Chapter 1 : Pitiful Existence

Stephen crouched among the shards of the once elegant kettle, its ceramic pieces reflecting his fractured self-esteem. Marianne towered over him, her eyes alight with the fire of scorn.

“You can’t even make a simple cup of tea without causing a disaster,” she sneered, her voice dripping with disdain. “What’s next, Stephen? Will you burn the house down trying to fry an egg?”

Stephen’s hands trembled as he gathered the broken fragments, his silence a feeble shield against her barbs.

“Look at you,” Marianne continued, her words like daggers. “Sitting at home all day, contributing nothing but mess and trouble. You’re not the man I married.”

He wanted to defend himself, to tell her that he was trying, that the job market was tough, but the lump in his throat held his words captive.

“Pathetic,” she spat out, turning away with a huff, leaving Stephen amidst the ruins of his pride and their kettle.

Stephen's sigh melded with the clink of ceramic shards as he knelt on the unforgiving kitchen floor. The fragments of the kettle lay scattered like the pieces of his once orderly life, each shard a reminder of his failures.

In the living room, Marianne's voice rose, a crescendo of frustration and disappointment. "He's useless, Mother. Can't pay rent, can't manage school fees, can't even hold a job. What did I do to deserve this?"

Her mother's response was a venomous hiss that slithered its way into the kitchen. "Useless? It'd be a kindness if he were dead. At least then we wouldn't have to suffer watching him drag you and the child down."

Stephen flinched, each word a lash against his already battered psyche. He could almost feel the weight of their disdain pressing down on him, suffocating any remnants of self-respect.

His father-in-law's voice joined the chorus, deep and condemning. "I don't know who you offended to be saddled with such a deadbeat. A man provides, Stephen. If you can call yourself that."

The air was thick with their contempt, and Stephen's hands shook—not from the chill of the tiles beneath him, but from the coldness in their words. He reached for another piece of the kettle, his movements mechanical, robotic.

As he swept the pieces into the dustpan, a sharp edge sliced into his palm. A bead of blood welled up, bright red against his skin—a stark contrast to the pale debris. Pain lanced through him, but it was nothing compared to the agony of the words still echoing through the house.

He wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound, the fabric quickly soaking with blood. But Stephen didn't stop; he continued to clean, to clear away the physical evidence of his mistake, even as the emotional wreckage remained.

The door clicked shut behind Marianne, her departure to work leaving a silence that hung heavy in the air. Stephen stood alone in the kitchen, the blood from his palm seeping through the towel, each drop a punctuation mark to his thoughts.

“Why?” he whispered to the empty room. “Why is all this happening to me?”

He remembered the days when he was a banker, when his marriage was a partnership and his in-laws treated him with respect. But that was before the subsidy crisis hit America in 2017, before he lost his job and, with it, his place in the world.

Since then, rejection had been his shadow, following him from one job interview to another. He was tired—tired of the constant struggle, the relentless judgment, the feeling of being a perpetual disappointment.

His mother-in-law’s voice cut through his reverie, sharp and cold. “Sitting there feeling sorry for yourself isn’t going to change anything. Do something meaningful instead of wasting time in deep thought.”

Stephen’s grip on the towel tightened, the fabric now fully saturated. He moved to the sink, the plates from breakfast waiting like silent witnesses to the morning’s turmoil. He turned on the tap, the water cascading over the dirty dishes, and began to wash them, one by one. As he scrubbed, his mind replayed the morning’s events—the broken kettle, Marianne’s scornful words, the disdain in her parents’ voices.

The doorbell's chime cut through the silence, a sharp reminder that the world outside continued to turn. Stephen's in-laws, ensconced in the living room, didn't bother to hide their irritation. "Stephen, see who it is," his mother-in-law called out, her voice laced with disdain.

He wiped his hands on the towel and made his way to the door. Pulling it open, he was met by a delivery man, a neutral messenger in the day's storm of emotions. "Package for Mrs. Marianne," he said, extending a small electronic device for Stephen to sign.

"Thank you," Stephen muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. The delivery man nodded and departed, leaving Stephen with a box that seemed far too extravagant for their modest life. The price tag read **$250,000**, a figure that made his heart skip a beat. What could Marianne have ordered that cost as much as their house? Or was it gifted to her because tomorrow is her birthday?

With a mix of curiosity and dread, Stephen carried the box to their bedroom and laid it on the bed. He hesitated for a moment before lifting the lid, revealing a dress that took his breath away. It was the epitome of elegance, the kind of garment that graced the covers of high-fashion magazines, hailed as the most beautiful dress of 2023.

Before he could process the sight, the doorbell rang again. Stephen hurried to the door, half-expecting the delivery man to return with an apology for the wrong delivery. Instead, he found an old man dressed in tattered clothes, his appearance a stark contrast to the luxury that lay on Stephen's bed.

"Who are you?" Stephen asked, taken aback by the man's sudden appearance.

The old man's laugh was a raspy cackle, his decayed teeth bared in a wide grin. "It chose you, Stephen," he said, his eyes twinkling with a strange mirth.

"How do you know my name? What chose me?"