Too Late to Love Me Now
My father, a rising star in a crime family, decided to leave my mother. During the divorce, he asked me to choose who to live with.
For the sake of my future, I chose him, the man who had money and power, over my penniless mother.
My choice broke her heart. "He has money, Mom. You don't. I don't want to be poor anymore," I told her, a lie that felt like swallowing glass. She looked at me with utter betrayal before collapsing in tears.
In my previous life, my love for her became the burden that destroyed her. After we were cast out, she worked herself to the bone to support me, only to die tragically trying to sell a kidney to pay for my medical bills. I followed her into death a week later.
I didn't understand. I had loved her with all my soul, but my love only led to her suffering and death. Why did choosing love mean choosing ruin?
Waking up again, I was fourteen, back at the moment of that devastating choice. This time, my love would not be a burden. It would be a weapon. I would get close to my father, dismantle his empire from the inside, and build my mother a fortress with the rubble.
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Chapter 4
Alessia "Blake" Falcone POV:
The memory of what happened after the divorce is seared into my soul-the fuel that burned away the scared little girl I used to be.
First, my mother was fired. The official reason was "downsizing," but we both knew the truth. My father's influence cast a long shadow, and she was no longer under its protection.
Then came the eviction notice, a stark white paper taped to our door that felt like nothing less than a death sentence.
We lived in our car for a week before she found that mold-eaten apartment. I'll never forget the shame in her eyes as she handed over our last few dollars for the key.
Some days, there was no food. I'd miss school, the gnawing hunger leaving me too dizzy to stand.
She called him once more, her voice hollow and defeated, begging for enough to buy groceries.
His dismissal was curt. Karel was "feeling unwell," he'd said, and he couldn't be bothered.
After that, my mother never spoke his name again. She would just sit in the dark, a statue carved from silent despair.
But she never gave up on me.
She started volunteering at a nursing home, a place filled with the scent of bleach and quiet sadness. Not for pay, but because the Headmaster of Northgate High's mother was a resident there.
She would spend hours reading to the old woman, changing her sheets, holding her hand, all for the chance, the slimmest hope, of getting me into a good school.
And it worked.
She got the recommendation letter.
I got the acceptance.
I remember the day the letter came. My mother held it in her trembling hands, and for the first time in years, I saw a brilliant, fleeting moment of pure joy in her eyes.
Her sacrifice had meant something. Her suffering had purchased my future.
I fought to learn, to succeed, pouring everything I had into my studies to make it all worthwhile.
And then the disease came-a war I couldn't win-and it all turned to ash.
This time, her sacrifice would not be in vain.
This time, I would build her an empire on the ruins of his.
This time, I would win.