Chapter 5

The moment I got home, I kicked off my stained designer heels and threw them straight into the outdoor trash bin.

I walked barefoot into the silent living room.

My phone rang.

The screen lit up with the caller ID: "Dad".

I answered it.

My father’s anxious, greedy voice immediately filled the line.

"Chloe! I saw the news! Is that dirtbag Garrett really dead? Did the insurance money kick in yet? What did the lawyers say?"

I sat on the sofa, staring at the small, black urn resting on the coffee table.

"It's taken care of," I said flatly.

My father’s voice jumped an octave.

"How much? Is it over ten million?"

"Your brother needs a down payment for that penthouse in Manhattan, and his fiancée is demanding a massive wedding. You need to wire us five million right now! No, make it ten!"

I didn't say a word.

My mind was suddenly pulled back to five years ago.

Back then, I was the golden girl of UPenn, holding a full scholarship, standing proudly in my white dress outside the library.

But my father had shown up with a group of angry bookies, grabbing me by my hair and dragging me toward a car.

"Who cares about your stupid degree! I owe eight million dollars! Selling you to that coal miner is the only way to save my neck!"

I had screamed, cried, and begged for help.

No one dared to intervene.

Until a mud-splattered Range Rover came speeding in, ramming straight into the bookies' car.

Garrett had jumped out of the driver's seat, holding a heavy duffel bag.

He slammed the bag onto the hood of his car, the zipper bursting open to reveal stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

He pointed a finger at the men dragging me and roared:

"Take the cash! The girl comes with me!"

On our wedding night, I had locked myself in the master bedroom, holding a pair of heavy scissors to my throat.

I screamed at him, "Don't you dare come near me! You're a kidnapper! I'd rather die than let you touch me!"

Garrett stood in the doorway, looking incredibly awkward in his ill-fitting tuxedo.

"I... I didn't mean to force you, Chloe. Your dad told me you wanted to marry me."

"He lied to you! You're nothing but an uneducated, backwood brute! You make me sick!"

Garrett scratched his head, his face turning bright red with embarrassment.

"Then... I won't touch you. You're a smart girl, a college graduate. I'm just a dumb worker. Having you in my house is enough to make me happy."

That night, he actually took a blanket and went to sleep on the living room sofa.

The leather sofa was far too small for his six-foot-three frame; he had to curl his body up like a giant, clumsy bear.

My father’s voice was still screaming through the phone.

"Are you listening to me, you ungrateful brat? It’s a blessing that redneck died! Our family is finally free!"

"Get the money and bring it home. Don't you dare keep it all for yourself!"

"Free?"

I whispered the word.

I looked at the cold, black urn on the table.

Suddenly, a suffocating tightness gripped my chest.

For the first time in my life, I screamed back at my father:

"He wasn't a redneck! His name was Garrett Vance!"

My father went quiet for a second, then exploded into a rage.

"Why are you defending a dead man? He was a dirty, worthless miner! His life wasn't worth a single hair on your brother’s head!"

"He was cleaner than anyone in our goddamn family!"

I slammed the phone down, ending the call, and immediately blocked his number.

I threw the phone onto the couch.

And then, without warning, tears began to stream down my face.

I touched my wet cheeks in confusion.

Why was I crying?

Was it out of joy for finally being free of my parasitic family?

Or was it because the shield that had always stood between me and those monsters had finally crumbled?

The doorbell rang.

It was Mr. Lawson again.

He held another thick Manila envelope in his hand.

"Mrs. Vance, this is the second document Mr. Vance left for you."

"He instructed me to give this to you only after you had dealt with your family’s... complications, and your mind was at peace."

I wiped my tears and took the envelope.

"What is this? More money?"

Mr. Lawson shook his head, his expression incredibly solemn.

"No. It’s Mr. Vance’s medical records."

"Medical records?"

I pulled the documents out.

At the very top was an X-ray of a pair of lungs.

The lung tissue was almost entirely black, covered in dense, spiderweb-like shadows and massive fibrotic nodules.

Below it was the official diagnosis: "Late-stage Black Lung Disease (Coal Workers' Pneumoconiosis), with severe respiratory failure."

The date on the report was from three years ago.

My hands began to shake violently.

Three years ago?

But three years ago, Garrett was as strong as an ox. He could eat a whole steak in minutes.

The lawyer spoke softly.

"Mr. Vance was diagnosed three years ago. The specialist told him that if he didn't retire from the high-dust mining environment immediately, he wouldn't survive another five years. But..."

The lawyer paused, looking at me with pity.

"But right around that time, you two had a massive argument. You told him his money smelled like filthy coal dust."

"You said you wanted 'clean' money. Money that could be moved offshore, money that didn't feel dirty."

A loud ringing filled my ears.

I remembered.

I had been mocked by my old college classmates for marrying a crude "dirt-money" miner. I had come home in a rage, smashing expensive vases.

I had pointed at his chest and screamed, "Your money is blood money, Garrett! I feel disgusted just spending it!"

Garrett had knelt on the floor, quietly picking up the shattered porcelain. After a long silence, he had looked up and said, "Don't be mad, Chloe. I'll figure something out. I'll get you clean money."

Mr. Lawson continued:

"To clean his assets and accumulate fifty million dollars in completely audited, legal cash, Mr. Vance took on several highly dangerous deep-well extraction projects."

"Those were high-yield, high-risk shafts that only desperate workers would ever touch due to the extreme dust density. But they paid the most."

"He was literally trading his remaining breath for that clean cash."

I stared at the black shadows on the X-ray.

I remembered how, over the last two years, he would always slip down to the basement late at night.

I had assumed he was sneaking cigarettes down there and had yelled at him for it.

He wasn't smoking. He was suffocating.

I remembered finding blood-stained towels in the laundry machine.

He had laughed it off, claiming it was just dry weather causing nosebleeds.

He was coughing up blood.

He was terrified of waking me.

He was terrified I would find his blood dirty.

So he would press a towel to his mouth, hiding in the dark basement, coughing his lungs to pieces in silence, never making a sound.

Because I was the beautiful, delicate swan, and he was just the mud on the ground.

How could the mud dare to stain the swan's feathers?

I gripped the plastic X-ray sheet so hard the sharp edge sliced into my finger.

A drop of bright red blood dripped onto the black image of his ruined lungs.

"Garrett."

"Are you completely stupid?"

"The money you bought with your dying breath is sitting in my purse right now."

"But why does this fifty million feel so much hotter than the coal dust you lived in?"