Fifteen Years: His Turn To Play

The sleek leather of my 50th-floor office chair felt real, the hum of the AC familiar. I was Andrew Scott, Wall Street rising star, not ex-con '734'.

Then, the intercom buzzed. My assistant, voice tight with panic: "Mr. Scott, it's Ryan Clark...about Jenny...an accident."

A physical blow. The exact same words. Fifteen years in a concrete box, the taste of stale bread, followed by the blinding Hamptons sun, Jenny-my dead wife-laughing with Ryan, their son looking exactly like him. The final memory: a dark New Jersey alley, the smell of garbage and my own blood. It wasn't a nightmare; it was my life, and it ended.

But I wasn't dead.

My heart pounded, not with fear for the woman I loved and our unborn child as it had before, but with a cold, hard rage. They had played their game, and I had lost everything.

Now, it was my turn. And this time, I knew all their moves.

The memories hit me like a physical blow. Fifteen years in a concrete box, the rough feel of a prison uniform, the taste of stale bread. Then, the blinding Hamptons sun, the sight of Jenny-my dead wife-laughing in a car I paid for, next to a man who was supposed to be her childhood friend, Ryan. And their son, a boy who looked nothing like me but exactly like him. The final memory was the sharp, brutal pain in a New Jersey alley, the smell of garbage and my own blood, as their hired thugs finished the job. It wasn't a dream. It was my life. A life that just ended.

But I wasn't dead.

The leather of my office chair was smooth against my back. The view from my 50th-floor window was the same panoramic sweep of Manhattan I saw every day. The air conditioning hummed, a familiar, expensive sound. My suit was perfectly tailored, my hands clean, my mind sharp. I was Andrew Scott, rising star at a top Wall Street firm, not Andrew Scott, ex-con number 734.

Then my intercom buzzed. It was my assistant, her voice tight with panic.

"Mr. Scott, it's Ryan Clark on the line for you. He sounds hysterical. He says it's about Jenny... there's been an accident."

The words were a hammer blow to my chest, the exact same words that had started my downfall. The "last-minute adventurous hike" in the Catskills. The fall. The fake concern. The whole damn play was starting all over again.

In my first life, I dropped everything. I sprinted out of this office, my heart pounding with terror for the woman I loved and our unborn child. I used every ounce of my power and connections to save her, only to have her and her conspirators use that love to destroy me.

This time, my heart was pounding not with fear, but with a cold, hard rage.

"Tell him I'm in a critical deposition, Sarah. Tell him I can't be disturbed for at least an hour. Get the details and tell him I'll call him back when I'm free."

"But Mr. Scott... he said it's an emergency."

"And I'm telling you this deposition is worth nine figures to the firm. Handle it." I cut the connection before she could argue.

My hands were steady. My breathing was even. They had played their game, and I had lost everything. Now, it's my turn to play. And I already know all their moves.

Jenny, Ryan. You wanted my money so badly you'd ruin my life for it. You took fifteen years from me. You took my name. You took my life.

This time, I'll give you exactly what you deserve. You'll get your tragedy. And I will get my justice.

The first thing I did was check the top right drawer of my mahogany desk. In my previous life, this was where the police found the two empty whiskey bottles Ryan had planted. Now, it was clean. Just a few pens, a leather-bound notebook, and a spare tie. The sight of its emptiness sent a shiver of grim satisfaction through me.

Next, I pulled out my phone. With a few taps, I accessed the live feed from the nanny cam in my office. I'd installed it a month ago, hidden in a bookshelf, planning to capture my late nights at work for a surprise anniversary video for Jenny. The irony was thick enough to choke on. I made sure the cloud sync was active and the feed was recording. Let him come. I wanted it all on camera.

I then called my private investigator, a former NYPD detective named Mike. He was expensive, but he was the best.

"Mike, it's Andrew Scott. I have an urgent, time-sensitive job for you. I need it done by tomorrow morning, no matter the cost."

"You got it, Andrew. What's the target?"

"Three people. Jennifer Smith, my wife. And her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Smith from Queens. I need birth certificates. I need to know definitively if they are her biological parents. Also, run a background check on a Ryan Clark, same neighborhood in Queens. I want to know his relationship with the Smiths. And Mike," I added, my voice dropping, "I also need a DNA test. I have a sample here."

I looked at the fancy green smoothie on my desk. Jenny had insisted I drink it this morning for "energy." In my past life, I drank it all. It was only after my conviction, piecing things together in my cell, that I realized it must have been how they got the alcohol into my system for the toxicology report. This morning, I'd taken a few sips for show and poured the rest into a water bottle now tucked in my briefcase.

"I'll have a courier bring you the sample. I need to know if it contains alcohol. Specifically, unflavored grain alcohol. Get it done."

"Consider it done, Andrew. You'll have it all by sunrise."

I hung up. The pieces were moving. I was no longer a pawn in their game; I was the player. I sat back in my chair, staring at the city, waiting. The hour I'd given my assistant passed. Then another twenty minutes. My phone finally rang. It wasn't my assistant this time. It was Ryan, calling my personal cell, his number flashing on the screen like a bad omen.

I let it ring three times, then answered, pitching my voice with just the right amount of strained professionalism. "Ryan? What's going on? Sarah said there was an accident."

"An accident? Andrew, where the hell are you?" he screamed into the phone. "Jenny fell! She's pregnant! They're airlifting her to Manhattan General! I've been trying to reach you for over an hour!"

"I was in a deposition, Ryan. I couldn't just walk out." I kept my tone level, a perfect imitation of a stressed, important lawyer.

"A deposition? Your wife could be dying!"

"I'm on my way now," I said calmly. But I made no move to stand up. I would go to the hospital. But I would go on my own time. Every minute I delayed was a minute they couldn't control the narrative. Every move I made now was a step toward their ruin.