Chapter 34: The Journal
256 words
The safe popped open with a heavy metallic sigh. Inside, there were no stacks of cash or diamonds—just a single leather-bound book. I pulled it out, feeling the expensive grain of the leather under my calloused thumb. It was a journal. I sat on the floor, surrounded by dust sheets, and began to read. I expected evil plans or offshore account numbers. Instead, I found the whining pitiful scrawls of a terrified boy.
"They laughed at my suit today. They don't respect me. I need more. I need to crush them so they can't look down on me."
Page after page, it was a psychological profile of deep, rotting insecurity. Preston Sterling wasn't a titan; he was a small, fearful man who used money as armor. He didn't hate me because I was poor; he hated me because I was strong without a penny to my name. Reading it felt like an invasion of privacy, but privacy laws didn't protect the ego of a convicted felon in his own abandoned house.
"You were never big," I whispered to the empty room. "You just stood on money to make yourself look tall."
I didn't need document destruction services for this. I walked to the massive limestone fireplace, struck a match, and tossed the book onto the grate. The leather curled and blackened, the flames licking at his secrets. As the pages turned to ash, the last vestige of his power over me vanished up the chimney. I watched it burn, feeling absolutely nothing but relief.
End of Chapter 34
