Prison Release And Her Regret

The day I caught Sylvia cheating, I took the Swiss Army knife she gifted me and permanently ruined my stepbrother's manhood in a single, bloody slash.

After I was sent to prison, my marriage to Sylvia was automatically annulled. She finally gave my stepbrother the lavish, fairy-tale wedding they always wanted.

Three years later, I was released.

Sylvia hired twenty bodyguards to keep me away. She set up fifty legal traps, hoping to send me right back behind bars. She even sent a hundred different mediators to tell me I could name my price, as long as I never laid a finger on her precious husband again.

But she was overthinking it.

Like a drop of water vanishing into the ocean, I completely disappeared from her life.

The next time we met, it was at an auto repair shop in the gritty outskirts of Chicago.

I blew out a puff of cheap cigarette smoke, popped the hood of her car with oil-stained fingers, and asked in a flat, even tone.

"How old is this model?"

Her eyes instantly welled up with tears.

"Victor, this is the car you bought me for my eighteenth birthday."

...

My hand froze on the wrench for a split second.

"Oh. It is getting up there in years, then. Definitely due for a major overhaul."

My tone was painfully indifferent. Sylvia stiffened. She opened her mouth several times, but the words died in her throat.

I tapped the wrench against the engine block, methodically checking every bolt. I treated the dazzling yellow sports car in front of me exactly like the thousands of beat-up sedans I had fixed before it.

Perhaps the harsh clanking of metal on metal grated on her nerves. Sylvia's expression shifted drastically before she finally managed a mocking, cynical smile.

"If you are short on cash, Victor, you could have just called me."

"There was no need to scatter nails on the highway just to lure me to this dump and put on a show."

I chuckled, making casual small talk like I would with any random customer.

"If I were that good of an actor, I would be in Hollywood by now."

"You came down Third Avenue, right? The morning news reported a hardware truck flipped over there yesterday. You have to be careful on those roads."

As I spoke, I grabbed a filthy, grease-soaked rag and casually wiped the sludge off my hands.

Sylvia stared at that rag. It seemed to be the last straw. Her voice rose in pitch.

"You used to be as proud as a swan, Victor."

"Claustrophobia, obsessive-compulsive disorder, an absolute germaphobe. You were the textbook definition of a billionaire heir. If a single speck of dust landed on your leather shoes, you would polish them for an hour. If there was a grease spot on the dining table, you would fire the housekeeper on the spot..."

"And now look at you..."

"Hey, Victor! Why didn't you wash my car properly!"

A shrill voice cut through the garage as the glass door was shoved open. A heavy-set woman stomped in, jabbing her stubby finger right at my nose.

"You left a massive mud stain! Does washing my car for free hurt your pride or something?"

"Come on, Brenda," I quickly rushed over, plastering on an apologetic smile. "I was just swamped today and missed a spot. Head on home, and I will come over later to give it another wash!"

I pleaded and smoothed things over for a good five minutes.

Brenda finally backed down. "One more mistake, and your shop rent goes up thirty percent!"

I kept smiling, bowing my head and promising it would never happen again.

Times were tough. Brenda's garage was only fifteen hundred a month, the cheapest rent in the entire district.

It was only after I walked Brenda out that I remembered I still had a customer. I turned to Sylvia and offered an awkward, apologetic smile.

"Sorry about that. Anyway, Miss, your car is good to go. That will be twenty bucks."

"You..."

Sylvia stared at me blankly. It took her a long time to force out a single word, completely drained of the energy to finish her sentence.

Instead, she hurriedly pulled out her phone to scan my payment code.

I looked at the notification. Five hundred dollars. I immediately waved my hands.

"Miss, you paid way too much. Let me send the rest back."

I instinctively went to find her contact on my phone.

Then I remembered. She had blocked me on everything the day I went to prison.

I scratched my head helplessly. "Well, this is awkward. Miss, you will have to show me your Venmo code."

"Didn't you say the car needed a major overhaul?" Sylvia's expression was a tangled mess of emotions. "Do a full diagnostic on the other parts. Is that enough to cover it?"

My face lit up.

"More than enough. Please, take a seat and wait over here."

I pulled a cheap plastic stool out from under a workbench and slid it toward her.

Noticing her pristine white designer dress, I thoughtfully grabbed a few paper towels and layered them over the plastic seat.

Sylvia stayed silent for a long time. She sat down stiffly, keeping her knees tightly together.

A second later, the squeak of the glass door startled her so badly she nearly jumped out of her seat.

"Hey Victor! Still grinding through lunch hour? Business must be booming. No wonder you ordered the deluxe combo today."

"Oh wow, and you have a gorgeous customer waiting. Lucky guy."

It was the delivery driver who brought my lunch every day.

I bantered with him for a moment, laughing as I took the cheap takeout bag from his hands.

Sylvia, clearly offended by being called 'gorgeous' by a random delivery guy, let out a frustrated breath, her cheeks flushing red.

But there was nothing I could do. This was how the neighborhood operated.

Martha from the fruit stand next door rolled her scooter in, asking me to check her loose brake cables whenever I had a minute.

A young corporate worker from the apartments upstairs dragged a suitcase down, asking if she could stash it in the corner until she got off work.

A college student sprinted in, scanning the code on my counter to rent a portable charger.

Their gazes ranged from blatant staring to poorly concealed glances, but every single one of them let their eyes linger on Sylvia.

Finally, she shifted uncomfortably on the stool.

"Victor, are you really content sinking this low? Flirting and mingling with these bottom-feeders?"

Her eyes looked a little red, though I might have been imagining it.

After spending three years operating a sewing machine in a fluorescent prison workshop, everything looked a little red to me.

"The car is in decent shape." I straightened up, wiping my hands. "But the brake pads are worn down. You really need to get them replaced. This is just a budget shop, I don't stock original factory parts. You will have to take it to a dealership for that."

I pointed her in the direction of the nearest luxury dealership, then eagerly tore into my cheap takeout box.

Curry chicken, spicy fried chicken, and braised eggplant. All my favorites.

But even as I snapped my disposable chopsticks apart, Sylvia showed zero intention of leaving.

I was a bit confused. After a moment's thought, I slid the plastic container toward her.

"Are you hungry? If you don't mind the grease, you can have a few bites to hold you over."

Sylvia's gaze drifted. It snagged on the motor oil permanently embedded under my fingernails, then shifted to the excessively oily food in the container.

When she finally spoke, her voice was hoarse.

"This is all cheap, processed garbage. It is toxic. You never used to eat this kind of food."

In her memories, I was a culinary snob. A picky eater who lived on organic greens and raw sashimi.

If a dish was even slightly past its prime, I would be hugging the toilet, throwing up until I saw stars.

I just smiled.

"Well, the prison cafeteria doesn't exactly offer a tasting menu. Plus, doing hard manual labor all day magically cured all my snobby habits."

"Every delivery place uses pre-packaged stuff now anyway. But their spicy chicken really kicks. You should try a piece."

"Oh nice, they threw in an extra packet of chili oil today. Score."

I happily fished the cheap plastic packet out of the bag and tossed it into a cardboard box behind me.

That box was already half-full of complimentary condiment packets. Buy a plain piece of bread, squeeze some of that on it, and it made a decent meal.

Sylvia abruptly shot up from the stool, her voice thick and nasal.

"Enough!"

I jumped, genuinely startled.

The next second, she hurled a sleek, matte-black credit card at my chest.

"This is a supplementary card to my account. Take it."

Her movements were so violent that she knocked over the plastic stool and nearly sent my takeout flying.

Fortunately, my reflexes were still sharp. I lunged forward and barely managed to save my lunch.

"Miss," I sighed, completely exasperated. "If you are not going to eat it, I am..."

"Victor!" Sylvia roared, her voice dropping into a frantic hiss. "I am serious!"

"This card is linked to a platinum account. It has a five million dollar limit. Spend it however you want."

"Buy a proper storefront in a nice area. Start a legitimate business. Be your own boss. Stop renting this toxic dungeon and playing the role of a pathetic, foul-smelling grease monkey!"

"You used to be an elite professional racer from one of the wealthiest families in the country. Have you completely forgotten who you are?!"

Her screaming echoed in the garage, dragging me violently back into the past.

It was true. My family was incredibly wealthy, one of the biggest investment tycoons in the city.

I lived the life of a billionaire's sole heir until I was seven, right around the time my mother got pregnant with twin girls.

But as we eagerly awaited their arrival, my father's infidelity shattered everything.

He fell recklessly, destructively in love with a biracial adult film actress.

It got to the point where his mistress marched straight into our home, demanding my mother step aside and sign the divorce papers.

My mother was a fiercely proud woman. A screaming match erupted. In the chaos, I watched with my own two eyes as that woman reached out with her long, acrylic nails, locked her hands around my mother's throat, and shoved her down the grand staircase.

Three lives were extinguished in a matter of seconds. My mother died with her eyes wide open.

Afterward, my father locked me in a room and beat me for a full day and night to force me to change my police statement. Because of that, the mistress walked away without a single charge.

They got married. The mistress brought along a son from her previous marriage. My new stepbrother, Tristan.

That was when my true nightmare began.

The beatings, the verbal abuse, the psychological torture, the endless bullying.

To survive, I fled to France. I put my life on the line and became a professional rally racer, shocking the motorsport world with my debut.

At the time, Sylvia was in Paris studying fine arts.

After catching a glimpse of me on a live broadcast, she became my most obsessive fan.

Every time I crossed a finish line, she was in the stands, holding a glowing sign with my name, screaming her lungs out.

When a corrupt official intentionally penalized me, she rallied hundreds of students to march through the streets of Paris demanding justice for my career.

She held my hand through injuries and dragged me out of my darkest slumps.

Finally, the day I secured my first major championship, I stepped out of the car and sprinted straight toward the grandstands.

Beneath a sky raining confetti and the deafening roar of the crowd, I pulled her into my arms and kissed her in front of the entire world.

The toxic dynamic of idol and fan evaporated. She was officially my girlfriend.

But I never could have predicted what would happen that very night. While we were strolling through the romantic streets of Paris, two armed muggers cornered us.

They only wanted our wallets at first.

But when they saw Sylvia's face, their intentions turned violent.

Without a second thought, I threw myself at them. In the terrifying struggle, a gun went off. The bullet tore straight through my chest.

It didn't kill me, but it punctured my lung and grazed my heart.

The doctors told me I could never engage in extreme sports again.

My racing career was dead.

But I never regretted it.

Sylvia was the absolute love of my life. She meant infinitely more to me than racing ever could.

I could win a hundred trophies, but I only had one Sylvia.

When I lay in that hospital bed, pale and gasping for air, I held her hand and told her exactly that. She collapsed against my chest, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Victor, let's go back home. My family has deep roots in business and politics. Whatever you want to do with your life next, I will back you up a hundred percent!"

That was who Sylvia was. She was terrible at whispering sweet nothings, but she moved mountains when it came to action.

My heart overflowing with hope, I held her hand as we flew back to the States.

Only to walk out of the terminal and see Tristan waiting for us in the arrivals lounge.

When he locked eyes with the heiress of the powerful Sylvia family standing by my side, his pupils dilated with pure shock. A second later, he flashed a blinding, innocent smile.

It reminded me of his mother. The exact same predatory smile she wore whenever she stood next to my father.

My gut told me a disaster was coming.

And that premonition became a brutal reality.

I could not pinpoint exactly when it started, but Sylvia began bringing Tristan up in casual conversation. Constantly.

First, she said he was cute and obedient. Then, she mentioned how pitiful it was that he had to walk on eggshells in his own home. Eventually, it turned into, "Victor, you really need to stop being so mean to Tristan."

I intended to sit her down and have a serious conversation about it. But the anniversary of my mother and sisters' deaths was approaching, so I had to focus on arranging the memorial service.

When I returned home from the cemetery, I witnessed a scene that would be burned into my retinas for the rest of my life.

Sylvia and Tristan. The two of them were completely naked, tangled together on the pristine white sheets of our bed.

"Hehe, Sylvia, why didn't you go pay your respects to your future mother-in-law today?"

"What mother-in-law... Some uncultured country woman isn't fit to be my mother-in-law... If I have to pick, your mother is a much better fit..."

A deafening ring hijacked my ears. My sanity entirely snapped. I charged into the bedroom like a rabid animal, grabbed a blade, and swung.

I still remember the sound of his agonizing screams. God, it felt incredible.

During the trial, the judge took pity on me. Considering the extreme emotional distress and my history as a victim of a broken home, he wanted to give me a suspended sentence.

But Sylvia hired the most ruthless, expensive legal team in the country. She even bribed key witnesses to commit perjury, ensuring I was slapped with a hard three-year prison sentence.

Time really does fly. It had been seven years since the stabbing, and three years since I walked out of a cell.

I exhaled a cloud of stale air and quietly observed the woman standing in front of me.

Money really was magic. Time had not left a single flaw on this beautiful woman's face.

Yet time had cursed me with cracked, calloused hands, a slight hunch in my spine, and the stench of motor oil permanently baked into my pores.

I gently pushed the black credit card back across the counter.

"Keep it. There is no need, Miss. I am perfectly fine with how I live."

"I have enough to eat, clothes on my back, and total freedom. I don't steal, I don't rob. I make a living with my own two hands."

"I am just a regular guy now. No massive fortunes, but no massive tragedies either."

But Sylvia stubbornly kept her hand extended.

"Just consider it... my way of making amends. You take the money, let go of the resentment, and from now on, we are entirely even."

I shot her a genuinely surprised look.

The proud, untouchable Sylvia heiress had actually learned how to compensate people.

In the past, she would never bow her head to anyone.

"Then there is even less of a need. I took that bullet in Paris because you were my girlfriend. And I went to prison because I intentionally maimed a man. It is basic cause and effect."

"Neither of us owes the other a damn thing."

Sylvia clenched her fists, her eyes locked onto my face.

It was as if she was desperately trying to confirm if the man standing in front of her was actually Victor.

Finally, she slowly lowered her head. A faint glimmer of moisture caught in the corner of her eye.

"Victor... you feel like a complete stranger to me."

I glanced up at the cheap plastic clock on the wall.

"Well, it has been years. Of course we are strangers."

"Back then... I just got caught up in the heat of the moment." She paused, her voice shaking. "For years, I have thought about it constantly. If you hadn't committed such a violent, impulsive crime, I would have married you out of pure guilt. I would have spent the rest of my life making it up to you..."

I didn't respond. I let the relentless ticking of the clock stretch the silence into infinity.

"Everyone walks their own path." I pulled out a crumpled cigarette, lit it, then immediately crushed it out, remembering I had a customer. "When you make your bed, you lie in it. No point looking in the rearview mirror."

"You"

Sylvia choked on her words, completely derailed by my casual, working-class philosophy. After a long moment, she snapped angrily.

"You haven't changed in one regard. You are still a stubborn, insufferable rock!"

I nodded cheerfully. "The neighbors say the exact same thing."

"Victor!"

Sylvia tightened her fists. After holding it in for so long, my actual name finally tore from her throat.

The sound of her voice made the room spin for a second. The way she said it sounded exactly like she used to.

Noticing my brief hesitation, she instantly softened her tone.

"If you refuse to take my money, I can act as a mediator between you and your father. You probably don't know this, but your father was diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer. He is running out of time."

"If you just go beg for his forgiveness now, you can still secure a portion of the inheritance. It is enough money to last you ten lifetimes..."

"Really?" I smiled brightly. "Karma finally caught up to him."

Derailled once again, Sylvia lost the last shred of her patience. She grabbed my arm, trying to physically drag me toward her car.

"Victor, how long are you going to keep playing tough?!"

"Take a good look in the mirror! Look at the pathetic, miserable state you are in!"

"Renting a dark, filthy shack. Breaking your back doing a dirty, foul-smelling job!"

"Eating literal garbage processed in a factory, and acting like a thirty-cent packet of hot sauce is a gift from God!"

"Do you think this aesthetic makes you look rebellious? Do you think this edgy, starving-artist act is attractive?"

"You are a mechanic! You are the absolute bottom of the barrel!"

I scratched the stubble on my chin and offered a very honest rebuttal.

"I am not entirely at the bottom. At least I am still a complete, fully functioning man. Unlike some people..."

It was like I had stepped on a landmine. Sylvia's face turned a violent shade of red as she exploded.

"Tristan had reconstructive surgery! They reattached it perfectly! He might be infertile, but his sex life is completely normal!"

"Meanwhile, you reek of toxic chemicals. The smell makes people's eyes water. What woman could ever tolerate being near you?!"

Pushed to the brink of hysterics, she started wildly hitting my chest with her designer Birkin bag, treating me like a hopeless disappointment.

Right at that exact moment, the glass door creaked open again.