Chapter 3: The Devil’s Dividend

The morning sun sliced through the blinds of my cheap studio apartment like a guillotine blade. I sat cross-legged on the floor, my laptop balanced on a milk crate, the screen glowing with a dozen open tabs. Three days had passed since my so-called rebirth—three days of retracing the names, dates, and numbers that had haunted my previous life.

I closed my eyes, letting the memory flood back. The day the market had crashed—no, not crashed. *Collapsed.* A biotech giant, Meridian Sciences, was set to announce a failed Phase 3 trial for their miracle cancer drug. The stock would plummet 80% in a single afternoon. But the real gold was in the aftermath—a subsidiary, a small pharmaceutical shell company called Corsair Bio, would be quietly acquired by a rival conglomerate three weeks later. The acquisition news would spike its paltry $2.30 share price to $47.

I had watched it all unfold from the sidelines in my past life. I was too poor to invest, too ignorant to care. Now? I had exactly $1,847.32 to my name. And a burning need to make it multiply.

I pulled up my brokerage account—a no-frills, commission-free app—and stared at the buy button. My finger hovered. My heart hammered against my ribs. Every instinct screamed caution. But caution had gotten me killed before.

I entered the order: *All in on Corsair Bio. Market order.*

The transaction executed in seconds. Then I shut the laptop, exhaled, and let the silence swallow me. If I was wrong, I was homeless. If I was right, I was a player.

The next three days were a test of nerve. I didn't check the ticker. I didn't refresh the app. I spent my days scrubbing toilets at a motel that paid under the table, wearing the same stained uniform, letting my hands go raw. Ruth had called me twice, her voice trembling as she asked if the ledger was real. I hadn't answered. Let her stew. Let Marcus sweat.

On the fourth morning, I finally opened the app.

$49, (Corsair Bio had already rallied on rumors—my $1,847 had become $21,400.)

But the big move—the acquisition announcement—was still eleven days away. The stock would dip again when Meridian’s failure dragged the sector down. That was my window to double down.

I called my manager at the motel, told her I quit, and threw the uniform in the dumpster on my way out. It was time to look the part of someone worth watching.

I bought a tailored black blazer from a consignment shop, a crisp white shirt, and heels that clicked with purpose. I walked into the lobby of Meridian Sciences' corporate tower like I owned the place, flashed a forged press badge at the front desk, and took the elevator to the 34th floor—the investor relations suite.

I wasn't there to ask questions. I was there to be seen.

The room was buzzing with financial journalists and analysts, all feeding on the scraps of Meridian’s pre-announcement jitters. I slipped in, ordered a sparkling water, and stood near the window, watching the city sprawl below. It was all mine to take.

"Excuse me."

A voice, low and clipped, cut through the murmur. I turned.

Adrian Blackwood stood three feet away, his presence commanding the space around him like a gravitational pull. He was taller than the tabloids suggested, his dark hair swept back, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. His charcoal suit was immaculate, and his eyes—pale grey, almost silver—fixed on me with unnerving intensity.

"Do I know you?" he asked.

My throat went dry. In my past life, Adrian Blackwood was a myth, a name whispered in boardrooms and business magazines. A self-made billionaire who had clawed his way from nothing to control a media empire that could make or break anyone in this city. He was also the man who had tried to warn me—once, at a charity gala Marcus had dragged me to—that my husband was "not what he appears." I had laughed it off. A mistake I would never repeat.

"No," I said, my voice steady despite the chaos inside. "But you will."

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. "Bold. Are you here for the Meridian story?"

"I'm here for what comes after."

His eyes narrowed, scanning me like a code he couldn't quite crack. "Interesting. Most people here are chasing the crash. You're chasing the purchase."

"It's all about timing, Mr. Blackwood."

I hadn't said his name. His eyes widened—just a fraction, but enough. He extended a hand. "Adrian. And you are?"

"Lily Chen. And I'm going to be very rich in the next eleven days."

He laughed—a low, genuine sound that sent heat up my spine. "Confident. Or delusional."

"Both, possibly. But I'm right."

I placed the empty glass on the tray, gave him a smile that didn't reach my eyes, and turned to leave. My heel caught on the edge of a rug, and I stumbled—one hand flying out to catch the window frame.

Adrian's hand caught my elbow, steadying me. His grip was firm, warm, and lingered a second too long.

"Be careful, Miss Chen," he murmured, leaning in close. "The market is a cruel mistress. And so am I."

I pulled my arm free, my pulse racing. "So am I."

The elevator doors slid shut behind me, and I finally let out the breath I'd been holding. My phone buzzed. A text from Ruth:

*Marcus is looking for you. He knows your father's company is involved. What did you do?*

I stared at the screen, a cold smile curling my lips.

*Tell him I'm preparing for his funeral.*

And then, eleven days later, Corsair Bio announced the acquisition.

My phone exploded with notifications. My account read: **$412,980.17.**

I had my war chest. Now I needed allies.

But when I opened my apartment door that night, I wasn't alone.

Adrian Blackwood was sitting on my threadbare couch, ankles crossed, holding a glass of my cheap whiskey like it was a priceless vintage. "You didn't think I'd let you disappear that easily, did you, Lily?"

The door clicked shut behind me.

I was trapped—and I hadn't felt more alive in my life.