The Retired CEO's Guide To Being Spoiled-Chapter 185: The Echo of a Broken Soul
"Just admit it to yourself. You and your allies have merely chosen a path that you self-righteously deem to be the moral high ground, and now you are intent on imposing that narrow, one-sided perspective onto everyone else. I freely admit that I am a terrible human being. I possess a soul that is undeniably selfish, devoid of traditional benevolence, and rife with manipulative schemes. I have even stained my hands with blood to achieve my objectives. But so what? Does that make me unique in this wretched world? Can you truly place your hand over your heart, raise your other hand to the heavens, and swear upon your life that you have never committed a single wrong? Can you claim that you have never harmed another soul, that you are a paragon of virtue so perfect and flawless that you are without a single blemish?"
"..."
Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
In that fleeting moment, the barrage of words, delivered in a tone that was at once cold, acerbic, and dripping with scathing sarcasm, did not fade away. instead, the voice of that woman, Dahlia Thorne, continued to echo relentlessly in Julian Sterling’s ears. It was a persistent auditory intrusion, looping over and over again like a distorted recording from a broken, antique cassette player. The sound was scratchy, dissonant, and unrelenting, drilling deep into his mind and gouging out painful furrows in his psyche.
Ethan Caldwell stood frozen, his body tense. Suddenly, he became aware of a sensation on his chest. The crisp fabric of his dress shirt was becoming damp, a searing, wet heat soaking through the layers of cloth to scorch the skin beneath. It was only then that Julian, too, was jolted out of his daze, realizing with a start that he was crying. Hot tears were streaming down his face in an unstoppable torrent, falling without warning, without permission, and without sound.
However, deep within the recesses of his consciousness, Julian understood with absolute clarity that it was not truly his soul that was weeping. The entity known as "Julian" from another life, the cynical, hardened businessman, was not the source of this anguish.
It was this body.
It was the residual cellular memories, the ghosts of trauma etched into the very marrow of his bones, that were now keening. The physical vessel was mourning its own tragic, miserable fate, weeping for a past that the current occupant had inherited but not lived.
Every cruel syllable that Dahlia had uttered acted as a trigger, a violent switch that activated a cascade of harrowing images within Julian’s mind. The memories belonged to the original owner of this body, the "Julian Sterling" of this melodramatic novel, whose life had been a tapestry of unmitigated suffering.
His childhood had been a grim existence in the darkest, deepest trenches of society. He had grown up in a chaotic, impoverished household, where the air was perpetually thick with the stench of cheap alcohol and the sounds of violence. His ears had rung constantly with the vile curses and screaming matches of his adoptive parents, accompanied by the terrifying crash of furniture being smashed in drunken rages. Life had been reduced to the most primal instinct, survival. It was a daily battle for food, for clothing, for a single coin. In the face of such grinding poverty, concepts like dignity and self-respect were luxuries he could not afford; they had been stripped away long ago.
There were memories of days so hungry that he had fought feral dogs for a scrap of moldy leftovers found in a dumpster. There were flashbacks of his small, malnourished hands digging through trash for plastic bottles to sell for tuition money, only to be beaten bloody by street gangs of other desperate children, fighting until his head was cracked and his skin was flayed just to keep his meager earnings.
He had naively thought that finding his biological family would be his salvation, the turning point where his life would transform from a nightmare into a fairy tale. But when he was finally restored to his rightful identity as the young master of a wealthy family, the reality was a cruel joke.
He found himself trapped in a cavernous, opulent villa that felt as empty and cold as a mausoleum. It was a living hell disguised as paradise. His parents were parents in name only, their warmth was reserved for others. His brother was a brother to everyone but him. Though he bore the title of a legitimate heir of the direct line, he lived a life of deprivation within walls of gold. He was given less food than the staff, his clothes were threadbare compared to the finery around him, and he was subjected to the open disdain and mockery of the servants. In the hierarchy of that magnificent house, his authority and value were ranked lower than the family’s prized pets.
Loneliness was his only constant companion. He had no confidants, no friends to share his burden. At school, he was ostracized, a pariah isolated by rumors and malice. Wicked peers framed him, painting him as a delinquent and a bully to mask their own cruelty, while in truth, he was the perpetual victim of school violence. Day after day, he would return home, his body a canvas of hidden bruises and fresh wounds, with no one to tend to them.
And in the ultimate act of betrayal, the very family that should have protected him had packaged him up and sold him off into a marriage with a complete stranger, discarding him like an unwanted object.
"Hic..."
A choked, strangled sob finally broke free from his throat, a sound of raw, unadulterated pain resonating in the quiet night.
The sound startled Ethan. The powerful man, usually so composed and in control of every situation, found himself at a loss. He tightened his embrace around the slender, trembling frame in his arms, his movements awkward and frantic, unsure of how to soothe a sorrow this deep.
Julian bit his lip so hard he tasted copper, desperate to stem the tide. He hated this weakness, he loathed crying. But he could not override the physiological reaction of the body he inhabited. Perhaps the lingering resentment, the accumulated humiliation, and the profound grief that had been buried at the bottom of this heart for so long had finally been detonated by Dahlia’s sharp tongue. It was an explosion of emotion so violent that no amount of rational control could suppress it.
Fine then, Julian thought, surrendering to the wave. Let it all out. Just this once.
"Julian... rest now." He spoke silently to the fading presence of the original soul: "Rest in peace. If this world was too bitter, too full of agony for you to bear, then let go. Do not linger in the shadows any longer. Find your liberation."
"I am not a kind man. I am certainly no saint, nor do I aspire to be one. Therefore, hear my promise, for every ounce of humiliation, for every second of suffering you endured over those long, lonely years, I will make them pay. I will return the pain to them, fair and square. I will exact a price a hundred times, a thousand times greater than what they inflicted upon you."
"Consider it my payment. Consider it the rent I owe for the use of this body, for the chance you gave me to live a new life."
