My brother filed to seize my “failing” farm over unpaid family debt. “You’re finished,” he smirked. I didn’t argue. When the county assessor stepped onto my land, he looked around and asked, “Are you the owner of this operation?” My brother froze. I nodded. Because he didn’t see ruin—he saw the million-dollar empire I’d kept hidden… and a client waiting for the perfect moment to end my brother’s life as he knew it forever….
THE UNDERGROUND EMPIRE
Chapter 1: The Judgment on the Dusty Field
The October wind in the Wyoming suburbs carried a sharp chill and the smell of burnt grass. I leaned against my rusty 1998 Ford F-150, watching the swirling dust rise from the dirt road leading to Thorne Farm.
A gleaming black Mercedes-Benz G-Class, completely out of place in this desolate landscape, pulled up right in front of the dilapidated stable. Stepping out was Silas, my brother. He was wearing a Tom Ford suit worth a year’s income for an average farmer, his polished alligator leather boots treading carefully on the muddy ground.
“Look at this, Caleb,” Silas dabbed a silk handkerchief to his nose, his disgust evident. “Father would die again if he saw this. You’ve turned the family legacy into a garbage dump.”
I said nothing, just silently chewed a blade of dry grass, my eyes narrowed beneath the worn brim of my old, worn-out cowboy hat.
Silas pulled a thick stack of documents from his leather briefcase and slammed them onto the hood of my car. “The lawsuit from the district court. The $4 million debt you signed off on from the family fund to ‘renovate’ this pigsty. Six months overdue. I’ve filed for foreclosure to offset the debt. The appraiser will be here this morning.”
He moved closer to me, a sneer on his lips, reeking of expensive Scotch whiskey.
“You’re finished, little brother.”
I remained silent. The silence of a hunter waiting for his prey to walk right into his sights. I looked around my farm: rusty corrugated iron roofs, crumbling wooden fences, and cornfields withered from “lack of water.” In Silas’s eyes, this was a failed project of a dreamer. In my eyes, it was the most perfect disguise money could buy.
Chapter 2: The Uninvited Guest
Ten minutes later, a government-issued, ash-gray SUV pulled up. Stepping out was a middle-aged man with a face as rigid as granite. He wore a dark protective suit and held a specialized tablet computer.
“Mr. Arthur Vance, Special Tax Appraiser of the County,” Silas enthusiastically approached, extending his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. As I discussed, this property is essentially a big fat zero. The land is depleted, the infrastructure is dilapidated. I want to liquidate it quickly.”
Vance didn’t shake Silas’s hand. He looked around, then at the coordinates on the tablet. His gaze settled on me.
“Are you the official owner of Thorne Farm?” Vance asked, his voice deep and particularly serious.
Silas interjected, “Technically it is, but from today, control belongs to…”
“I asked him,” Vance interrupted, his eyes still fixed on me.
I nodded slightly. “It’s me. Caleb Thorne.”
Silas laughed loudly, a triumphant laugh. “Vance, look at this wreckage. What are you going to appraise? The scrap value of that tractor?”
Vance didn’t reply. He walked toward the main shed—the place Silas always called “the tomb of false hopes.” The rotting wooden door groaned as Vance pushed it open.
Silas followed, muttering about demolishing it to build a golf resort. But as he stepped through the doorway, his muttering abruptly stopped.
Chapter 3: The Empire in the Shadows
Inside the shed there was no straw or the smell of manure. Instead, there was a gleaming polished concrete floor and a modern, industrial-grade stainless steel elevator.
Vance placed his hand on the biometric sensor next to the elevator. Beep. The doors opened.
“What the hell is this?” Silas recoiled, his face turning pale. “Caleb, what did you do with that money?”
We descended. More than 30 meters underground lay a completely different world. As the elevator doors opened, a stream of ethereal purple light flooded the space. Before us was a colossal biological laboratory spanning acres underground.
Thousands of rows of hydroponic shelves stood in a straight line, where strange plants with silver leaves glowed under special spectral LED lights. Robotic arms moved gently, meticulously extracting droplets of liquid from the leaf stalks.
Vance looked at the sales report on his tablet, then looked at me with rare respect. “Mr. Thorne, the market value of the shipment of plant stem cell extracts sold to Swiss pharmaceutical companies last month was $42 million. Plus the cryptocurrency mining server system utilizing excess heat energy in the western area… the total current appraised value of this farm is $1.2 billion.”
Silas was speechless. His face turned from pale to flushed with anger, and finally to a look of insane greed.
“Billionaire… billionaire? One billion two hundred million?” Silas stammered. “Caleb… you… you hid it from me. But it doesn’t matter! The lawsuit has been accepted! This entire empire is mine now!”
I looked at my brother, feeling a deep sense of pity. Silas always saw the tip of the iceberg, forgetting that it was the submerged part that sank the greatest ships.
Chapter 4: The Waiting Client
“Do you think I invited Mr. Vance here to conduct a tax audit, Si?”
“Silas?” I asked, my voice calm.
Vance removed the fake ‘Appraiser’ badge from his chest. He wasn’t from the county. He was a ‘Coordinator’.
“Silas,” I continued, stepping closer to him. “Do you remember six months ago, when you borrowed money from an ‘anonymous investor’ in Chicago to save your failing real estate company?”
Silas flinched. “How… how did you know?”
“That investor is my client. They buy bio-compounds from here to produce drugs for the super-rich. And they don’t like dishonest business partners. They know you took their money to gamble in Macau and squander on shady projects.”
Just then, a man emerged from the glass-enclosed office in the corner of the lab. He wore a simple gray suit, but the aura of authority he exuded made the air thick. It was Elias Thorne—the uncle our family thought had died in a Mediterranean accident ten years earlier. In reality, he was my biggest ‘client,’ and the head of the syndicate behind Silas’s funding.
“Uncle Elias?” Silas collapsed to the floor.
“Silas,” his uncle said, his voice icy. “You’ve committed the greatest taboo: stealing from your own family. Caleb gave you six months to repent, to repay the farm with the money you borrowed. But instead of repaying the debt, you’ve used this lawsuit to try and swallow up its very life’s work.”
Elias looked at me. “Caleb, you’ve done very well.” “Your ‘losing farm’ disguise has kept us out of the government’s sight for a decade. Now, we need to deal with the waste.”
Chapter 5: Climax and Ending
Silas sprang up, intending to run toward the elevator, but two tall men in black suits blocked his way. He turned to look at me, his eyes filled with resentment and despair.
“You can’t do this! I’m your brother! I’ll report this place to the FBI! An illegal underground empire!”
I smiled, taking out a phone. “Have you forgotten, Silas? You just signed a document confirming this place is ‘a worthless dump’ and you transferred all ownership of the debt to Uncle Elias’s shell company. Legally, you have no connection to this land anymore. And practically… you’re about to cease to exist.”
Vance—or rather, Elias’s henchman—approached Silas with a syringe containing a silvery liquid extracted from those plants.
“This is Caleb’s latest achievement,” Elias said proudly. “It causes the heart to stop naturally, leaving no chemical trace in the blood after 30 minutes. Your brother will be found in his gleaming Mercedes on the highway, a stroke from stress caused by debt.”
Silas screamed, but the sound couldn’t penetrate the three-meter-thick concrete walls.
When it was all over, I stood on the ground, watching Silas’s Mercedes slowly disappear from view, driven by a different driver. Snow began to fall, covering the decaying fences and withered cornfields.
Thorne Farm would still look like a ruin to passersby. But beneath my feet, the multi-million dollar empire was quietly operating, waiting to devour the next person who dared touch this family legacy.
I returned to my rusty Ford and started the engine. The roar echoed through the stillness.
You’re finished, Silas. As for me, I’m just beginning.
10th Anniversary. The Signature Room, 95th Floor, Chicago.
The Chicago night view outside the glass windows was as beautiful as a galaxy falling to the ground. Mark adjusted his silk tie, glancing at his beautiful wife across from him. Sarah looked stunning in her black dress tonight, but her eyes—the hazel eyes he had once admired—were as calm as a dead lake.
“Happy 10th anniversary, honey,” Mark smiled, pushing the blue velvet box toward her. Inside was a pair of Tiffany diamond earrings he had ordered three months in advance.
Sarah didn’t open the box. She didn’t even look at it. She placed a thick brown envelope on the table, pressed against the white tablecloth.
“Mark, we need to talk,” her voice was light, but colder than the wind from Lake Michigan outside. “I want a divorce.”
Mark’s smile froze. The clanging of cutlery around them seemed to die down.
“What… are you kidding? Is this some kind of joke?” Mark stammered, trying to find a glimmer of humor in his wife’s eyes.
“I’ve signed the papers. My lawyer will be in touch tomorrow morning about dividing the assets,” Sarah said, her voice unwavering. “I don’t want the house in the suburbs. You can keep it. I just want freedom.”
Mark felt the blood rush to his face. He was a successful architect, he had given her everything: a comfortable life, European trips, respect. Why? Infidelity? Boredom?
“Why?” Mark growled, his hand gripping his wine glass so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “Is there another guy?”
“No one. It’s just… I can’t keep up the act,” Sarah pushed the envelope toward him. “But I have one condition. If you agree, I will leave empty-handed, without contesting anything.”
Mark snatched the envelope and tore it open. Inside was no complicated property agreement. Just a blank piece of paper with a neatly handwritten line:
“I, Mark Evans, promise to be at the address provided at 10 a.m. this Sunday for a final meeting.”
“What the hell?” Mark threw the paper down on the table. “A final meeting? With who? Your lawyer?”
“Just sign. You’ll see,” Sarah stood up, grabbing her handbag. She didn’t have the diamond box. “Sign it, and you’ll be free of me.”
She turned and walked away, leaving Mark sitting alone in the middle of the fancy restaurant, with the strange paper and his broken marriage.
Five days later.
Mark was living in hell. He moved into a hotel, drank wine instead of water, and frantically searched through his past. He checked his joint bank account. And that’s when he discovered something unusual.
For the past three years, a large sum of money—about $4,000 a month—had been transferred to an unknown account under the name “St. Jude Care.”
Mark slammed his hand on the table. St. Jude Care? Did she have a child? Was she taking care of some sick lover? Anger flared up, clouding his judgment. He had trusted Sarah completely, leaving all his finances in her hands. It turned out she had been lying to him all along.
Sunday morning came with gray skies and drizzle. Mark drove his Mercedes through the rain, following the address Sarah had texted him last night. He signed the damn paper. He wanted to end this. He wanted to expose her for who she really was before he kicked her out of his life.
The GPS led him out of the city center, toward the quiet suburbs of Evanston. The car stopped in front of a large iron gate.
“Oak Haven Nursing Home & Memory Care.”
Mark frowned. Nursing home? Sarah’s parents were both dead. She had no family. Who was she taking care of here?
He stepped into the lobby, the smell of antiseptic and lavender filling his nostrils. The old receptionist seemed to be waiting for him.
“Mr. Evans? Please follow me. The lady is waiting in section C.”
They walked through long hallways where old people in wheelchairs stared out the windows with blank eyes. Mark felt a chill run down his spine.
The door to room 304 opened.
The room was small but cozy, decorated with potted fresh flowers. Sarah was sitting there, on a stool next to the hospital bed. She was wearing a simple sweater, looking much more haggard than she had that night at the restaurant.
And on the hospital bed, was an old, thin woman with sparse white hair. She was holding an old rag doll, humming a broken lullaby.
Mark stood rooted to the spot in the doorway. His anger suddenly stopped, replaced by confusion.
“Is this why you stole my money?” Mark asked coldly. “Who is she? Your foster mother?”
Sarah stood up. Her eyes were red and puffy. She didn’t look at Mark, but at the woman on the bed.
“Mark, come here,” her voice trembled.
“No. I signed the papers. I came here. Now explain, or I’ll call a lawyer,” Mark folded his arms, keeping his distance.
Sarah took a deep breath, as if summoning all the courage she had in her life. She walked to the bed, gently stroking the woman’s hair.
“She’s not my mother,” Sarah said, turning to look Mark straight in the eye. “Her name is Margaret. She’s my mother.”
h.”
Time seemed to stand still. The rain pounded against the glass. Mark felt like someone had punched him in the gut. He backed away, hitting the door frame.
“You’re crazy,” Mark sneered, but his voice was broken. “My mother is dead. She died in a car accident when I was five. I grew up in an orphanage. You know that!”
That was his life story. His greatest pain. The only truth he clung to.
“That’s what my father told me before he left me in the orphanage,” Sarah said, tears starting to roll down her face. “But that’s not true. She wasn’t dead. She suffered from severe postpartum depression, which led to a psychosis. My father couldn’t handle the pressure, so he left, fabricating her death to cut off all contact. She was taken to the state psychiatric system and forgotten.”
“You’re lying!” Mark screamed, rushing forward and grabbing Sarah’s shoulder. “How dare you make this up?”
“Look at her, Mark!” Sarah yelled back, pushing him toward the hospital bed. “Look at the scar on her left hand! The crescent scar you have too!”
Mark was stunned. He slowly turned to the old woman. She looked up at him with cloudy, frightened eyes.
On her thin left wrist, a faint crescent scar appeared. Mark unconsciously touched his wrist. He had the same scar – the mark of the broken glass accident when he was 3 years old, the accident where his mother had used her hand to shield him.
Mark knelt down beside the bed. His breathing was labored. Memories came flooding back. The smell of apple pie. The lullaby. And this face… even though it was ravaged by time, those features…
“Mom?” Mark whispered.
The woman tilted her head. She looked at him, then smiled innocently. She held the rag doll out to him.
“Thomas? You’re back? Thomas, where’s our son? It’s hungry…”
Thomas was his father’s name.
Mark burst into tears. He buried his head in her blanket, crying like a five-year-old abandoned at the orphanage. His mother was still alive. She was still here.
After a long moment, Mark looked up and turned to Sarah. She was standing in the corner of the room, huddled together, looking small and alone.
“Why?” Mark asked, his voice hoarse. “Why did you hide it from me? Why the divorce?”
Sarah wiped away her tears, smiling bitterly.
“Three years ago, I hired a detective to look into your family because I wanted to surprise you for your birthday. I found her in a run-down state mental institution, left in her own feces and urine. I couldn’t leave her there.”
“I used my savings to have her moved here,” Sarah continued. “I was going to tell you right away. But the doctor said… the doctor said she had late-stage Alzheimer’s combined with schizophrenia. She doesn’t remember the present. She only remembers the painful past.”
Sarah stepped closer, her voice choking. “Mark, you always said that your mother’s death was your reason to live. That at least she died because she loved you. I was afraid… I was afraid that if you saw her like this—a hollow shell that didn’t recognize you, calling out the name of the father who abandoned you—you would collapse. I was afraid you would hate her. Or worse, you would hate yourself for not finding her sooner.”
“So I decided to take care of her for you,” Sarah said, her voice breaking. “I came here every week. I pretended to be a nurse, to listen to her stories. I used our money to get her the best care. But…”
“But what?” Mark stood up, walking toward his wife.
“But last week, the doctor said she was dying. Her heart was very weak. And I realized… I robbed you of the right to see your mother one last time. I was a liar. I spent your money, kept a terrible secret from you.”
Sarah stepped back, avoiding Mark’s touch. “I thought you would never forgive me. You hate lies more than anything else in the world. So I initiated the divorce. I wanted you to see her one last time, then you could be free. I don’t have to be responsible for a cheating wife and a sick, expensive mother anymore.”
Mark looked at his wife. He saw the silent sacrifices of the past three years. The times she came home late, the times she was tired, the money disappeared. She had carried his painful past on her shoulders, alone, just to protect his heart from being hurt.
She wasn’t cheating. She was cheating on his pain.
Mark picked up the divorce papers on the table – the papers Sarah had prepared with a pen.
“You’re right, Sarah,” Mark said. “I hate lies.”
Sarah closed her eyes, preparing for the final judgment. She was prepared to be sent away.
Swish! Swish!
The sound of paper ripping echoed in the quiet room.
Sarah opened her eyes. Mark was tearing the divorce papers into pieces. He threw them into the trash.
“But I love sacrifice your life more than my ego,” Mark stepped forward, hugging Sarah. He held her tight, so tight she could feel his racing heart. “You didn’t cheat on me. You saved me. You saved my mother.”
“Mark… I’m sorry…” Sarah sobbed into his shoulder.
“No, I’m the one who should be sorry,” Mark kissed her hair, his tears mingling with hers. “I was so careless
n to the point of not realizing that his wife was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.”
They stood there, hugging each other in the hospital room, under the naive gaze of their elderly mother.
“Thomas?” Margaret’s voice rang out weakly. “Who’s crying?”
Mark let go of Sarah. He took his wife’s hand, leading her to the hospital bed. He sat down, holding his mother’s wrinkled hand with both of his.
“Not Thomas, Mom,” Mark said, his voice soft, full of love. “I’m Mark. And this is Sarah. Your daughter-in-law. She’s the one who’s been taking care of you all this time.”
Margaret looked at Mark, then at Sarah. A light passed through her cloudy eyes. She didn’t really understand, but she felt the warmth.
“Sarah…” she muttered, then smiled. “What a beautiful name. Like an angel.”
Mark looked at his wife. Under the pale neon lights of the hospital, with her puffy eyes and bare face, she looked more beautiful than any diamond he had ever bought.
“Yes, Mom,” Mark whispered. “She’s my guardian angel.”
Outside, the rain had stopped. A weak ray of Chicago winter sunlight filtered through the windows, shining on the three of them. There were no divorce papers. Just a new contract signed with tears and understanding—a contract of eternal love.
