When Success Broke Us

I crouched in a corner of the flea market, gently stroking a yellowed book. This was the prize I'd been hunting for three months—a novel by a little-known author from a century ago. "How much for this book?" I looked up and asked the elderly man running the stall. The old man made a "fifty" hand gesture. Just as I was about to take out money, the sound of leather shoes crunching on gravel came from behind me. I didn't turn around and continued counting the money, but that shadow still loomed over me, carrying a faint scent of cedar. It was Brian Parker's signature cologne. "Cindy Diamond," he said, his voice deeper than it had been four years ago, carrying an air of deliberate calm. I finally looked up and met his gaze. He wore a dark gray tailored suit, with pure gold cufflinks at the cuffs—completely out of place in this dusty flea market. Two men in workwear followed closely, whispering, "Mr. Parker, the demolition of this old alley will begin next week. The compensation plan has already been prepared." So he had come to review the project. I handed the money to the old man, picked up my book, stood up, and tried to slip past him to leave. "Wait." He reached out to stop me, his gaze sweeping over my faded denim jacket and canvas bag. "These past four years, you haven't been doing well, have you?" I tugged at the corner of my mouth but said nothing. Four years ago, his company went bankrupt, owing a million in debt. I worked three jobs—by day as a clerk, by night serving tables in a restaurant, and weekends teaching at a training center—grinding away to pay off his debt. But he turned around and was with Rebecca Campbell, without so much as a "thank you." "I have a black card here—with no spending limit." He pulled a card from his wallet and held it out in front of me. "Take it. Buy whatever you want. Consider it my... compensation to you." I raised my hand and pushed it away. The card slapped onto the floor. "Mr. Parker, I am not short of money." My voice was icy cold. "I don't need your compensation." He bent down to pick up the card but suddenly froze. My sleeve slipped down, revealing the ten-centimeter scar on my forearm—brutal and raw against my skin. That was four years ago. I got cut by glass while trying to help him take back the contract the creditor had seized. "This scar..." His voice trembled as he reached out to touch it. "What happened? Who did this? I'm going to kill that person!" I stepped back and pulled down my sleeve. "Then go kill yourself." He was stunned, probably not expecting me to say something like that. I didn't look at him again, clutching the old book as I hurried out of the alley. Some wounds can't be erased with a Black card.