Head or Tails

Chapter 7 & 8: Heads or Tails

5:59 PM – TB Mansion

Evening had begun to settle over the city, but inside the TB Mansion, time felt trapped.

The house was large enough to swallow sound. Imported marble floors stretched beneath soft amber chandeliers, their light dimmed low as if the mansion itself sensed the unease hanging in the air. Thick cream curtains blocked the outside world, leaving only slivers of fading sunlight bleeding through the edges. Air conditioning hummed quietly, yet the room still felt heavy.

Mrs. Anita sat alone on a velvet sofa carved with gold trim.

She was dressed in a silk wine-colored gown, posture straight as always, every inch the elegant wife of a wealthy man. Yet nothing about her looked powerful now. One hand rested against her cheek, fingers cold despite the warmth in the room. Her makeup was flawless, but exhaustion had seeped beneath it—under her eyes, in the stillness of her lips, in the way she stared at nothing.

She had been sitting there for hours.

"Has my husband called back?"

Her voice was calm, practiced, but beneath it was strain sharp enough to cut.

The eldest maid standing nearby bowed slightly.

"No, Madam."

The words fell like stones.

Another maid shifted nervously with a tray of untouched tea and biscuits. Everyone in the mansion knew Madam had not eaten since morning. No one dared mention it twice.

Nanny Joy stepped forward carefully. Older than the other staff, composed, the kind of woman whose silence carried weight.

"Madam," she said gently, "you have been here half the day. If you continue like this, you may fall sick."

Anita's eyes moved slowly toward her. For the first time that day, the confidence people feared in her was absent.

"Nanny Joy..." she said quietly. "Did I make the right decision?"

The room became still.

Even the maids lowered their eyes.

Nanny Joy studied her mistress for a moment before answering.

"Madam, I cannot answer that. And even if I could... I doubt it would comfort you."

Anita gave a bitter smile.

She leaned back and closed her eyes.

And memory came like punishment.

Years ago, Anita had not been this woman.

She had been young, beautiful, ambitious, and hungry for escape.

Marriage had come too early. Pregnancy even earlier.

The child—John—had felt less like joy and more like chains wrapped around her future. She never said it aloud, but every midnight cry, every feeding, every sacrifice had felt like her youth slipping away.

Then opportunity came.

Miss Beauty International auditions.

A door opening.

She remembered the day clearly—the newspaper advertisement folded in trembling hands, the pounding in her chest, the feeling that life was finally asking her to choose herself.

Her friends begged her not to go.

Her husband threatened.

The baby cried in another room.

And Anita packed her bags.

She told herself she would come back.

She never did.

Mexico welcomed her with glamour, bright cameras, expensive perfume, applause, men with money, women with envy. She reinvented herself. The poor young mother vanished. In her place rose Mrs. Anita Thomas-Bello—a woman of wealth, grace, and status.

She married again.

Had two more children.

Built a life so polished it reflected no cracks.

Until fate found the buried bones.

It started with Doris.

Her friend's daughter. Fifteen. Loud, dramatic, obsessed with celebrity culture and novels.

"Auntie Anita pleaseeee!" Doris had begged. "John is signing books today! Please come with me!"

Anita had almost refused.

Then she went.

That decision changed everything.

The venue had been packed with teenagers clutching books and phones. Girls screamed at every movement near the stage. Boys argued about favorite chapters.

Then she saw him.

At first, she only noticed how calm he was.

Young. Handsome. Composed in a way most men twice his age failed to be.

Then he looked up.

And Anita's blood froze.

The jawline.

The eyes.

The quiet arrogance.

He looked like the man she once married.

But around the mouth... around the expression...

He looked like her too.

Doris noticed Anita had stopped walking.

"Auntie… do you know him?"

"No," Anita replied too quickly.

Doris squinted.

"He looks a bit like you."

That simple sentence became poison.

For months Anita lived with restless nights, searching his photos online, reading interviews, comparing old memories to present facts.

Finally, she contacted him.

Requested a DNA test.

Even then she prayed she was wrong.

John had sat across from her during the process, watching her panic with a faint amused smile.

As though he already knew.

When the results confirmed it, Anita nearly vomited.

Her abandoned son was alive.

Successful.

Powerful.

And looking directly back at her.

Weeks later she went to his office.

She remembered every second.

The polished floors.

The city skyline behind him.

The way he sat in silence before speaking.

"How strange we are," John said calmly.

He picked up a coin from the desk and rolled it between his fingers.

"Head and tail."

He let it spin.

"We face opposite directions."

The coin stopped.

"But we still belong to the same coin."

Then his eyes met hers.

"So tell me, Mother... who strikes first? You or me?"

She had felt cold all over.

Now in the mansion, Anita opened her eyes sharply.

"Nanny Joy."

"Yes, Madam."

"Help me find someone who can clean up a mess."

The maids froze.

Nanny Joy's face paled.

"You don't mean...?"

"I don't want him dead," Anita said quickly, almost defensively. "Just warned."

She needed control.

Needed fear returned to sender.

Needed to breathe again.

Nanny Joy nodded slowly.

"I understand."

But in her chest, even she doubted this would end with warnings.

Earlier – Better Choice Office

Across the city, John sat in his office with the city glowing behind glass walls.

The room smelled faintly of coffee, paper, and expensive wood polish. Shelves lined with books, awards, and framed covers of bestselling novels decorated the walls. Everything looked intentional.

Madison noticed that immediately.

Nothing in this room happened by accident.

She sat opposite him, recorder in hand, trying to remain professional despite growing fascination.

Joseph stood near the door pretending not to listen.

"Why this building?" Madison asked.

John glanced around the office.

"Because nobody wanted it."

She blinked.

He leaned back.

"I heard it used to be an old factory. Burned down years ago. Cheap land. Ugly reputation. Perfect for my budget."

His tone was casual.

"I used my grandmother's inheritance. My savings. Sold properties. Borrowed favors. Bought second-hand equipment."

Madison's eyebrows rose.

This was not the polished success story she expected.

"I even got evicted once," John added lightly.

Joseph coughed into his hand.

John smirked.

"Had to live with Joseph and four noisy roommates."

Madison looked at Joseph.

He looked embarrassed.

"You came from a wealthy family, didn't you?" she asked.

John's smile thinned.

"Depends who was telling the story."

The air changed.

"Why didn't your parents help?"

Joseph subtly straightened.

John gave a small laugh.

"I wasn't particularly favored."

He said it so lightly it became heavier.

"Most of my childhood was spent at God Grace Orphanage."

Madison forgot to write.

"You're serious?"

"You can verify it."

He glanced at the clock.

3:58 PM.

"Time's up."

She frowned.

"What about tomorrow morning?"

He studied her.

"You'll come anyway."

She switched off the recorder.

"Yes."

Joseph escorted her out.

When the door shut, the room fell silent.

John's expression emptied.

He stared at the reflection of himself in the glass.

Truth.

Lie.

Sympathy.

Scandal.

All useful tools.

He felt nothing using them.

Only progress mattered.

His phone buzzed.

He checked it.

No new update.

His jaw tightened.

Somewhere beneath all the strategy, something real had begun to disturb him.

Chapter 9: Fear, Hope, and Desperation

Not far away stood the Mike Mansion.

Unlike TB Mansion's cold elegance, this home felt lived in. Lights glowed warmly through tall windows. Flower beds lined the driveway. Security moved with familiarity rather than fear.

The black car rolled through the gates.

Inside, Mira stirred weakly.

"Are we home?"

Barnabas turned immediately.

"Yes."

His voice was gentle, but his eyes were fixed on her pale face.

He helped her out slowly.

Her fingers felt cold.

Her lips lacked color.

Every protective instinct in him screamed.

"I'm fine," Mira whispered.

She wasn't.

Barnabas knew it.

"Let's just make sure."

She wanted to argue, but he was already guiding her inside.

The mansion doors opened.

Warm air wrapped around them.

"Mira!"

Bella rushed from the green sofa.

One glance at her daughter and fear struck her like lightning.

"Mira... what happened?"

"I'm tired, Mom."

Barnabas was already making a call.

"Yes. Prepare a room tomorrow. Full check-up."

Bella's face changed.

Mira looked at her twin.

Miracle sat nearby in loose home clothes, healthy and relaxed, expression unreadable.

"Sister," Mira said brightly despite exhaustion. "You're back."

Miracle shrugged.

"So?"

Mira ignored the sting.

She took her twin's hands.

"Dad found me a heart. I'll soon be like you."

Miracle blinked once.

"Oh. You know already."

Her tone was flat, but something flickered in her eyes.

Fear.

Hope.

Guilt.

Mira missed it.

"Mira, go change," Bella said quickly. "Then dinner."

Mira nodded.

She turned.

Three steps.

Then pain exploded in her chest.

Sharp.

Crushing.

Her breath vanished.

Her legs weakened instantly.

No air.

No strength.

She clutched her chest and tried to keep walking.

Don't scare them.

Don't be trouble again.

Her vision blurred.

The marble floor rushed upward.

She collapsed.

The scream that followed shook the hall.

"MIRA!"

Feet thundered.

Bella dropped beside her.

Barnabas knelt, hands shaking.

Miracle froze for one second—then ran.

"Dad!" she screamed into the phone. "Mira collapsed! She's not breathing properly!"

Mira felt arms lifting her.

Voices breaking.

Hands trembling.

In fading consciousness one thought came softly:

I thought she didn't care...

"Driver! Federal Hospital now!"

At the Same Time

John sat in Joseph's car, head against the seat.

Traffic lights blurred outside.

Radio chatter played meaninglessly.

His body burned with fever.

He hadn't eaten.

His stomach cramped.

His hands shook whenever he checked his phone.

"Troublesome," he muttered.

Joseph gripped the wheel.

"I don't know why I'm driving you. You have two hands."

John shut his eyes.

"Raise my salary first."

Joseph snorted.

Then glanced sideways.

"You look terrible. Are you sick?"

"I'm fine."

He was not fine.

Home.

The word tasted bitter.

A giant house with empty rooms.

No laughter.

No waiting lights.

No one asking if he had eaten.

Joseph's home was noisy, crowded, alive.

John envied it more than wealth.

His phone buzzed.

A message about Tina.

His chest tightened.

"What if I'm overthinking?"

He swallowed.

"Joseph... hospital."

Joseph's posture changed instantly.

"Where?"

"Just drive."

Joseph accelerated.

"Slow down!" John snapped weakly. "I'm not in labor!"

"Shut up and let me drive."

John stared.

Joseph rarely used that tone.

Silence followed.

Memories drifted in.

A tiny rented room.

Shared noodles.

Broken fan.

Laughing over nothing.

Those had been miserable days.

And somehow happier.

"John!"

No response.

"John!"

He blinked.

The old white hospital building appeared ahead.

Joseph parked badly.

Ran around.

Opened the door.

John tried standing.

His knees nearly gave way.

"Are you that weak?"

John glared faintly.

Joseph hooked an arm around him.

"Don't talk."

Then practically dragged him inside while strangers stared.

For once, John didn't care.

Because fear had finally reached him too.

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