TEN LIVES

The world called Alexander Crane a genius. Every magazine that mattered had printed his name in gold letters. He was the man who could turn anything into money, the billionaire who’d built an empire before turning forty. He lived in a glass mansion that looked down on the city like a king watching from his throne. Each morning the house woke up before he did. Lights flicked on automatically, coffee brewed in the marble kitchen, and staff hurried through the halls whispering to one another—“Mr. Crane’s up.” Alexander liked that part—the hush that followed him. It reminded him that he was important. He dressed in tailored suits that fit like they’d been made for a god, knotted his tie with the precision of habit, and checked his reflection once more before stepping out. His phone never stopped buzzing; deals were always waiting. “Tell them to double the offer,” he said to his assistant without even looking up. “If they still say no, buy the company.” Outside, a sleek black Rolls-Royce waited in the driveway. The driver opened the door. Alexander slid in, scrolling through numbers that only existed in his world—billions, millions, bonuses. The city blurred past the tinted windows. Pedestrians looked like ants, and he smiled at the thought. He had built this view with his own hands; that’s what he told himself whenever a small flicker of doubt tried to surface. At the office, people straightened their backs when he walked by. His employees spoke of him with a mixture of awe and fear. To them, Alexander Crane was success in a suit, untouchable and unstoppable. By noon, he had closed three deals, yelled at two managers, and charmed an investor over lunch. The day ran like a machine, each minute profitable. But when the sun began to drop behind the skyline, a quiet emptiness started to hum beneath the noise. He ignored it, as always. At home, the mansion glowed with expensive warmth—chandeliers, polished floors, art pieces that cost more than some buildings. But despite all the light, the place felt hollow. Lyra waited in the dining room, wearing a simple blue dress. The table was set for five. Their children—Ethan, Mia, and little Rose—sat with their plates untouched. “Daddy’s late again,” Mia murmured. Lyra forced a smile. “He’s busy, sweetheart.” Busy was the only word she had left. When Alexander finally arrived, it was already nine. He loosened his tie, glanced at the table, and said, “You didn’t have to wait for me.” “We wanted to eat together,” Lyra said softly. He poured himself a glass of wine instead of answering. The kids looked at him with wide, uncertain eyes. “How was school?” he asked without really listening. Ethan mumbled something about soccer practice. Alexander nodded absently, his attention already on the messages lighting up his phone. Deals. Meetings. More money. Lyra reached across the table, touching his hand gently. “Alex, maybe put the phone down for a while?” He pulled away. “You know how important this is, Lyra. I can’t just—” “—be a father for one night?” The words slipped out before she could stop them. The silence that followed was heavy. Even the children felt it. Alexander sighed, pushed back his chair, and left the table. “We’ll talk later,” he said, though they both knew he wouldn’t. In his study, surrounded by glass walls and city lights, Alexander stared at his reflection. From this angle, he could see everything—the skyline, his empire, his perfect life. But the man staring back looked tired. His eyes had lost their warmth years ago. He tried to remember the last time he’d laughed with Lyra, really laughed. The memory was fuzzy. The last family vacation? Maybe. That was three years ago. He reached for his phone again, searching for something to distract him. A message flashed from an unknown number, followed by a heart emoji. He smiled faintly and replied without thinking. The emptiness eased for a moment. The next morning, Lyra found him asleep on the couch, laptop open, phone still in his hand. She covered him with a blanket and watched him breathe. There was a time she’d found comfort in those little moments—his soft snore, the line of his jaw—but now all she felt was distance. She missed him, even when he was right there. After he left for work, she wandered through the giant house. Everything gleamed, but it didn’t feel like home anymore. The walls held their arguments, the echoes of his cold voice, the way he’d dismissed her when she begged him to slow down. She picked up a family photo from the hallway. In it, they were smiling—truly smiling. She pressed her thumb over the image of his face, whispering, “Where did you go, Alex?” That evening, Alexander hosted a party for investors. The mansion was alive with laughter and music. People in designer clothes raised glasses of champagne, calling him a visionary. He played the role perfectly: charming, confident, magnetic. Lyra watched from the staircase, unnoticed. She saw the way he leaned in close to a young woman, how easily he smiled at her in a way he hadn’t smiled at his own wife in years. She turned away before the pain could swallow her whole. Later, when the guests were gone and the house fell silent again, Alexander stood on the balcony, city lights glittering below him. He took a long drag from his cigar, the smoke curling around him like a crown. From this height, he felt untouchable. He had everything—money, fame, respect. So why did it still feel like something inside him was rotting? He brushed the thought away. Feelings were for weak men. He wasn’t one of them. Inside, Lyra lay awake beside the empty space he’d left in their bed, staring at the ceiling until the first light of dawn crept through the curtains. The next day looked exactly the same. And the next. And the one after that. Alexander moved through his perfect routine—coffee, meetings, power. Each day, another deal. Another victory. Another night spent away from home. But behind every success, the cracks were spreading wider. His children stopped waiting up for him. Lyra stopped setting the table for five. The laughter in the house faded until it became just another echo in the halls. One night, he arrived home late to find Lyra sitting alone in the dark. “Alex,” she said quietly, “when was the last time you asked me how I feel?” He frowned. “You know I’m working hard for us.” “For us?” She laughed, but there was no joy in it. “You’re working for yourself. You haven’t looked at me in months. The kids barely see you. You don’t even see yourself anymore.” He poured himself a drink instead of answering. “You’ll never understand what it takes to keep all this running.” “All this?” She gestured around them—the marble, the chandeliers, the lifeless perfection. “This isn’t living, Alex. It’s just… empty.” He didn’t respond. He didn’t know how. Lyra stood up, her voice breaking. “I don’t know how much longer I can stay like this.” He looked at her then, truly looked—but instead of reaching out, he turned away. “Do what you want,” he muttered. She walked upstairs in silence, leaving him alone with the sound of his own heartbeat. That night, the rain started again, tapping against the windows. Alexander stood at the glass wall, watching it fall, and for the first time in years, he felt small. He remembered the day he married Lyra—how beautiful she’d looked, how sure he’d been that nothing could ever tear them apart. Now she was just another distant figure in the mansion he’d built to impress everyone but her. He finished his drink and whispered to himself, “It’s fine. Everything’s fine.” But even he didn’t believe it. Outside, lightning flashed across the sky, splitting the darkness in two. Somewhere in the storm, fate began to stir. Alexander Crane had no idea that his perfect life was already over.