Chapter 91 - The Wedding / Thirty-Four
Jane paid the loan early.
Of course she did.
Not dramatically early.
Not in three months out of pride.
Just faster than the twenty-four-month term because she and Miguel kept making extra payments whenever they had room.
I received the final transfer one Wednesday morning.
Then Miguel messaged—
Miguel: Final payment sent.
I checked.
Principal cleared.
Interest recorded.
Everything complete.
Lia: Received. Loan closed.
A few seconds later—
Jane: THAT'S IT???
I stared.
Lia: What else do you want?
Jane: congratulations maybe
Lia: Congratulations on successfully paying your debt.
Jane: ang sincere
Lia: Very.
Then—
Jane: thank you ulit
I smiled.
Lia: You're welcome.
No wedding gift disguised as debt forgiveness.
No balance magically disappearing.
They borrowed.
They paid.
Done.
Clean.
Exactly how all three of us wanted it.
Their wedding happened several months later.
Small-to-moderate.
Not tiny.
Not extravagant.
Enough family.
Enough friends.
Enough food that Kuya Nathan would have approved the costing if anybody had asked him.
Nobody did.
Probably safer.
The ceremony was simple.
Warm.
Very Jane.
Very Miguel.
I arrived with Chloe.
Celeste came separately and somehow looked like she had been invited by the venue to improve its average level of polish.
She saw me before I saw her.
Then looked down.
At my shoes.
I immediately pointed.
"No."
Celeste smiled.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were going to."
"They're good."
I stopped.
"What?"
"Your shoes."
I looked down.
Then back at her.
"You approve?"
"Yes."
I narrowed my eyes.
"This feels suspicious."
"You finally learned."
Chloe looked between us.
"This is growth."
"Fuck both of you."
Then Jane appeared.
And my brain betrayed me.
Of course.
Wedding dress.
Hair done.
Good makeup.
Happy.
Beautiful.
Not—
beautiful because I wanted to drag her away from the ceremony.
Not because some buried part of me believed this should have been mine.
Just—
beautiful.
Jane attractiveness: present.
Required response: none.
My eyes still did the stupid thing.
Soft.
Fascinated.
A little too long.
Chloe noticed first.
Of course she did.
"Oh."
I looked at her.
"What?"
She smiled.
"Nothing."
Celeste followed her gaze.
Then looked at me.
"Oh."
I stared.
"Do not."
Chloe whispered—
"Wow eyes."
"Fuck you."
Celeste looked toward Jane.
Then back at me.
"Good makeup too."
I closed my eyes.
"Fuck you too."
Both of them laughed.
Terrible friends.
Jane saw us.
Her face brightened.
Then she looked at me.
For one tiny second, I wondered whether she would see something in my expression and misunderstand.
She didn't.
Or maybe she understood correctly.
Because she just smiled.
I smiled back.
No ache big enough to matter.
No secret wish.
No what-if.
Just—
there she is.
My friend.
Getting married.
And very pretty while doing it.
Apparently attraction did not automatically create an agenda.
Useful.
Miguel looked nervous.
Good.
Human.
Not founder confident.
Not polished.
Not pretending.
He kept checking things that no longer needed checking.
At one point, before the ceremony properly started, I saw him ask somebody where the rings were.
The rings were already with the person assigned to carry them.
Jane later told me he had asked three times.
Excellent groom behavior.
The ceremony itself was genuine.
That was the simplest word.
No performance.
No revenge fantasy from the universe.
No hidden punishment because Jane had chosen Miguel instead of me years ago.
He looked at her like she mattered.
She looked at him the same way.
That was enough.
More than enough.
When they exchanged vows, Jane cried first.
Miguel followed.
Chloe beside me sniffed.
I handed her a tissue.
She took it.
Then looked at me.
"You okay?"
"Yes."
She studied me.
I smiled.
"Actually."
Her shoulders relaxed.
"Good."
And I was.
Actually.
At the reception, Jane found me after photos.
"Hi."
"Hi, wife."
She laughed.
"Weird."
"Very."
Then she looked down at herself.
"Do I look okay?"
I stared.
"You're asking now?"
"Yes."
"You've already been photographed approximately six hundred times."
"Still."
I looked at her deliberately.
Beautiful.
Happy.
Good makeup.
Very nice legs hidden by a wedding dress, unfortunately irrelevant.
"You look beautiful."
Jane smiled.
"Thank you."
Then she narrowed her eyes.
"Wow eyes?"
I froze.
Behind me, Chloe made a choking sound.
I turned.
"You told her?"
"I said nothing."
Celeste, several feet away, suddenly became fascinated by her drink.
Traitors.
Jane laughed.
"You do have the face."
"I have one face."
"No."
Same argument.
Years later.
Still wrong.
Then Jane became quieter.
"Thank you for coming."
I looked at her.
"Of course."
"I mean it."
"I know."
"And for..."
She stopped.
Loan.
Distance.
Friendship.
All of it probably.
I shook my head slightly.
"No speeches."
She smiled.
"Fine."
Then—
"I'm happy you're here."
That one I allowed.
"Me too."
And I meant that too.
Miguel joined us a few minutes later.
"She's bothering you?"
"Yes."
Jane stared.
"I just got here."
"History."
Miguel nodded like that explained everything.
Then he looked at me.
"Thanks again."
I knew what he meant.
"No finance discussion at your wedding."
"Fair."
Jane smiled.
"Loan closed."
"Exactly."
Miguel looked pleased.
I respected that.
He had wanted real terms.
He had repaid real terms.
No debt attached to friendship.
No weird imbalance.
Just done.
Later, Celeste sat beside me during dinner.
She looked toward the couple.
Then at me.
"You really are okay."
"Yes."
"Good."
I glanced at her.
"You doubted?"
"No."
"Liar."
"A little."
"Rude."
She smiled.
Then—
"You still like her face."
I nearly choked.
"What?"
"Jane."
"No."
Celeste looked unconvinced.
I corrected—
"I mean yes, obviously. She's attractive."
"There."
"That does not mean anything."
"I know."
I looked at her.
She did know.
That mattered.
"People can still be beautiful after you stop wanting a life with them."
Celeste nodded.
"Very mature."
"Don't sound surprised."
"I knew you in college."
"Fuck you."
She smiled.
Good.
The years after that became quieter.
Not small.
Just quieter inside me.
Business remained strong.
Then stronger.
Two companies became mature enough that I finally stopped measuring success by how quickly I could add something.
Machines still appeared.
Of course.
But because numbers justified them.
Mostly.
I had several facilities by then.
Management layers.
Actual department heads.
People whose job titles did not contain vague phrases like help with everything.
Anna grew into larger production leadership.
Mae eventually headed customer operations.
Jenny became terrifyingly competent at inventory and procurement.
People came.
Some stayed.
Some left for better opportunities.
Some returned.
Normal company life.
I learned not to treat employee turnover as betrayal.
Growth had many directions.
Not all of them belonged to me.
I stayed single.
Not dramatically.
Not as punishment.
Not because Audrey had permanently damaged my faith in relationships.
Not because I was secretly waiting for Jane to wake up one morning and realize she had chosen wrong.
She hadn't.
Miguel was right for the Jane who chose him.
That was enough.
I just—
didn't want another relationship for a while.
Then a while became longer.
There were dates.
A few.
Nothing serious.
Some women were interesting.
Some were beautiful.
Some were both.
I simply didn't feel compelled to build something every time attraction appeared.
That was new too.
I could like someone.
Enjoy dinner.
Go home.
No acquisition required.
Very advanced.
Audrey eventually became a memory that did not immediately hurt.
Not erased.
Never.
She had mattered.
She had loved me.
Then stopped wanting the relationship.
Both could remain true without turning either of us into a villain.
Sometimes I still thought of her line.
I don't want you earning something I should be giving freely.
Still rude.
Still correct.
I hated how durable good breakup lines were.
Jane and Miguel settled into married life.
Not perfect.
Obviously.
They argued about money.
Schedules.
His commute improved after the move, thankfully.
His phone finally died completely and forced him to buy another.
Jane sent me a photo of the dead phone with—
Jane: finally
I replied—
Lia: My condolences.
Miguel apparently saw it and sent—
Miguel: She bullied it to death.
Normal.
Good.
Chloe remained Chloe.
Still asking if I had eaten.
Still appearing when emotional disasters happened.
Fewer emotional disasters by then.
Mostly.
Celeste drifted in and out of my life depending on schedules, work, mutual friends, and whichever universe decided we needed another wardrobe argument.
Every time she saw my shoes, she checked.
Every time.
Even years later.
At thirty-one—
"Good."
I looked down.
Then at her.
"You're still doing this?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Quality control."
"Fuck you."
Some things deserved permanence.
Family changed too.
Papa aged.
Mama did too.
Ate Bianca expanded her jewelry business further.
Kuya Nathan and Ate Vivian grew the food side.
Sofia became more serious about her own work and still somehow found time to send me things designed specifically to insult me.
Family dinners got harder to schedule.
Then we scheduled them anyway.
I became better at going.
That was one of the lessons I kept.
Go home.
No matter how many lives.
No matter how many businesses.
Go home.
By thirty-four, I was wealthy enough that people occasionally used words around me that made me uncomfortable.
Empire.
Tycoon.
Industry leader.
I disliked all of them.
I had companies.
People.
Systems.
Assets.
Responsibilities.
That was enough.
My interviews became less frequent because I learned to decline most of them.
Awards accumulated in a cabinet.
Not hidden.
Not central.
My office became nicer.
My shoes, according to Celeste, became acceptable.
Massive professional progress.
I did not die because I was overworked.
Important.
I wasn't skipping sleep.
I wasn't driving exhausted.
I wasn't at a site at midnight because nobody else could make a decision.
I had learned.
That mattered.
I died on a Tuesday afternoon.
Very normal Tuesday.
One of our newer production sites was finishing renovations.
Not opening day.
Not some major milestone.
Just final turnover checks before equipment installation.
I didn't need to be there.
But founders were allowed to visit their own facilities without it being pathological.
I had one meeting nearby, so I stopped by afterward.
Hard hat.
Safety vest.
Proper footwear.
Everything correct.
The site supervisor walked with me.
We checked the loading area.
Electrical room.
Production floor.
Storage.
Emergency exits.
Nothing dramatic.
I asked two questions about ventilation.
One about floor load near the large-format section.
Then we walked toward the rear service area.
A delivery truck was backing into a neighboring loading zone.
Not ours.
Different contractor.
Different operation.
I heard someone shout.
Turned.
That was all.
Later, if anyone reconstructed it, there would probably be reports.
Brake failure.
Driver trying to correct.
Barrier struck.
A heavy metal frame knocked loose from temporary staging near the shared access lane.
Wrong place.
Wrong few seconds.
No negligence I could personally solve from beyond the grave.
No poetic justice.
No lesson.
Just an accident.
I remember impact.
Not pain for long.
Mostly confusion.
Then ground.
People shouting.
Someone saying my name.
The supervisor kneeling beside me.
Blood somewhere.
Probably mine.
I thought—
Fuck.
Not again.
Very articulate.
My phone was several feet away.
Screen cracked.
For some reason, I noticed that.
Then Mama.
Papa.
Ate Bianca.
Kuya Nathan.
Ate Vivian.
Sofia.
Fuck.
I hated this part.
I always hated this part.
Not dying.
Leaving.
There was no grand final speech.
No hand to hold.
No eighty-year marriage beside me.
No daughter.
No hospital bed.
Just concrete under my back and people calling emergency services.
I tried to breathe.
Someone told me not to move.
Good advice.
Probably irrelevant.
I thought about Jane's wedding.
Audrey.
Celeste.
Chloe.
My staff.
Printers.
Stupid printers.
I almost laughed.
Couldn't.
Then—
dark.
I woke up screaming.
Twenty-three.
Again.
Old room.
Old ceiling.
Same body.
Same tiny business.
Same fucking printer somewhere waiting to offend me.
I sat up too fast.
Breathing hard.
Hands shaking.
Thirty-four.
I had been thirty-four.
Eleven years.
Gone.
Again.
I looked around.
The room was exactly where it always was.
My phone.
Old furniture.
Morning light.
No production facilities.
No two mature companies.
No Anna running operations.
No Mae.
No Jenny.
No Audrey breakup.
No Jane and Miguel wedding.
No clean loan.
None of it had happened yet.
Not here.
I pressed both hands against my face.
Then laughed.
One broken sound.
"Fuck."
Reset 4.
No punishment.
No reward.
No reason.
Just—