“How dare you speak to our lady like that,” the guard growled. “Do you even know who this is? Mrs. Verne owns this estate. Crawl back into whatever gutter you came from before she really gets mad.”
The drunk didn’t react. He just lay there, laughing like he’d lost his mind, completely unfazed by the blow.
“So tragic,” he slurred, grinning through cracked, bleeding lips. “Pushed off that tall balcony... blood everywhere.”
“But he wasn’t satisfied. He sent thugs, had him chopped to pieces. He was still alive when they started. Then they scattered the pieces all over the land.”
Nadia’s face twisted with disgust as she stared down at him like he was something scraped off her heel. “Who the hell are you?” she snapped. “Where’s Patrick?”
But the drunk just kept laughing, face streaked with god-knows-what—booze, tears, maybe both. His bottle had spilled all over him, soaking his dirty shirt and face.
And then, out of nowhere, he staggered forward and clung to her leg.
“He was a good man. Very kind,” the drunk cried. “He gave me food. Fed me when I had nothing. If it weren’t for him, I’d have starved to death.”
Nadia recoiled and kicked him off like he was a bug. He went flying, landing hard on a small, messy mound of dirt nearby.
The moment his back hit it, the drunk sobered up like someone flipped a switch. He scrambled up, brushing the soil with shaky hands, muttering apologies over and over.
“I’m sorry…I’m sorry…”
Nadia frowned. “What the hell is that?”
The drunk reached for the marker like it was made of glass, gently setting it upright and patting the dirt like he was tucking someone in for the night.
“It’s his grave,” he said hoarsely.
She narrowed her eyes and sure enough, there it was—a crude little wooden plank sticking out of the dirt, tilted sideways, with crooked letters carved into it:
RIP.
Nadia rolled her eyes. “What a joke.”
She shoved the drunk aside, gave a snort of disbelief and raised her heel—then crack—snapped the little makeshift headstone in two.
“Three years and this is what he comes up with? A tragic story and a cheap little trick just to avoid me?” she scoffed. “He really thinks this pathetic performance is gonna make me feel guilty?”
She wasn’t done. She barked at one of her guards, “Get me a shovel. Flatten this damn thing.”
They did as she said—like they always did. With each strike of the shovel, the grave disappeared, just a pile of loose dirt now.
“I wanna see just how long Patrick can keep playing dead.”
The drunk looked like his soul got ripped out. “What are you doing? Please don’t,” he wailed. “Stop it! I told you—he’s dead! God, Mr. Carter was a good man. He didn’t deserve this.”
But Nadia had already turned away, completely done with him.
She paused, then said loud and clear into the wind, “Patrick. I know you’re listening.”
“You’ve got three days. Show yourself. Volunteer that damn kidney for Eric and I’ll lift your punishment. I’ll even let you come home.”
Her voice rang out, steady and unflinching, the edge in her tone daring him to test her resolve.
“But if you’d rather keep playing ghost—keep hiding like a coward—then forget about ever seeing your son again.”
With that, she turned on her heel and walked off.
Before she left, she gave her guard a nod.
The man stepped forward, raised his metal baton and slammed it into the drunk’s leg with a sickening crack.
He screamed.
“Fucking beggar,” the bodyguard spat. “That’s what you get for getting in her way.”
I hovered nearby, watching the whole thing unfold.
My heart ached. I wanted to cry—but no tears came.
Leo, my son…
It had been three years since I last saw him.
Nadia knew how much I loved him—that's why she used him to lure me out.
Of course I would have run to him. I would have done anything.
But now… I couldn’t anymore.
Once they were gone, the villa fell silent again. Still. Dead.
Only the drunk remained, curled beside the ruined grave, sobbing softly into the dirt.
He was mourning me.
