My name is Astor Windsor. Founder and CEO of Windsor Securities—one of the most dominant forces in global security tech. We build systems that governments trust and corporations fear. Surveillance, cybersecurity, private military-grade intelligence—if it exists, we control it. And I built it from nothing.

People see the private jets, the islands, the empire—and they think I was born to win. No. I was born invisible. A nameless orphan scraping by in a system that eats the weak alive. I had no one. No warm beds. No family. Just the gnawing hunger and a will to survive.

I cleaned tables and washed dishes in a dingy corner diner just to afford night classes and textbooks with torn pages. I worked side gigs till my hands bled. That’s where I met her.

The owner's daughter.

She was the kindest soul I'd ever met. Too kind for a world like ours. She noticed I never ate, even when my stomach growled louder than the dishwashers. So she'd sit across from me during her lunch breaks, place a burger in front of me, and say with that damn smile, “It’s boring eating alone.” Never pitied me. Never made me feel small.

She talked about silly things—how she used to feed street cats everyday. I didn’t understand any of it. But I listened. And somewhere between shared fries and laughter, I fell. Hard. She didn’t just feed me—she saw me. Loved me when I had nothing. When I proposed to her with a paper ring and promises that were just dreams at the time, she didn’t laugh. She believed in me. Even gave me her savings when I was building Windsor Securities from the ground up.

I made it. We made it. And I married her like I always promised.

For a while, I spoiled her—trips, diamonds, anything she looked at for longer than a second. But slowly, the man she loved turned into someone else. I became obsessed with control, with power, with expansion. The company demanded my soul—and I gave it willingly. I stopped coming home. Missed birthdays. Our anniversary was just another meeting. But she stayed. She never complained. Never asked for more. Even when I had mistresses—plural—parading through our penthouse, she said nothing.

Until she did.

I still remember the night she cried. The rage, the hurt in her voice. She wasn’t yelling because I cheated. She was screaming because I forgot how to love her. And I... I hit her. I. Fucking. Hit. Her.

That was the day I broke her. Whatever light she had—the one that made me feel human—it dimmed.

She didn’t leave. She just... faded. Stopped speaking. Stopped expecting. Stopped hoping. She became a ghost living in the shadows of the man I used to be. Sometimes, I’d catch glimpses of her in the hallway. But I never spoke. I didn’t know how to say sorry when the damage was deliberate.

Then yesterday, Edward—our butler—told me what she never did.

She’s sick. Very sick. Cancer.

She was diagnosed a month ago. A goddamn month. And I didn’t even notice.

I went to her room—our bedroom, though I hadn’t stepped foot in it for years. She was asleep. Curled up under a blanket. The room smelled like lavender and medicine. Bottles lined her nightstand. Her skin was pale, thinner than I remembered. Her wrists looked like twigs.

I sat beside her. And for the first time in years, I felt something. Not just regret. Not guilt. Grief.

Because this woman—the only one who ever loved me, truly loved me—is dying in front of me. And I killed her long before the diseases ever could.

I didn’t make mistakes. Mistakes are accidents. What I did? I chose. I chose power. I chose ego. I chose other women, board meetings, vanity, cruelty. I chose everything but her.

Now I sit here, in silence, watching her chest rise and fall, wondering if I’m already too late.