The room was too quiet. A kind of quiet that crawled under his skin, that reminded him just how alone he really was.

Kalif sat on the edge of the bed, buried beneath sheets that felt colder than they should have. The bed was king-sized, the fabric was silk, the walls gleamed with luxury—yet everything around him felt lifeless. Even the air seemed heavy, as if weighed down by guilt.

One hundred million dollars. He’d thought that number would change his life. He’d thought it would bring freedom, validation, power.

Instead, it brought silence.

He dragged a hand over his face, feeling the roughness of his skin, the stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave. The scent of his cologne clung faintly to his fingers, but he couldn’t stand it anymore. Every time he touched that money—his money—he felt unclean. Like something inside him had rotted.

He had a mansion in California now. A sleek car parked in the driveway. A life most people would kill to have.

And yet, he couldn’t stop asking himself: How did I end up here?

He remembered when excitement had filled his days. When he thought success meant happiness. But now, every wall, every item, every glass of expensive wine reminded him of what it had cost.

If only he hadn’t been so greedy. If only he hadn’t been so sure that money would make him whole.

Almost a year ago, she had been pregnant—with twins. His wife. His everything, though he hadn’t realized it then. When she told him the news, he had smiled, hugged her, promised her the world. But greed has a way of whispering, of twisting love into paranoia.

He remembered the night it all shattered. The argument. The accusation. He’d reminded her about the prenuptial agreement, his voice cold, sharp. She had stared at him, silent, disbelief in her eyes. Then her face changed—went still, unreadable. She didn’t fight. She didn’t cry.

She just said, quietly, “Call my lawyer.”

The divorce was fast. Efficient. And in the end, he received one hundred million dollars. Victory, they called it. Justice, some said.

But what kind of justice leaves a man with everything and nothing at the same time?

He hadn’t heard from her since. Not until two months ago.

The envelope had come with no return address. Just his name, written in that same familiar handwriting he’d tried to forget. Inside were documents—cold, official, devastating. A DNA test.

Two names. Two children. Both his.

He’d stared at the paper until the ink blurred. The twins he had once called “someone else’s,” the ones he had erased from his life, were his own. Two living, breathing children growing up without a father—without him—because of his arrogance.

He’d spent over twenty million by then. Parties. Cars. A life without restrictions. And none of it could drown the sound of that truth.

Regret hit like a storm—loud, merciless. Then came the depression, the silence, the realization that there was no one left to blame.

He leaned back against the headboard, eyes open but unseeing, the city lights spilling through the window. His reflection on the glass looked hollow, almost unfamiliar. He wondered if his children had his eyes. If they laughed like he used to. If they even knew his name.

He pulled the sheets tighter around himself, as if they could shield him from his own memories. The mansion was quiet—too big, too beautiful, too empty. The kind of place meant for someone happy.

And he was anything but.

He would give it all back—the money, the luxury, the false pride—if it meant hearing her voice again. Or holding his children, even once.

But there was no going back. No apology could rewrite the past.

He had everything he’d ever wanted. And nothing he truly needed.