The cardboard box felt heavier than it should have. Twenty years of his life condensed into a single container—a coffee-stained mug that read "World's Best Employee," a small desk plant that had somehow survived the fluorescent wasteland, and a photo of his parents from better times. Brandon Carter adjusted his grip on the box and glanced around the office one last time.
Balloons bobbed cheerfully from every cubicle. A banner stretched across the break room declaring "Celebrating 15 Years of Innovation!" The irony wasn't lost on him—most of that innovation had come from his mind, his sleepless nights, his relentless dedication. Yet here he stood at forty-three, with nothing but a pink slip and two decades of exploitation to show for it.
Through the glass partition of the executive conference room, he could see them. Victoria, his ex-wife, threw her head back in laughter at something Zander was saying. Even from this distance, Brandon could see the predatory gleam in the younger man's eyes—the same look Brandon himself had worn twenty years ago when Victoria had first approached him in that college library.
Zander was everything Brandon had once been: brilliant, naive, and completely unaware that he was being systematically destroyed. The cycle would continue. Victoria would use him, drain him, and discard him when something better came along. The company would feast on his innovations while keeping him shackled with golden handcuffs disguised as opportunity.
Brandon turned away. He couldn't watch anymore.
The elevator ride down felt eternal. Each floor that passed represented another year of his life wasted, another promotion that had gone to someone else, another innovation that had been stolen and repackaged as company property. By the time the doors opened to the lobby, his hands were shaking with barely contained rage.
The autumn air hit him like a slap. October in downtown was always crisp, but today it felt particularly bitter. Brandon shifted the box to one arm and pulled out his phone. No messages. No calls. After two decades of sixty-hour weeks and constant availability, his sudden absence would probably go unnoticed for days.
He started walking, not really caring where he went. His mind churned with all the things he should have done differently. He should have read that contract more carefully before signing it. He should have questioned why a beautiful, wealthy woman like Victoria had been interested in a socially awkward IT student. He should have demanded credit for his work, should have fought back when they started taking everything from him.
But he hadn't. He'd been grateful. Pathetically, desperately grateful for the attention, the job, the illusion of belonging somewhere. Even when Victoria had started staying out late, even when their joint bank account had become her personal shopping fund, even when she'd served him divorce papers while he was recovering from working thirty-six hours straight—he'd stayed. The contract had made sure of that.
A car horn blared somewhere behind him, but Brandon barely registered it. His mind was elsewhere, trapped in an endless loop of regret and self-recrimination. If he could go back, if he could do it all over again...
The thought was interrupted by the screech of tires on asphalt.
Brandon looked up just in time to see the delivery truck bearing down on him, the driver's eyes wide with panic behind the windshield. Time seemed to slow as Brandon realized he'd wandered into the intersection, lost in his bitter memories.
There was no time to move, no time to think. The impact hit him like a freight train, sending his body flying through the air. The cardboard box exploded on contact, scattering the meager contents of his professional life across the asphalt like confetti at a funeral.
As Brandon's vision faded to black, his last coherent thought was wondering if anyone would even notice he was gone.
---
The first thing he noticed was the smell. Not the antiseptic sterility of a hospital, but something warmer, more familiar. Vanilla candles and that expensive perfume Victoria used to wear in the early days of their marriage. Before everything had gone wrong.
Brandon's eyes fluttered open, expecting to see ceiling tiles and fluorescent lights. Instead, he found himself staring at a familiar cream-colored ceiling with crown molding that he'd installed himself during one of Victoria's many home improvement phases. The couch beneath him was the same burgundy leather they'd bought for their first apartment, back when they'd actually made decisions together.
"Oh, thank goodness you're awake!"
The voice sent a chill down Brandon's spine. He sat up quickly, his heart hammering against his ribs. Standing in the doorway was a woman he hadn't seen in eight years—not since the cancer had taken her.
"Margaret?" His voice came out as barely a whisper.
Victoria's mother smiled warmly, the same genuine smile he remembered from Sunday dinners and holiday gatherings before everything had soured. She was wearing the blue cardigan he'd helped her pick out for her sixtieth birthday, the one she'd been buried in.
"You gave us quite a scare, sweetheart. Victoria found you passed out on the couch when she got home from work. Have you been feeling alright? You look pale."
Brandon's mind reeled. This was impossible. Margaret had died in 2016. Victoria hadn't called him "sweetheart" since... well, since ever, really. And this house—they'd sold this house during the divorce proceedings.
"What..." he swallowed hard, his throat dry. "What's the date today?"
Margaret's brow furrowed with concern. "It's October fifteenth, dear. Monday. Are you sure you're feeling alright? Maybe we should call the doctor."
"October fifteenth of what year?" Brandon pressed, though he was already beginning to suspect the answer.
"2012, of course. Brandon, you're scaring me. Should I get Victoria?"
2012. Twenty years old again. Eleven years before the divorce. Fifteen years before Margaret's death. Back when his biggest concern had been whether his latest code would compile correctly, not whether he'd be able to afford groceries after Victoria's latest shopping spree.
Before he could respond, the familiar click of high heels announced Victoria's approach. She appeared in the doorway, and Brandon's breath caught. She looked exactly as he remembered from their early days together—glossy black hair falling in perfect waves, sharp green eyes, and that predatory smile that had once made his heart race for all the wrong reasons.
"Finally awake, are we?" Victoria's voice carried that familiar edge of irritation. "You can't just lie around all day, Brandon. You have work to do. The Henderson project isn't going to code itself, and Daddy expects the prototype by Friday."
Even her mother being present didn't soften Victoria's tone. Margaret shot her daughter a disapproving look, but Victoria ignored it completely. Some things, apparently, never changed.
But everything else had. Brandon stared at Victoria, seeing her not as the goddess he'd once worshipped, but as she truly was—a parasitic creature who fed on ambition and destroyed lives with calculated precision. The spell was broken. The illusion that had bound him for twenty years was shattered.
He understood now why she had chosen him. Not for love, not even for attraction, but because she'd recognized something in him that he'd been too naive to see in himself. She'd seen potential. Raw talent that could be harvested, refined, and sold under her family's name. She'd seen a fool who would work himself to death for scraps of approval.
But that fool was gone. In his place sat a forty-three-year-old man with twenty years of hard-earned wisdom and nothing left to lose.
Brandon stood slowly, his legs still unsteady. Victoria watched him with calculating eyes, probably already planning how to maximize his productivity for the week. Margaret hovered nearby, maternal concern radiating from every gesture.
A second chance. That's what this was. An opportunity to rewrite everything, to make different choices, to reclaim the life that had been stolen from him piece by piece.
This time would be different. This time, he wouldn't be grateful. This time, he wouldn't sign that contract. This time, he would make sure Victoria and her family paid for what they'd done—or rather, what they were planning to do.
Brandon looked at his ex-wife, soon-to-be ex-wife, and smiled. It wasn't a pleasant expression.
"You're absolutely right, Victoria," he said, his voice steady and calm. "I do have work to do."