Chapter 14

  I stare at the check in my hands. Eighty - one dollars and thirty - four cents.

  That’s how much my life is worth now. How much the government thinks I need to “adapt.”

  It doesn’t even cover a week’s groceries.

  I let out a slow, shaky breath and place the check on the kitchen table like it’s something toxic. The paper is so light it almost floats. A joke. A cruel, humiliating joke.

  Across the room, Paolo leans against the counter, arms crossed. He’s been quiet since I opened the envelope, but I can feel his eyes on me, waiting.

  “It’s something,” I say, but my voice betrays me. It’s bitter, sharp.

  Paolo snorts. “It’s una vergogna. An insult.”

  I glance at him, expecting sympathy, but his face is unreadable.

  “You’re right,” I say flatly, and push away from the table.

  We’ve already sold the Edison .

  That was a loss I didn’t expect to cut so deep. It wasn’t just a car—it was mine. It had been there in every stage of my success, an extension of my freedom. I still remember the first time I slid into the driver’s seat, the smooth leather, the silent hum as the doors closed around me. It wasn’t just transportation - it was safety. Luxury. Proof that I had made it.

  Now, some twenty - something crypto bro owns it, probably using it to drive to a job I could have done in my sleep.

  And then we lost the house.

  That… that hurt worse.

  I sit down, my head in my hands, exhaling deeply.

  It wasn’t a mansion. But it was beautiful. It was ours. The sleek kitchen where Paolo cooked, filling the air with the smell of garlic and simmering tomatoes. The living room where Claire would stretch across the couch, long legs tucked under her as she read.

  And the pool.

  Not just any pool - our pool.

  Forty feet long, deep and perfect. That’s where Paolo and I would swim naked at night, under the moonlight. Our own private sanctuary, weightless in the warm water, wrapped in darkness and the sound of crickets.

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Gone.

  All gone.

  Replaced by a rental in a neighborhood that smells like burnt oil and disappointment.

  Paolo finally speaks. “I know this is hard, Nora.”

  I lift my head and look at him. “Do you?”

  His jaw tightens. “I lost something too.”

  I let out a humorless laugh. “What did you lose, Paolo? Your kitchen? Your big backyard?” I gesture vaguely. “You lost comfort. I lost everything.”

  He stiffens, but I don’t care. I’m too exhausted, too bitter to care.

  I get up, moving past him, needing air.

  The tiny balcony barely fits me, but I step outside anyway. The city is restless, the streets alive with movement. Shouting. Sirens.

  I turn on the TV and watch the news. More layoffs. Protests. Riots.

  Below the chaotic footage of a police line shoving back protesters, a ticker runs, a blur of green and red numbers.

  The markets are in turmoil.

  Some stocks are skyrocketing - exploding upwards like fireworks.

  S&P 500 ? 23.1%

  NASDAQ ? 31.3%

  Edison ? 51.9%

  AI companies are on fire. Investors are pouring in.

  OpenCog ? 67.2%

  Cerebra AI ? 58.6%

  Sentience Labs ? 45.9%

  And of course, the chipmakers - the fuel behind the AI revolution—are printing money.

  TSMC ? 42.5%

  Intel ? 38.8%

  NVIDIA ? 55.4%

  I watch the green numbers climb, flashing, pulsing.

  And then the red. Blood in the water.

  PeopleSoft ? 79.3% – HR software? Obsolete. AI can do it better, faster, cheaper.

  Regus Offices ? 62.1% – Silicon Valley real estate is collapsing. Who needs office space when there are no workers left?

  Oracle ? 48.7% – Too slow to pivot. AI is outpacing them.

  Upwork ? 53.9% – Who needs freelancers when AI writes the code, drafts the contracts, even designs the logos?

  I stare at the ticker, at the relentless cycle of gains and losses, the names flickering past like headstones.

  The winners, the losers. Some people are making a fortune.

  Other people's lives are being destroyed.

  I exhale, watching the numbers shift, dancing like flames.

  I guess that’s capitalism at its extreme.

  Then - Breaking News: Presidential Address.

  I turn the volume up, and there he is - Stockham. The President.

  The man who let this happen.

  His face fills the frame, perfectly lit, his smile warm and practiced.

  “My fellow Americans.”

  I grip the remote control tighter.

  “The world is changing,” he says. “Technology is evolving, and we must evolve with it. But let me be clear: we will not abandon our people. We are implementing policies to support workers affected by automation. We are committed to creating new opportunities. No one will be left behind.”

  I glance at the check on the table inside.

  Eighty - one dollars and thirty - four cents.

  I laugh. It’s short, sharp, and furious.

  The backdrop behind Stockham is expensive - red, white, and blue banners, gold-trimmed podium, teleprompters, security detail.

  I bet the flowers alone cost ten times my check. The press conference? Probably a hundred thousand times what they’re handing out to the people they just erased.

  I switch the channel.

  More protests.

  People flood the streets, holding signs:

  WE BUILT THIS. WE DESERVE BETTER.

  PEOPLE OVER PROFITS.

  WE WANT DIGNITY.

  The camera zooms in on a woman shouting at the police. She’s furious. Behind her, a line of riot cops, shields raised, visors down.

  Then movement. A crack.

  Someone throws something.

  The police charge.

  The screen shakes as the cameraman runs. A canister lands, smoke billowing out - tear gas.

  People scream, scatter, choke.

  I grip the railing, my heart pounding.

  I should be there.

  I will be there!