Moments later, I found myself standing in my new office. I still couldn't believe the whole thing. How could a person simply switch from being jobless to being the head of a whole department in a large company? I stared at the business card that read "Head of Sales" like it might vanish into thin air if I blinked. The title still felt surreal, almost like I'd borrowed someone else's life for just the day.
Shaking my head, I made up my mind to remain stoic and adapt quickly. Although I was appointed out of the blue, I needed to lift my chin up and mimic the demeanor of a big boss.
My first order of business was delegating the OmniCorp scandal file to my secretary—someone I now actually had working under me, which was still a weird concept to wrap my head around. I laid out exactly what needed handling, step by step, and honestly, the words came out with a confidence that caught me completely off guard. For once in my life, I sounded like I knew what I was doing. I spoke like I belonged in that chair, behind that desk, and making those decisions.
But I couldn't sit still for long. The afternoon stretched ahead of me, and there was somewhere far more important I needed to be. For months—no, years—I'd walked through those hospital doors carrying nothing but worry, guilt, and empty promises I couldn't keep. Today was different.
Today, I finally had the money, four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That amount of money was equivalent to years of someone's savings. Now I could finally pay my mother's medical bill in full. I could lift that crushing weight off both our shoulders.
The disease had a name that sounded more like a spell than a diagnosis: hereditary transthyretin-mediated amyloidosis. The doctors called it hATTR for short, though there was nothing short about what it did to her body, her life, and our family.
It was genetic, progressive, and absolutely merciless in its destruction. A protein in her body kept misfolding, twisting into shapes it was never meant to take, and those corrupted proteins slowly strangled her nerves and choked her organs from the inside out.
My mother, Martha Landon, had spent her entire life caring for everyone around her—neighbors, friends, strangers, and basically anyone who needed help.
In her time of need, all of those she helped when she was a part of the Landon family abandoned her.
She was now trapped inside her own failing body. Paralyzed and helpless, she only had me to rely on. Confined to a sterile hospital bed while the world kept spinning without her, leaving her behind.
The taxi ride to Balinton Medical Hospital felt like it took forever and no time at all. I caught a few people glancing my way as I walked through the lobby—nurses in scrubs, worried-looking visitors, and someone wheeling a gurney past the elevators. Maybe it was the new suit, still crisp and unfamiliar on my shoulders. Maybe it was something in the way I carried myself now, some newfound confidence I hadn't possessed a week ago.
Whatever it was, I didn't care. I wasn't here for their attention or approval. My focus was laser-sharp. The goal was to pay the bill, see my mom, and tell her the good news.
Finally, finally give her something to smile about after so much suffering. Even though she couldn't respond, I believed she heard the stories I told her when I visited.
I walked up to the front desk with more purpose than I'd felt in a long time, maybe ever.
"I'm here to settle the account for Martha Landon."
I said clearly, already reaching into my jacket pocket for the company credit card Lucia had given me.
The woman behind the desk looked tired. She just tapped away at her keyboard with practiced efficiency, eyes scanning whatever appeared on her screen. Then she looked up at me, and the words that came out of her mouth felt like a thunderclap in my ears.
"Sir, that account has been paid in full."
My brain stuttered, trying to process.
"What? What do you mean, paid? By whom?"
"A Mr. Landon settled it this morning." She said it so casually, like she was telling me the weather forecast.
My hand shot out to grip the edge of the counter because suddenly the floor didn't feel steady anymore. My legs vibrated.
"Mr. Landon?" That name was a ghost, a relic from a past I'd deliberately buried and left behind. My grandfather had disowned my father years ago when he married my mother—a woman he deemed beneath his family's precious status.
Cut him off completely without a second thought. Didn't look back, didn't send birthday cards, didn't even acknowledge his existence. I also followed my dad, deciding not to remain in such a family.
So why the hell would anyone from that toxic family suddenly decide to pay her astronomical medical bills now? What kind of twisted game was this? What did they want from us?
Before I could spiral too far down that dark hole of speculation, the clerk added, almost as an afterthought,
"You can ask him yourself if you'd like. He's in her room right now."
My body instinctively turned towards the room, and I moved down the hall half running and half walking.
My glossy shoes echoed loudly against the polished linoleum as I sprinted down the hallway, heart hammering so hard against my ribs I thought it might break through.
This didn't make sense. None of it made sense. Grandfather had made his feelings brutally, crystal clear all those years ago. He was done with his son. Done with the child who'd dared to choose love over family obligation. Done with us entirely. So why show up now with a blank check and fake generosity wrapped in expensive paper? Nothing about this felt right. It felt dangerous. It felt like trouble wearing a friendly mask.
I burst through the door to my mother's room as if I were part of a SWAT team entering a criminal's house. Without asking any questions, anger was already building like a storm in my chest before I'd even fully processed what I was seeing.
There he was, sitting comfortably in the chair beside my mother's bed like he had every right to be there, like he visited every day. He was dressed in some ridiculously expensive black suit that probably cost more than what most people made in years. The fabric looked imported and custom-tailored.
He glanced up at me with this look—this infuriatingly smug, arrogant expression that made my blood boil instantly. This ruthless-looking individual was my uncle Xavier.
But it wasn't just his unwelcome presence that set me off. It was the pipe. That damn pipe!! The thin trail of smoke was curling lazily up from the thing clenched between his teeth, polluting the air. The whole room was hazy with it, that thick, cloying, suffocating smell contaminating everything.
My mother—who could barely breathe on a good day, whose lungs were already compromised by her disease—was lying there unconscious while he casually filled her room with toxic smoke like it was nothing.
Something primal in me snapped. I crossed the room in three long, aggressive strides, grabbed the pipe right out of his startled mouth, and snapped it clean in half between my palms with a satisfying crack. The shock on his face was absolutely worth it.
I marched to the window, shoved it open with more force than necessary, and hurled both pieces into the courtyard several stories below.
Only then did I take a deep breath of clean, untainted air before turning back to face him with everything I was feeling written across my face.
"What the hell are you doing here?" My voice came out low and dangerous, barely under control.
My words seemed to bounce off his expensive coat. He just calmly brushed a little piece of tobacco off the suit like I was barely worth his attention, like I was an annoying child throwing a tantrum.
"Little Leo. It's been quite a while, hasn't it? Is that any way to greet your uncle? Where are your manners?"
"Cut the crap, Xavier. You know damn well I cut ties with the Landon family a long time ago. We're done. We've always been done."
He smiled, but it was cold and empty. It didn't reach his eyes at all. "Now, now. Why so hostile? If it weren't for me, that hospital bill would've buried you alive. Crushed you completely. You should be thanking me, kneeling before me and showing some gratitude."
"Enough!" I strained to keep myself from screaming. Even though I was angry, we were still in the hospital.
"I don't need your condescending insults, and I sure as hell don't need your blood money. We'd rather struggle on our own and make it work somehow than take a single cent from that family."
The fake smile finally dropped from his face. His expression went cold, hard as stone. "Fine. Let's get straight to the point then. Grandfather sent me here. Turns out, after reviewing the family assets and old legal documents, your father was technically the rightful heir to our business interests in Mexico. Significant holdings. And since he's conveniently dead now, that responsibility falls directly to you. You're coming back to the family fold. You're taking your rightful place, whether you like it or not."
I almost laughed at the sheer audacity, the entitlement dripping from every word. My anger sharpened into something cold, clear, and absolutely immovable. "I have no ties to the Landon family. None! Grandfather was there that day, Xavier. He orchestrated the whole thing. He watched my father walk away, watched him choose us over the family business, and didn't lift a single finger to stop it because that was what he wanted. And now, years later, he just expects me to come crawling back? What exactly does he think I am?"
Xavier stood up slowly, deliberately, with theatrical precision, and stepped right into my personal space until we were practically nose to nose. I could smell the stale tobacco still lingering on his breath, mixing with expensive cologne.
"You think you can tell the Landon family no?" he said quietly, his voice dropping to a whisper laced with mocking sarcasm and genuine threat. He jabbed a finger hard into my chest, right over my heart. "Let me make this very, very clear to you, nephew. No one says no to us. No one. Not you, not anyone."
He held my stare for what felt like an eternity, a silent battle of wills, then turned smoothly on his heel and walked out without another word, leaving the door open behind him like his final insult.