The Wedding of His Century's Collapse

I had already made my choice.

The system's cold voice spoke again.

[Host, do you wish to activate 'The Karmic Trigger'?]

I shook my head. Not yet. This was just the beginning.

Let him have his moment. Let him soar. The higher he soared, the harder he would fall.

That very night, Boyce and Sloane were on every headline.

Blackwood Heir Proposes to Socialite# #A Power Union of New and Old Money#

The financial media called it a merger of dynasties. The fashion pages called it a modern fairytale. Social media was ablaze.

Boyce posted a photo of the two of them—perfect lighting, perfect smiles, a perfectly composed fantasy.

The caption read: "Finally have everything I've always wanted."

The post exploded. Thousands of likes. Endless comments.

I didn't engage. No like, no comment. I just scrolled past.

Instead, I buried myself in the lab, pouring everything into my polymer research.

Professor Alistair Finch was more than a mentor; he was the first person who saw the potential in my work.

"Your research has the potential to reshape the entire industry," he told me one afternoon, reviewing my progress.

He didn't know the real reason I was so far ahead. I had already lived the next forty years. I knew which technologies were on the verge of a breakthrough, which industries would boom, and which research would redefine the future.

This wasn't just a second chance. It was an insurmountable advantage. And I wasn't about to waste it.

A month later, Boyce appeared at the lab.

He didn't bother with pleasantries.

"Professor Finch," he said, leaning against the doorframe with the kind of casual arrogance only new money can buy, "I'd like to make a donation. Enough to have the building renamed."

Professor Finch barely looked up from his work. "This building already has a name."

Boyce smiled. "Everything has a price."

Professor Finch set down his pen and met his gaze. "Not everything."

A flicker of annoyance crossed Boyce's face, quickly replaced by cold indifference.

"Fine," he said with a shrug. "I'll just speak with the board of trustees directly."

He turned to leave, then paused.

"Oh, and about Dani Hayes," he added, his tone dripping with condescension. "She's a nobody. Just some broke student. Don't waste university resources on a charity case."

Professor Finch's expression didn't change. He simply returned to his papers.

But he called me that night.

"I have to tell you something," he said. "Boyce Collier pressured the university to revoke your research grant and reallocate the funds."

I froze.

"He spoke to the trustees this afternoon. Given the size of his recent donation… the university is caving."

Silence.

That grant was my life's work. It represented years of sleepless nights, sacrificed weekends, and a social life that had ceased to exist. And now, someone could just wave a check and make it all disappear.