Go Ahead and Die: A Father's Regret

Just come this once. Please. Or I'll die.

It was my eighteenth birthday. My knuckles turned white gripping the phone.

On the other end, Benedicts voice was a sheet of ice. Learning to threaten me now? Go ahead then. Die.

The line went dead.

Then, the mechanical chime in my brain shattered the silence.

System: [Mission Failed. Host erasure imminent.]

That was the day my heart actually stopped.

And the man who hated me more than anything in this world?

That was the moment he completely lost his mind.

Chapter 1

Benedict never wanted to marry Sylvia.

Back then, he was the golden heir to the empire. He had a heart, and he had a girla nobody indie actress he actually loved.

But Leopold, my grandfather, wouldnt have it. He viewed Hollywood as a contagion. He crushed the relationship, forced the breakup, and dragged Benedict back to the family fold to do his duty.

The duty was Sylvia.

Benedict intended to treat the marriage like a bad merger. Show up, sign the papers, ignore the acquisition.

But Sylvia Sylvia was a hurricane.

She didn't just love him; she was consumed by him. She was obsessed. She starved herself. She wept until she choked. She carved lines into her wrists just to make him look at her.

It suffocated him. The toxicity was palpable.

Finally, she got pregnant. The ultimate leverage. Crushed under the double weight of Leopolds demands and Sylvias hysteria, Benedict caved. He married her.

They endured six months of a marriage that felt more like a morgue.

Then came the labor. Sylvia died bringing me into the world.

Benedict wasn't there.

He wasn't there when she bled out. He wasn't there when they lowered her casket into the ground.

He finally showed up three months later.

Agnes, the nanny, held me out to him like a peace offering. A bundle of blankets and hope.

He didn't even break his stride. He cast a single, cold glance my way.

"Looks exactly like Sylvia."

Disgust. Pure and simple. He turned on his heel and walked away without looking back.

By the time I was six, I understood the hierarchy of my world.

It was art class. Ms. Finch asked us to draw a picture titled My Family. I picked up a crayon and drew two stick figures: Me and Agnes.

Ms. Finch leaned over, smelling of coffee and chalk dust. She tapped the paper. "Where is your Daddy, Jude?"

I didn't look up from my drawing. "He's on the news."

"And your Mommy?"

I pointed the wax tip of the crayon toward the ceiling. "She's in the sky."

Chapter 2

Ms. Finch went quiet. She smoothed my hair, her hand lingering for a second too long, before walking into her office.

Through the crack in the door, I heard her voice. Professional, but tight. "Mr. Lu? Yes. Next Tuesday is Parents' Day. I was hoping you could come in for a chat."

My breath hitched in my throat.

Next Tuesday was my birthday.

The logic was simple, desperate math: If he came for the school, hed be coming for me. Wed be together on my birthday.

Tuesday arrived.

I started watching the gate at noon.

One class dragged into the next. The clock hands mocked me. Finally, the dismissal bell rang.

And then I saw it. The sleek, black Maybach purring through the school gates.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I straightened my collar. He came.

The car door opened. I took a step forward, a smile already forming

It died instantly.

It wasn't Benedict.

It was Pierce. The assistant. Sharp suit, dead eyes, completely hollow.

He didn't even look at me. He just shoved a velvet gift box and a generic gift card into Ms. Finchs hands.

"Mr. Lu sent these," Pierce said, his voice flat. "He also wanted to convey a message. The boy has bad blood. His nature is defective. Difficult to discipline. He apologizes for the burden."

Ms. Finch gasped. She opened her mouth to argueto tell him I was good, that I tried so hardbut she never got the chance.

Pierce was already back in the car. The engine roared. The Maybach spun around and vanished, peeling out of the lot like spending another second near me would contaminate the leather seats.

That was the moment it hit me.

Parental love is binary. Its either the air you breatheeffortless, invisible, constantor its a diamond on Mars.

You either have it, or you die trying to reach it.

I didn't quit. I just changed tactics.

If he wont love me for who I am, maybe hell love me for what I can do.

I buried myself in books. I became a machine. Every semester, I hit the Honor Roll. Straight A's. My bedroom wall disappeared behind a layer of gold-starred certificates.

It didn't matter.

Agnes would snap photos of the awards and text them to Benedict.

Read. No reply.

Silence is a loud noise when you're listening for it.

Then came the sharks.

Kids smell weakness. They circled me at recess.

"You're really a Lu?" one sneered. "Stop lying."

"Liar," another laughed, shoving my shoulder. "Look at him. Look at his shoes. He doesn't look like a billionaire's son."

"My mom said nobody showed up for Parents' Day. You're a stray, aren't you? An orphan."

Something inside me snapped.

I didn't think. I just launched myself at them.

We crashed into the glass display case near the playground. The impact was deafening. Glass shattered, raining down on us.

One of them grabbed a shard in a blind rage and slashed my arm open.

Red. Everywhere.

The hospital smelled of antiseptic and money.

I lay in the bed, stitched up and numb. The curtain wasn't fully closed. I could hear them in the hallwaythe parents of the bullies.

"I heard the kid's a bastard anyway," Mrs. Linda hissed.

"Just cut a check," another father muttered. "Make it go away."

"We need to talk to the principal," Mrs. Linda continued, her voice dripping with venom. "Get him expelled. If he stays, he'll start spreading rumors. It could damage my son's reputation"

I stared at the ceiling tiles, blinking slowly.

Protecting your offspring is a primal instinct. A biological imperative.

I couldn't even hate them. They were monsters, sure. But they were monsters protecting their cubs.

I didn't want revenge.

I just lay there, bleeding and alone, wishing someone would be that kind of monster for me.

Chapter 3

The whispering in the corridor died. It wasn't a gradual hush; it was a guillotine chop.

Then, the panic set in.

"M-Mr. Lu?"

He had come. At the very last second.

Benedict swept down the hallway like a storm front. Flanked by Pierce, a team of sharks in Italian suits (lawyers), and Mr. Gamby, the principal, who looked like he was about to hyperventilate.

"I understand completely, sir. This is a failure on the school's part," Mr. Gamby stammered, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Zero tolerance. I assure you, the aggressors will be expelled immediately."

Benedict didn't even look at him. He gave a curt, dismissive nod.

He signaled for the entourage to stay back. Pierce and the lawyers stopped at the threshold.

Benedict pushed the door open and stepped into my hospital room. Alone.

The air in the room seemed to shift. For the first time in my life, I felt a spark of warmth. The glacier between us was finally cracking. He had come to save me.

"Dad"

The word came out wet, choked with tears.

But the second syllable died in my throat.

Benedict was looking at me. But there was no worry in his eyes. No comfort.

Only absolute, arctic cold.

"Jude," he said, his voice devoid of inflection. "Impressive."

I blinked, confused.

"Learning your mother's tricks already?"

My stomach dropped.

Years later, Agnes would explain it to me. To keep Benedict's attention, Sylvia used to stage accidents. Shed hire strangers to harass her, then call him, sobbing, playing the damsel in distress.

Benedict walked to the foot of the bed. He looked down at me like I was a spreadsheet with an accounting error. "How much did you pay those kids to beat you up?"

The air left my lungs. "What?"

"Don't play dumb. How much did it cost to get them to stage this little scene?"

His eyes were black pits of judgment.

My blood turned to slush. The physical pain in my arm vanished, replaced by a cold horror spreading through my chest.

"I didn't."

"Jude. Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying!" I screamed, the tears finally spilling over. Desperation clawed at my throat. "I swear, I didn't do it!"

I was a child. I had no defense, only raw grievance.

Benedict watched me cry. He studied my tears with clinical detachment. After a long moment, he shook his head. "I actually thought you might be different from her."

He adjusted his cuffs.

"But you're becoming exactly like her."

He turned and walked out.

The door didn't even click shut before Mr. Gamby was on him, oblivious to the carnage that had just happened inside. The principal trotted alongside Benedict, desperate to salvage the school's donation fund.

"I had no idea Jude was your son, Mr. Lu! It makes so much sense now. He's just like you."

Benedict kept walking.

"He's top of his class, every semester," Mr. Gamby rattled on. "And his writing his essays are phenomenal. He has your gift for words, Mr. Lu. It's in the genes"

Benedict stopped.

The hallway went silent.

He let out a low, dark chuckle. "What's the use?"

He started walking again. The rhythm of his dress shoes fading down the corridor sounded like a clock counting down.

I grew up. One agonizing year at a time.

Every year, I tried. I begged, I bargained, I excelled. I did everything to get Benedict to just exist in the same room as me for my birthday.

There were times I thought I was close.

But he never came.

Chapter 4

He kept up appearances. That was the Benedict way.

Every year, Pierce would arrive with boxes. Gifts that cost more than a mid-sized car. Limited edition sneakers, designer watches, gadgets not yet released to the public. Hed even bring a custom artisan cake, the kind that cost three thousand dollars and took a week to sculpt.

It was theater. A PR expense to silence any rumors about the "neglected heir."

But Benedict? He was a ghost.

He never stepped foot in the house. Not once.

To him, I was a bad investment. A genetic echo of Sylvia.

If I got straight As, I was being manipulative. Just like her.

If I was hospitalized with a high fever, I was acting for sympathy. Just like her.

Breathing, existing, tryingit was all just a performance in his eyes.

Agnes retired eventually. The house grew vast and silent.

I filled the void with noise from the TV.

Id sit on the floor and watch The Family Life. It was a reality show. The stars? Benedict, his wife Seraphina, and my half-brother, Gunner.

After Leopold died, the chains were off. Benedict finally married his true love. Seraphina wasnt an indie actress anymore; with Benedicts backing, she was a superstar.

On the 85-inch screen, they were the American Dream in 4K resolution.

The handsome billionaire father. The stunning, famous mother. The spirited, adorable son.

They looked happy.

Gunner was beaming. Even though Benedict ran a global empire, on the show, he was just "Dad." He helped Gunner with his math homework. They built massive Lego death stars. They shot hoops in the driveway.

The live comments scrolled across the bottom of the screen in a blur of adoration.

Benedict is literally #DadGoals.

Im crying, look how he looks at his son. So jealous!

I curled my knees to my chest and smiled.

I wasnt bitter. I was genuinely happy for Gunner. He got the father I had only ever read about in books.

I turned off the TV. The screen went black, reflecting my own face.

Tomorrow was my eighteenth birthday.

The deadline.

System: [Final Warning. Mission completion required within 24 hours. Failure penalty: Erasure.]

I picked up my phone. My hands were trembling. I dialed Benedicts private number.

Ring. Ring. Voicemail.

I dialed again. Voicemail.

I took a deep breath, pressing the record button. My voice was thin, breaking under the weight of the moment.

"Dad please. You only turn eighteen once."

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

"Youve never been there. Not for a single birthday. Just this once please. Can you just celebrate with me? Just this once?"

I paused, looking at the empty room.

"If you don't come I'm going to die."

I sent it.

Time stretched. The silence in the house was deafening.

Then, my phone buzzed.

A voice note from Benedict.

My heart hammered against my ribsa frantic, bird-like rhythm. I pressed play.

His voice was smooth, cold, and laced with a dark amusement.

"Learning to threaten me now?"

A short, cruel pause.

"Go ahead then. Die."

The candle on the three-thousand-dollar cake flickered.

One final dance of light, and then it smoked out.

I picked up a silver fork, scraped a bit of the vanilla bean frosting, and put it in my mouth. It was light, airy, sweet as a cloud.

It tasted like ash.

System: [Time expired. Host erasure initiating.]

The clock on the wall clicked. Midnight.

My phone lit up one last time. A notification from Instagram.

Benedict had just posted a photo.

It was Gunner, standing on a lush green golf course, holding a club and grinning at the camera. Benedicts caption was brief but radiated pride:

Taking Gunner for a few rounds today. Kids got a great swing. Proud of you.

I looked at the photo. Then I looked at my uneaten cake.

I snapped a picture of the lonely candle in the dark room. I typed my caption slowly, my fingers growing numb.

Thank you anyway.

Not every parent loves their child. But every child is born loving their parent.

Ill always love you. Goodbye, Dad.

Chapter 5

The clock struck twelve.

The second hand swept past the zenith, marking the end of the day. The end of the deadline.

I sat on the sofa, wearing a ridiculous, cone-shaped birthday hat.

My chest hitched. Then it stopped.

I quietly ceased to breathe.

It wasnt violent. It was a release. My soul detached, light as smoke, drifting upward. I hovered near the ceiling, looking down at the shell I used to inhabit.

Outside, the city was alivea grid of golden windows and headlights. Inside, I was cooling rapidly in the dark.

Why am I still here? I asked.

The Systems voice resonated in my consciousness, low and melodic.

System: [Because this is not the end. Not yet.]

Ten minutes later.

A heavy fist pounded against the door. Thud. Thud.

Silence.

No one answered. The only person who could unlock that door was currently a corpse on the couch.

The knocking grew frantic. Louder. Angrier.

"Jude."

A voice I had waited eighteen years to hear at my doorstep. Benedict.

"Open the damn door. I know you're in there."

I floated in the void, watching him through the wood and plaster.

He looked impeccable, as always. Tailored suit, sharp jawline. But his brow was furrowed. He mashed the doorbell again. Ding-dong. Ding-dong. When that didn't work, he went back to hammering the wood with his palm.

I know it sounds stupid. I know I was dead. But in that moment, a childish spark ignited in my ghost-chest.

Kick it in.

I watched him, desperate.

Break the door down. Find me. See my body. See that I wasn't lying.

If you saw me dead would you regret it? Even a little?

Just a fraction of a second of pain. Thats all I want.

But the fantasy dissolved.

Benedict didn't kick the door in. He stopped knocking. He took a step back, and the worry in his eyes hardened into glacial ice.

He pulled out his phone. He opened our chat, his thumb hovering over the voice message button.

"Jude. Is this a game to you?"

His voice was a serrated blade.

"Who was that post for? Me? Or the audience? Do you think playing the victim will turn the world against me? Is that the strategy?"

He scoffed, a harsh sound in the empty hallway.

"Let me be clear: I fed you. I clothed you. I don't owe you anything."

He hit send.

He turned on his heel, his movements sharp with disgust, and marched toward the elevator.

The elevator doors slid open