes, he’ll be begging outside.”

I leaned against the wall, hands in my pockets, completely calm.

Because I had seen this game before.

Twenty years ago.

In my last life.

I remembered it clearly.

I was sitting alone in a rented room that smelled like instant noodles and mold, watching this exact match on a cracked phone screen.

It was raining outside.

Samantha hadn’t come home that night.

I remember checking my phone every five minutes, pretending I didn’t know where she was.

I remember thinking how stupid the odds looked.

I remember the underdog scoring first.

I remember laughing bitterly and thinking, If I had money, this would be my chance.

Then the phone died.

I went to sleep hungry.

The next morning, the news said the underdog had pulled off a miracle win.

I remembered that miracle.

I remembered every second of it.

Back in the betting shop, the whistle blew.

The game started.

Ten minutes in—

Goal.

The underdog scored.

The shop went quieter.

People stared at the screen.

“Lucky bastard,” someone muttered.

Second half—

Another goal.

Chairs scraped.

Bets fell silent.

A few people started cursing.

“No way,” the clerk whispered.

Final minutes—

Everyone stood up.

Someone slammed the counter.

When the whistle blew, the screen flashed red.

WIN.

For half a second, the shop was dead silent.

Then it exploded.

“What the fuck?!”

“No fucking way!”

“That was rigged!”

The clerk’s hands were shaking as he counted.

He looked at me like he was staring at something dangerous.

“Sir,” he said hoarsely, “this is fifty million.”

People around me stared openly now.

Shock.

Jealousy.

Disbelief.

The guy who laughed earlier looked pale.

I took the ticket calmly and walked out.

That’s when I saw Vincent.

He was standing across the street, cigarette halfway to his mouth, eyes locked on me.

I smiled.

I pulled out stacks of cash and started handing them out.

“One thousand,” I said to the first homeless man.

“Two thousand,” to the next.

Gasps erupted behind me.

“What the hell?”

“Is he insane?”

People crowded closer.

Hands reached out.

Faces lit up.

I laughed softly.

This was small money to me now.

But the feeling?

Perfect.

Vincent stormed over and grabbed my arm.

“What the fuck is this,” he demanded.

I shook him off and leaned close, grinning like a loser who just struck gold.

“Does it hurt,” I asked quietly, “seeing trash get lucky?”

His jaw tightened.

People stared.

Whispers spread.

“That’s the Rossi family’s servant…”

“Did you see that money?”

Vincent looked around and realized something too late.

Everyone was watching him now.

And for the first time—

They weren’t laughing at me.