His connections.
His face on the posters for his charities.
No one at that gala would see him.
They would only see what he had to offer them.
So he was left home alone, in an empty space worth $87 million.
His phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
Probably another offer.
Another scam.
He was about to hang up.
Then the message caught his attention.
I’m out of Lily’s formula and only have $3.
Ethan opened the message.
He read it twice.
Then a third time.
It wasn’t a scam.
The scammers weren’t that apologetic. The scammers were asking for bank transfers and cryptocurrency, not $50.
It was all real.
Someone had sent a message to the wrong number, trying to reach a customer service that no longer existed.
She asks for $50 to feed her baby on New Year’s Eve.
Fifty dollars.
The automatic tip he’d left on the bar tab without a second thought.
A shiver ran down Ethan’s spine.
Thirty years ago.
Queens.
A studio apartment above a laundromat. He remembered being hungry.
His mother worked three jobs that still weren’t enough to cover rent, food , or cough medicine that couldn’t be cured.
Not the vague hunger of a late lunch.
The deep, ingrained hunger of poverty that made your head spin and taught you to ignore the cramps because complaining wouldn’t make food appear.
He remembered his mother’s apologies.
“Sorry, honey. Mom’s working on it.”
He died two weeks before Christmas.
Pneumonia, the doctor said.
But Ethan knew the truth.
He died of poverty.
Unable to afford to take time off work when she was sick.
For not having health insurance.
For a system that devoured people like her and spat out their bones.
Then came the group homes, the shelters, years of surviving because no one would save him.
He built Mercer Capital from scratch, became someone the world couldn’t ignore, and amassed more money than anyone could spend in a hundred lifetimes.
But he never forgot that apartment above the laundromat.
He never forgot his mother, apologizing for things that were not his fault.
Ethan picked up the phone and called the only person he trusted with matters that required discretion.
“Marcus, I need you to find a phone number right away.”
Twelve minutes later, Ethan had it all.
Clara Whitmore.
Twenty-eight years old.
Address: Apartment 4F, 1847 Sedwick Avenue, Riverdale.
Single mother.
An eight-month-old daughter.
Former accountant at Harmon Financial, laid off three months ago.
She currently works part-time as a cashier at QuickMart.
The credit report was a significant burden to her.
Credit cards at their maximum spending limit.
Medical debts related to childbirth.
He paid $25 each time.
A car that was seized two months ago.
Preliminary eviction documents filed three days ago.
This woman was drowning.
Ethan grabbed his coat.
“Marcus, meet me in the garage. We’re stopping.”
Along the way, they stopped at a 24-hour pharmacy.
Ethan walked down the aisles alone, ignoring the cashier’s gaze.
Artificial milk .
From the face.
Three cans.
