After being discharged from the psychiatric hospital, I became a designated driver.
I never imagined that tonight’s passengers would turn out to be my younger sister, Trisha Golding, and my ex-wife, Celeste Sheridan.
When the car door swung open, a familiar scent rushed in. Expensive perfume mixed with the sharp bite of alcohol.
In the back seat, the two of them chatted casually about corporate acquisitions and ski trips in Switzerland. Their voices were light and carefree, as though the world had never known trouble.
My throat suddenly went dry.
Before I could stop myself, I coughed.
“Taking orders when you’re sick?” Trisha snapped at once, her voice sharp with open disdain. “There’s a pregnant woman in the car. If she gets sick, can you take responsibility for that?”
I said nothing.
A moment later, Celeste lifted her eyes and met mine through the rearview mirror.
Her expression was composed, her tone gentle, unchanged, as if time itself had politely stepped aside for her.
“Nathan... Long time no see.”
The car fell into a dead silence.
“Nathan?!” Trisha lurched forward, disbelief written all over her face. “You’re still alive?!”
Then her expression twisted with disgust.
“Celeste, have you forgotten?” she snapped. “He’s diseased. Get out of the car. Now!”
Almost on cue, the car rolled to a smooth stop in front of a sprawling villa. They got out as if fleeing a fire, not daring to linger even a second longer. I remained in the driver’s seat, slowly pressing a hand to my chest.
So this is what it felt like.
It didn’t hurt anymore.
Time really did dull everything.
——
Through the windshield, I watched Trisha hurry away, dragging Celeste along with her.
Their voices drifted faintly through the night air.
“Are you out of your mind? He’s diseased. Hurry up. Just pretend we didn’t see anything tonight…”
My hands trembled slightly on the steering wheel.
I reached for my cigarette case, slipped one free, and lit it.
Once, I could smoke cigars worth hundreds of thousands without blinking. Now, the cigarette had barely caught before the smoke clawed its way into my lungs, forcing me to bend forward in a fit of coughing.
Suddenly, someone tapped lightly on the window.
Celeste had returned at some point and was standing beside the car. She stood beside the vehicle, posture straight, her face half-lit by the streetlamp.
Leaning down, she spoke softly. “Nathan, today’s Philip’s birthday. Mom and Dad are inside. Do you want to come in and take a look?”
I stubbed out the cigarette.
When I spoke, my voice came out rough and dry. “No need. With one less of me around, won’t things be more peaceful for all of you?”
“Don’t say that.” She shook her head gently. “You’re still a Golding, Nathan.”
Before she could finish, the villa’s front doors were thrown open.
A man strode out, irritation etched into every step.
“Celeste! Who are you talking to?”
His gaze flicked toward me, sharp and dismissive.
“Haven’t I told you already? Don’t associate with those shady people outside.”
I didn’t wait to hear another word. I slammed the accelerator and pulled away.
Cold wind rushed through the car, seeping into my bones and leaving me shivering.
Eventually, the car came to a stop in front of a small steamed-bun shop.
The curtain lifted, and Luis Walker, my apprentice, stepped out with a wide grin.
“You’re back, Boss.”
My second shift began.
Kneading dough. Rolling wrappers. Chopping fillings and pre-heating ovens.
When it was finally over, I would collapse for three or four hours at most before dragging myself back behind the wheel.
Somewhere along the way, I had forgotten how to sleep truly.
By three in the morning, the heat inside the bake shop finally thinned out.
Luis squatted at the entrance, scrolling through his phone.
Suddenly, he clicked his tongue.
“Whoa, Boss, look at this! The Goldings threw a birthday party for their adopted son. They even chartered a whole yacht. This level of extravagance… damn. And his wife is ridiculously beautiful.”
The camera swept across the deck.
Philip had an arm wrapped around Celeste’s waist, leaning close to whisper something into her ear.
She smiled.
The same smile she had worn on our wedding day, all those years ago.
Nearby, my father, Archibald Golding, chairman of Golding Corp., stood with a benevolent expression, patting Philip on the shoulder like a proud parent.
“I heard the Golding family’s second son died of illness eight years ago,” Luis muttered casually. "If not, how's an adopted son supposed to get the money? Guess it’s all fate…”
He sighed, envy plain on his face.
“Forget buying a house. How many years would we have to sell buns just to afford one of their car tires?”
I looked at him and slowly shook my head.
That kind of life, I knew it too well.
Because eight years ago, I had been violently kicked down from those very clouds, straight into hell.
And the hands that pushed me belonged to my newlywed wife and to my family.
