The Billionaire’s Vengeful Return

My name was Arthur Sterling. Well, it used to be. Before I died, I was the richest man in the city. I had everything. I had big cars, five houses, and more money than a computer could count. But sitting in my giant gold-colored bed, none of that mattered. I was seventy years old, and my body felt like an old phone that wouldn’t charge anymore. I couldn’t move my legs, and my heart felt like it was tripping over itself.

I wasn’t always alone. My first wife, Martha, was my best friend. We started with nothing, eating cheap noodles in a tiny apartment. When she died five years ago, my heart broke into a million pieces. I was so sad that I couldn’t think straight. That was when I met Vivienne.

Vivienne was beautiful. She was young, maybe twenty-five, with hair like silk and eyes that looked like expensive jewels. When she told me she loved me, I believed her. I was an old, lonely man who just wanted someone to hold my hand. I married her and gave her everything. I gave her black credit cards and diamonds as big as grapes, and I even put her name on my bank accounts.

I thought she was an angel. I was wrong. She was a monster in a designer dress.

It was a Tuesday night. The moon was big and bright outside my window, but my room was dim. I was lying there, trying to breathe, when the door creaked open. Vivienne walked in. She wasn’t wearing her “sad wife” face anymore. She was smiling, but it wasn’t a nice smile. It was the kind of smile a cat gives a mouse.

“Time for your medicine, Arthur,” she said. Her voice was cold, like an ice cube down your back.

She was holding a silver tray with a floral teacup. Beside her was Julian. Julian was my “business assistant,” or at least that’s what he told me. He was young and handsome in a mean way, and he always wore suits that cost more than a teacher’s salary.

Julian leaned against my bedpost. He didn’t look worried that I was sick. He looked bored. “Is he dead yet?” he asked Vivienne.

My heart jumped. I tried to speak, but my throat felt like it was full of sand. “J-Julian?” I wheezed.

Vivienne laughed. It wasn’t a pretty sound. “Oh, he’s still awake. He’s tough, I’ll give him that. It’s taken three months of ‘special tea’ to get him this weak.”

She sat on the edge of my bed. She didn’t touch my hand with love. She grabbed my chin and forced me to look at her. “You know, Arthur, you’re actually a very nice man. But you’re so boring. And you’re so old. Do you really think a girl like me could love a guy who looks like a wrinkled raisin?”

Julian walked over and put his arm around her waist. He kissed her cheek right in front of me. “We’ve had so much fun spending your money while you were napping, old man. That new yacht? Amazing. The apartment in Paris? Fantastic. But we’re tired of waiting for your heart to stop on its own.”

I felt tears sting my eyes. I had trusted them. I had treated Julian like a son and Vivienne like a queen. “Why?” I managed to whisper.

“Money, duh,” Julian said, rolling his eyes. “You have billions. If you die, Vivienne gets it all. And since we’re getting married as soon as you’re in the ground, I get it all too. It’s a win-win. Well, not for you.”

Vivienne picked up the teacup. The steam smelled weird—sweet but also like rusty nails. “This is the last one, Arthur. The doctors will say you had another stroke in your sleep. No one will ever know. You’ll just be another rich guy who got too old.”

I tried to push the cup away, but my arms felt like they were made of lead. I couldn’t even wiggle my fingers. I wanted to scream for the guards, for the police, for anyone. But the mansion was huge and silent. I had fired the loyal staff because Vivienne told me they were “stealing.” I realized now she just wanted me alone.

“Drink up,” she hissed.

She poured the liquid into my mouth. It tasted like bitter metal. It burned my throat. I coughed, but she held my mouth shut until I swallowed it all.

“There,” she said, wiping her hands on a silk napkin like she had just touched something gross. “In ten minutes, the great Arthur Sterling will be history.”

Julian looked at his gold watch—a watch I bought him for his birthday. “Finally. Let’s go open that bottle of champagne we stashed in the kitchen. I want to toast to our new life.”

They walked toward the door, laughing and talking about where they were going to travel first. They didn’t even look back at me. I was just a piece of furniture to them.

I lay there in the dark. My chest started to feel tight, like a giant snake was squeezing me. My vision began to get blurry. The edges of the room turned black. I thought about Martha. I hoped I would see her soon. But mostly, I felt a burning, hot anger. I wasn’t just sad; I was furious. I had built an empire with my bare hands, and these two vultures were stealing it while I was still breathing.

If I could have one more chance, I thought. If I could just get back up, I would make them pay for every lie they ever told me.

The pain got worse. It felt like my blood was turning into fire. I tried to take one last breath, but it wouldn’t come. My heart gave one final, heavy thump and then stopped.

Everything went black. It was the kind of black where you can’t see your hand in front of your face. It was quiet. So quiet.

But then, I felt something.

It wasn’t the soft clouds of heaven or the fire of hell. It was... cold floor tiles? And the smell of old pizza and cigarette smoke?

I opened my eyes. I wasn’t in my gold bed. I was in a tiny, messy room with peeling wallpaper. My head hurt like I had been hit by a truck. I reached up to touch my forehead, and I stopped.

My hand.

It wasn’t wrinkled. It wasn’t covered in age spots. It was big, strong, and covered in scars. I looked down at my body. I was wearing a dirty grey t-shirt, and my muscles felt huge. I scrambled off the floor and ran to a cracked mirror in the corner of the room.

I screamed, but the voice that came out wasn’t high and wheezy. It was deep and gravelly.

In the mirror, a young man stared back at me. He looked about twenty-eight years old. He had a buzz cut and a sharp jawline. He looked like a fighter.

“Who is this?” I whispered.

I looked at a wallet on the table. Inside was an ID card. It said, “Leo Vance.” Age: 28. Former soldier.

I looked at the date on a newspaper on the floor. My heart stopped. It was exactly one year after the night I died.

I wasn’t Arthur Sterling anymore. I was Leo Vance. And I was alive.

I looked out the window at the tall buildings of the city. Somewhere out there, Vivienne and Julian were living in my house, spending my money, and laughing at my memory.

I gripped the edge of the table so hard the wood cracked. They thought they killed the billionaire. They didn’t know the billionaire just got a new body.

“I’m coming back,” I said to the empty room. “And I’m not coming back to talk.”