"Yes, you heard that correctly. Project Chronos is accomplished. This Christmas, Moonlit Tech is proud to present: The Time Button."
Andy Finch leaned back in his leather chair, spinning a pen between his fingers with the casual arrogance of a man who owned the skyline. He flashed a grin at the video screen—a grin that had closed billion-dollar deals and broken a few hearts along the way.
"It cost us two billion to convince a witch to sell us the proprietary spell work. Why a witch? Well, Mr. White, I know you hate the occult. I do too. Pointy hats, bubbling cauldrons, terrible fashion sense. But trust me, only those mystical ladies know how to rewind the cosmic clock. Finding one who wasn't already crispy from a medieval BBQ was a real treasure hunt."
Mr. White, the gruff CEO of White Enterprises, chuckled on the other end of the line. "You have a way with words, Finch."
"I try. Most of them didn't vacation well in the Middle Ages," Andy quipped, leaning forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But with this little gizmo? One press. That's it. You hop back in time to fix a blunder. Delete a text message, unsay a stupid comment, or… well, you tell me. Got any regrets you'd like to erase?"
"I want to go back and stop my daughter from having that child with a total loser!" Mr. White bellowed, the audio crackling.
Andy winced, pulling the phone away from his ear. Family drama. Classic.
"Fantastic motivation!" Andy recovered instantly, his salesman mask never slipping. "So, if I said a cool million could fix that slip-up—stop your daughter from swooning over the gentleman in question—would you part with the cash?"
"Not just a million. I'd shell out ten," Mr. White snarled.
Ten million. You could hire a very expensive hitman for that price. But time travel was cleaner. Usually.
"Exactly!" Andy pointed the pen at the screen. "Now you're seeing the vision! We're going to clean up."
"Swell. Can we go back as far as we want?"
"Ah, the fine print," Andy waved a hand airily. "Not quite. The chronal-energy displaces exponentially. Seven years, tops. Our whiz kids are working on stretching it, but for now, seven is the magic number."
"Seven years…" Mr. White mused. "Have you tested this contraption yet?"
"It's set for beta testing the moment the board gives the nod. Don't worry, our legal eagles are ready for any—"
Knock. Knock.
Andy's spiel was cut short. He frowned. He had a strict 'unless the building is on fire, do not disturb' policy during pitches.
The door creaked open. It was Everlyn, his secretary. Usually, the woman was as poised as a statue, but today, her face was pale, her hands gripping a tablet like a lifeline.
Something was wrong.
But ditch Oliver White, the Lycan King of industry? Not a chance.
Andy muted the mic, mouthing, "Make it quick."
Everlyn didn't move. She just stared at him, her voice trembling. "Louise is dead."
The pen in Andy's hand stopped spinning.
"Come again?" Andy blinked, his charming smirk faltering for the first time. "Which Louise?"
He only knew one Louise. But his brain frantically offered alternatives. Louise from Accounting? Louise the barista? Louise, his second cousin twice removed?
"Mrs. Salinger," Everlyn clarified, bursting his bubble with the force of a sledgehammer. "David's wife. She worked here until recently. You… you remember her, right?"
Not remember her?
Fat chance. He was half-senile from caffeine and overwork, but he'd remember Louise Salinger even if he had a lobotomy.
Without a word, Andy reached out and tapped the red 'End Call' button.
Mr. Oliver White, mid-sentence about stock options, vanished into the digital void.
"That was Mr. White," Everlyn whispered, eyeing the black screen.
"I don't care if it was the Moon Goddess herself," Andy snapped, standing up. His legs felt weirdly numb. "What happened? You said she was sick. Sick people recover. They don't just… drop dead. She has a wolf for god's sake."
"It wasn't the cancer," Everlyn said, swallowing hard. "It was an accident. A few hours ago."
Andy gripped the edge of his mahogany desk, his knuckles turning white. "Explain."
"Somehow she slipped at home and hit her head on the nightstand." Everlyn looked down. "By the time the ambulance got there, she was gone."
A roar of pure, unadulterated rage erupted in Andy's chest, so hot it almost burned.
She couldn't just die like that!
He didn't say another word. He grabbed his car keys, hurdled a potted plant, and sprinted out of the office, leaving a stunned Everlyn and a ten-million-dollar contract in his wake.
Andy's hands trembled on the steering wheel like he was vibrating out of phase with reality.
Louise.
Louise with the thick glasses that constantly slid down her nose. Louise, who used to sit in the farthest corner of the university library reading "The Socio-Economic Impact of Pack Dynamics" while everyone else was partying.
The girl he had poured his soul out to in a love letter during freshman year—a letter that contained, admittedly, some very mediocre poetry involving the moon.
He remembered her response clearly. A note sent back not even by herself, "I won't accept an idiot. Leave me alone. Andy Finch."
He had taken it as a challenge.
For four years, he had stalked—coincidentally met—her at coffee shops. He convinced himself that her harsh words were just a defense mechanism. She was a Beta, he was an Alpha; she was shy, he was loud. It was a classic rom-com setup.
He remembered that Christmas party senior year. Natalie had spiked the punch. Louise, tipsy and adorable, had wandered off.
Andy had followed her, his Alpha instincts prickling. He found her cornered by three rogues near the dorms.
"What color are your panties, darling?" one of the rogues had sneered.
Louise, bless her intoxicated, logical heart, had blinked and slurred, "I… I haven't checked the label today. I forget."
The rogues had laughed, moving to grab her. "Take 'em off, we'll check for you."
Andy hadn't thought. He hadn't planned. He just broke the leader's nose and scared the other two off with a growl that shook the snow off the trees.
He carried her back to her dorm piggy-back style.
"Who are you?" she had mumbled into his neck, her breath smelling of peppermint schnapps.
"A concerned third party," he'd deflected, trying to play it cool.
"You're nice," she whispered, patting his cheek clumsily. "I'm gonna marry a hero like you someday. Not a jerk. A hero."
"I'll hold you to that," he had whispered back.
He had walked home on air. He planned to ask her out properly the next day. He was going to be her hero.
But he waited too long. He played it too cool.
Two days later, she was dating David Salinger. A safe, boring, unremarkable Beta.
Andy had been crushed. He became the "efficient hater." For ten years, he watched her from afar. When she joined his company, he mocked her to keep her at a distance, terrified that if he was nice, he'd fall in love all over again.
"Do you always fail to deliver on your promises, Mrs. Salinger?" he used to taunt her.
It was his twisted way of asking: What happened to marrying the hero?
A few months back, Louise handed in her resignation. Andy was knee-deep in a big-deal negotiation in Los Angeles, and by the time he strolled back into the office, her desk was a hauntingly empty space. He stared at it, feeling an emptiness echo in his chest. Trying to play it cool, he casually asked David where his wife had disappeared to.
David shrugged it off, mentioning something about a minor illness and the need for some rest—nothing to lose sleep over, apparently.
Andy couldn't help but wonder if he'd been too hard on her all those years. In a rare moment of sentimentality, he even splurged on a bouquet of her favorite purple tulips, planning a visit once she was back on her feet.
And now?
Now she is dead.
Andy screeched his Aston Martin to a halt outside the Salinger residence. Police lights painted the suburban street in chaotic flashes of red and blue. The policemen were chatting with David, who regretfully blamed himself for not taking good care of his wife. A coroner's van was already there.
He watched as they wheeled a body bag out of the front door.
It hit him then. The finality of it. There would be no more sarcastic banter. No more watching her push her glasses up her nose. No more purple tulips sitting in his office vase, waiting for her to return.
She was gone.
Andy slammed his hand against the steering wheel, the leather groaning under his grip.
If I could go back…
If he could go back ten years, to that night in the snow, he would have kissed her. He would have told her, "I'm Andy Finch. I'm the hero. Choose me."
But the universe had a cruel sense of humor.
His gaze fell on the prototype sitting in the passenger seat. The silver box. The Time Button.
Seven years. That was the limit.
Seven years ago, Louise was already engaged with David. She was already lost to him.
Going back seven years wouldn't give him a clean slate. It would drop him right in the middle of the mess. He would have to be the villain. He would have to be the relationship wrecker. He wouldn't leave Louise to David this time. That man didn't deserve her.
Andy looked at the body bag one last time.
Then, a dark, reckless grin—the grin of a man with nothing left to lose—spread across his face.
"Seven years," he whispered to the empty car. "Challenge accepted."
He didn't care if he had to fight David, the Moon Goddess, or fate itself.
He picked up the silver box.
"Hold on, Louise," Andy murmured, his thumb hovering over the glowing red button. "Your idiot is coming to get you."
He pressed it.