Chapter 91: 1 in A Million Is Still A Chance
The drive to his parents’ house was quiet, the rhythmic hum of the R8’s engine a stark contrast to the chaotic energy of the gold markets he’d just left behind. Jake leaned back into the seat, watching the familiar, sun-bleached streets of Aurelia roll by. When he pulled up to the curb, the driveway was empty.
’Both Mom and Dad are probably at work.’ He sat there for a minute with the engine idling, staring at the front door. He’d thought about asking them to retire a dozen times, but he knew exactly how that conversation would go. His father would probably look at him like he’d grown a second head, and his mother would laugh, telling him she wasn’t ready to spend her afternoons talking to the plants.
’It’s hard to imagine they’re actually secretly rich,’ he thought, a small smile playing on his lips. He understood it, though. They were used to the struggle; the work wasn’t just about the money anymore—it was their rhythm. Plus, with Aliya still in school, they likely felt they needed to keep the wheels turning. He’d just have to keep being the invisible hand, making sure their accounts stayed full and their worries stayed small.
Aliya didn’t give him much more time to brood. She was already waiting on the porch, practically vibrating with energy. As soon as she hopped into the passenger seat, the quiet in the car vanished, replaced by her frantic, excited chatter.
"You’re late," she said, though the massive, dimpled grin on her face gave her away.
"By three minutes, Al. Don’t be a critic."
"Three minutes is a lifetime when there’s an Audi waiting for me," she countered, bucking her seatbelt.
When they reached the Zenith and the elevator doors slid open to the private garage, the dark metallic grey Audi A4 was waiting. It sat under the overhead LED lights, polished to a mirror finish. Aliya didn’t rush toward it. Instead, she slowed her pace, crossing her arms and walking a slow, deliberate circle around the car. She squinted at the rims, then leaned down to check the bumper as if she were a seasoned appraiser.
"Well," she said, tapping the hood with her knuckles. "It looks like you took decent care of it while I let you borrow it, Jake. No scratches, the interior looks clean... I suppose I’ll take the keys back now."
Jake leaned against a concrete pillar, a genuine laugh escaping him. "Borrow it? I seem to remember being the one who spent three hours dealing with the salesman."
"Details, details," she waved a hand dismissively. "Is it fueled up?"
"Full tank. Come here, let me show you how the console works."
He spent the next twenty minutes walking her through the tech. He showed her how to sync her phone, adjusted the lane-assist settings, and explained the various drive modes. Aliya listened with an uncharacteristic intensity, her hands gripping the steering wheel as she adjusted the seat to her height.
"Okay, okay, I get it," she said, her fingers dancing over the touchscreen. "It’s a spaceship. I’ll be careful, I promise."
She shifted the car into gear, then paused, looking up at him through the open window. The bravado slipped for a second, replaced by something softer. "I’m going to start moving my things into the apartment next week, Jake. I want to be moved in before we head to South Africa for the vacation. School starts a few weeks after we get back, and I want to be settled."
"Next week?" Jake nodded. "That’s fine. Go ahead. I’ll send you a little something to help you get the essentials—towels, kitchenware, all the stuff you’re going to realize you’re missing at two in the morning."
"You don’t have to do that," she said, though she was already smiling.
"I know I don’t. Just go drive ’your’ car, Al."
He watched her navigate the A4 out of the garage, her movements cautious as she felt out the brakes. As the sound of the engine faded into the distance, Jake pulled out his phone.
He checked his personal account and realized he was running lower than he liked on liquid cash. He quickly logged into his institutional trading platform. The main trading sub-account was sitting at 23,000,000 VM. With a few practiced taps, he initiated a transfer of 5,000,000 VM into his personal checking, watching the trading balance tick down to 18,000,000 VM.
Once the confirmation flashed, he opened his banking app and sent 10,000 VM to Aliya’s account.
’Settling-in fund,’ he messaged her. ’Buy the good pillows. You’ll thank me later.’
He stood in the quiet garage for a moment longer, pocketing the phone. It was a strange feeling—shuffling millions around like they were just numbers on a scoreboard, his mind briefly flashing back to the stained 10 marks note he’d once clutched at the Quick-Stop. Back then, that scrap of paper was a lifeline; now, ten thousand marks was just a "settling-in" gesture.
His expression hardened as he turned toward the elevator. His family was safe, and they were happy. Now, he could focus entirely on the man who had tried to take that away.
---
The clock on the monitor flickered to 15:00. A chime echoed through the study as the secure, end-to-end encrypted video link Alice had established pulsed to life. The high-definition screen split—one window showing Alice in her sleek home office, her face set in a professional mask, and the other displaying a minimalist, sterile consulting room in Beijing.
Dr. Chen Wei appeared on screen. He looked like a man who hadn’t aged since the nineties, with silver-rimmed spectacles and a demeanor that suggested he valued time more than currency.
"Mr. Rivers," Dr. Chen began, his English impeccable and clipped. "I have reviewed the files your associate provided. Let us skip the pleasantries. We are discussing the patient identified as ’Subject A’ regarding the long-term sequelae of the procedure at the Rosewood Retreat?"
"Yes," Jake said, his voice dropping into a low, steady frequency. "I need the unfiltered truth, Doctor. What are we looking at?"
Dr. Chen looked off-camera, pulling up a digital scan that shared to Jake’s screen. It was an Hysterosalpingogram (HSG)—a black-and-white map of Aliya’s internal damage.
"The Rosewood facility’s surgical notes describe a ’routine evacuation,’" Dr. Chen said, his voice carrying a hint of professional disdain. "However, the post-operative pathology and the imaging you provided suggest a far more aggressive and unmonitored intervention. There is extensive uterine synechiae, specifically what we classify as Asherman’s Syndrome."
Jake leaned forward, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of his mahogany desk. "Speak plainly."
"The procedure was performed with significant mechanical trauma to the endometrial lining," Dr. Chen explained, pointing to the jagged, shadowed areas on the scan. "This has resulted in the formation of dense scar tissue. Additionally, there are clear signs of a lingering, sub-clinical pelvic inflammatory infection that was left untreated. This has caused bilateral tubal occlusion—the Fallopian tubes are essentially blocked by adhesions."
The room felt like it had been sucked of its oxygen. Jake watched the cursor hover over the scars.
"In terms of future fertility," Dr. Chen continued, "the prognosis is guarded. Due to the depth of the endometrial scarring and the tubal damage, the chances of a natural conception are currently near zero. Even with In-Vitro Fertilization (IVF), the scarred environment of the uterus would make implantation failure or recurrent miscarriage a high statistical probability."
Jake didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His mind flashed back to the way Aliya had looked at the Audi earlier—the life and light in her eyes as she planned her move. She had no idea. She was planning a future that had been physically stolen from her before it could even begin.
"Is it reversible?" Alice asked, her voice cracking slightly, breaking her usual professional composure.
"We can attempt a hysteroscopic adhesiolysis to remove the scar tissue," Dr. Chen replied. "Followed by a course of high-dose estrogen therapy to encourage the lining to regenerate. But I will be honest, Mr. Rivers—the success rate for restoring full functionality in cases of this severity is less than fifteen percent."
Jake closed his eyes for a brief second. ’Fifteen percent.’ "Whatever it costs," Jake said, his voice eerily calm, though the air in the room seemed to vibrate with his suppressed rage. "I want the best specialists. I want the most advanced regenerative therapies. If there is a five percent chance, I will fund the research to make it fifty."
Dr. Chen nodded slowly. "Money can buy the best surgeons, Mr. Rivers, but it cannot always negotiate with biology. I will send a list of the necessary medications—specific anti-inflammatory protocols and fibrinolytic agents to begin breaking down the adhesions. We need to stabilize her system before any surgical intervention is even considered."
"Alice will handle the logistics," Jake said. "Consider yourself on permanent retainer for this case."
"I understood that the moment I saw the wire transfer," Dr. Chen noted. "I will prepare the roadmap for her recovery. I will be in touch."
The screen went black.
Jake stayed in his chair, the silence of the study pressing in on him. The technical terms—’adhesions, occlusion, synechiae’—looped in his head like a death sentence. Alex hadn’t just ’cleaned up a mess.’ He had effectively sterilized a young girl to protect his own reputation. He had signed off on a procedure that had carved away her future.
Jake looked at his hands, the same hands that had made nine million marks that morning. It felt like paper. It felt like nothing.
He stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking out over Aurelia as the sun dipped behind the skyline. He thought about the 10,000 marks he had just sent Aliya for pillows and towels. He thought about her Merit results.
"You didn’t just hurt her, Alex," Jake whispered to the empty room, his eyes glowing with a cold, predatory light. "You ended a part of her."
The "boiling" rage was gone. In its place was a singular, icy focus. He wasn’t just going to destroy Alex Livingston’s career, family or his marriage. He was going to ensure that every single thing Alex valued was meticulously, surgically stripped away, piece by agonizing piece.
---