Chapter 1

My wife, Shelly Pierce, passed away.

She suffered a sudden stroke while I was out of town for work.

I rushed back overnight, but I never got to see her again. All I could do was bring home her ashes.

Everyone offered their condolences.

But right after that, a bunch of burly guys kicked down my door and threw a stack of IOUs for 4 million right in my face.

That was the moment I realized exactly what kind of "inheritance" my "dutiful" wife had left me.

When I opened my eyes, I realized I had returned to the past. Seeing Shelly packing my bags with that tender look, I smirked.

This time, no one escapes paying the price for this "inheritance."

*****

The rain slammed into my face, cold enough to cut right through me.

I was curled up in a grimy alley, the pain in my gut so bad every breath felt like pure torture.

A bunch of burly guys had me surrounded.

One of them kicked my face with the tip of his boot. "Eric, stop pretending you're dead. Pay your debts, that's the rule.

"Your wife might be gone, but she racked up this debt. You're her husband, so you're stuck with it."

I struggled to open my eyes; everything was a blur.

My wife? Did they mean Shelly, who'd been gone for three months?

Three months ago, I was still out of town, busting my ass for a big project.

That night, I got a call from Shelly's mother, Amy Pierce.

She was sobbing her heart out, barely able to speak, telling me that Shelly had suffered a sudden stroke and hadn't survived.

My world shattered in an instant.

I grabbed the earliest flight I could and rushed back overnight.

But when I rushed inside, I didn't see Shelly's body. Instead, a cold, small urn sat alone on the table.

Peter Pierce, Shelly's father, his eyes swollen from crying, told me, "Eric, in our hometown tradition, bodies can't sit for long, especially in this heat. We had to cremate her immediately."

I felt like all the strength had been sapped from my body. I fell to my knees, clutching that small urn, and cried my heart out.

Shelly and I had been married for five years. We started from scratch, made it in this city, and I poured every bit of love I had into her.

I busted my ass at work, faked smiles at endless business dinners, drank myself sick, just so she could have the best life I could give her.

But she was gone like this—no last words. No farewell.

I never even got to see her one last time.

Before I could even start to deal with the pain of losing Shelly, something even worse hit me hard.

A bunch of thugs barged into my place, and Max Blackwell, the bald leader, threw a stack of IOUs right in my face.

He said, "Your wife, Shelly, racked up 4 million from us over time. Black and white, her signature on every single page."

I was totally floored.

4 million? Shelly was only a regular office worker. Why would she need that kind of money?

I frantically called Amy and Peter. After much beating around the bush, they finally let slip the truth.

It turned out that Shelly had been unfaithful all along.

She was banging her personal trainer, some pretty-faced gym rat named Hank Miller.

Most of the money Shelly borrowed went straight to Hank. She bought him a car, luxury brands, and even helped him open his own gym.

And Shelly's death wasn't some sudden stroke at all.

She died during some kind of drug-fueled bedroom activity with Hank. She got so worked up that a blood vessel burst in her brain—dead before she hit the sheets.

Amy and Peter paid off Hank, who'd seen everything. They rushed the cremation and destroyed the evidence, all to protect Shelly's reputation and dodge the debt.

They hid everything from me, so they could dump the entire 4-million debt on me, Shelly's legal husband.

From that moment on, my life went straight to hell.

I sold the house, sold the car, quit my decent-paying job, and started working three shifts a day to keep up with the interest on that bottomless debt.

But no matter how hard I hustled, the debt always outpaced whatever I earned.

I went from a promising sales manager to a rat everyone wanted to stomp on.

Friends turned their backs; relatives cut me off.

Amy and Peter even ranted in the family group chat, saying I was some kind of jinx who'd cursed Shelly to death, and now I was trying to skip out on her debts—that I was scum of the earth.

My life had become a total joke.

"The fuck you still glaring at?" Max snarled, then drove his boot into my chest.

I choked on copper, blood spraying from my lips.

My vision blurred as I started to lose consciousness.

I couldn't accept this.

Why? Why did that bastard Hank get to live it up while I was stuck paying for Shelly's mess? Why did she get to die and escape it all, dumping this mountain of shit on me?

And why did Amy and Peter get to keep their spotless reputation while I was driven to ruin?

If I could do it all over again, I'd make every last one of them pay in blood.

As everything went black, my body started to feel weightless, and the pain in my stomach faded away.