Chapter 1: Deathbed Confessions, Prime Time Vengeance

My son can’t stand the sight of me, and my daughter—she hates my guts. All because I killed their mother and sold them to traffickers.

Those words still echo in my mind, sharp as broken glass. Every time I close my eyes, I see the pain in their faces, the cold fire in their stares. It never lets up. It’s not just that they hate me—it’s that they believe I’m the reason their world fell apart. That kind of hatred is heavy, almost physical. It presses down on my chest, makes every breath a little harder. In those quiet moments before sleep, I wonder if I could ever blame them for feeling that way. Would I feel any different if the roles were reversed? Honestly, probably not.

Time passed. Thirty years later, they’ve both become wildly successful. They found me on my deathbed, forcing me to stay alive just so they could get their revenge.

Time has a way of flipping the script. Now, they’re the ones in control—powerful, respected, relentless. They could have let me fade away in peace, but that would’ve been too easy. Instead, they kept me hanging on, just to make sure I paid for every last thing I did. There’s a twisted logic to it, a kind of justice that only makes sense when you’ve been hurt as deeply as they have. I get it, even if it kills me. And if I’m being honest, I probably deserve it.

But when they hooked me up to that neural simulator to replay my memories, they realized everything wasn’t as they’d thought.

Technology these days—it’s like something out of a sci-fi movie. I braced myself. They hooked me up to this machine, thinking they’d dig up more dirt, more proof of what a monster I was. But memories aren’t always what they seem. Sometimes, they hide truths nobody wants to see. When those old moments flickered to life, I saw their faces change. Confusion. Doubt. For the first time, maybe, they wondered if they’d gotten it all wrong.

Turns out, maybe I was a real father after all.

It’s a strange thing, hearing that after a lifetime of being branded a villain. For a second, hope flared in my chest—maybe they’d finally see me for who I really was. Maybe forgiveness wasn’t just a fairy tale. But hope is a dangerous thing. I know that too well.

“Ms. West, your father’s not gonna make it. Odds of saving him are less than one percent. I’d recommend you stop treatment.”

The doctor’s voice was calm, almost too calm for news like that. The fluorescent lights in the hospital seemed even harsher, buzzing overhead. The air smelled of antiseptic and old grief. Nurses glanced over, bracing for a scene—they’d seen enough family fights in these halls to know when trouble was brewing.

“No way! I don’t care what it takes, you have to keep him alive. I’m not letting him off that easy!”

Savannah’s voice cut through the tension like a knife. People actually flinched. She stood tall, jaw clenched, every inch the superstar she’d become. There was no mistaking the steel in her eyes. She wasn’t pleading—she was commanding. People listened when Savannah West spoke, whether they wanted to or not.

That was Savannah West, my youngest. Thirty-eight now, a superstar in the music world, with a towering status in the entertainment industry.

Even in the sterile glare of the ICU, she radiated the kind of charisma you couldn’t fake. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, designer sunglasses perched on her head even indoors. Even the nurses couldn’t help whispering. But right now, she was just a daughter, burning with a fury that made the room feel ten degrees colder.

When she found out I was on the brink of death, Savannah snapped and threatened the medical staff in every way she could.

She’d called in favors, pulled strings, and even threatened to sue the hospital for malpractice if they so much as let my heart rate drop. The staff tiptoed around her, afraid of ending up on TMZ or in a viral tweet. It was chaos, but Savannah thrived in chaos—she always had.

She glared at me where I lay in the hospital bed, her eyes burning with hatred.

Keep this piece of trash alive. I want him to suffer, every single day!

Her words hit harder than any slap. My chest tightened. I’d seen that look before, but never with such raw venom. There was no mistaking her intent. If she could’ve bottled my suffering and sold it to the highest bidder, she would have. That’s how deep her anger ran.

“This is what he deserves! This is what he owes Mom, and what he owes me and my brother!”

Her voice cracked just a little on the word ‘Mom,’ but she recovered fast. Savannah didn’t let herself break down in public. She’d built an empire on strength and survival, and she wasn’t about to let me see her cry.

"Savannah, that neural interface I invested in just made a major breakthrough. Let's use this piece of trash as our test subject."

Calvin strode in wearing a tailored suit, every hair in place, watch gleaming on his wrist. He didn’t look at me—he looked through me, as if I was already dead. His words were cold, clinical, like he was discussing a business merger, not his own father’s fate. That was Calvin: always in control, always a step ahead.

That device of his? It could pull out memories, let you live someone else’s life.

It was the kind of tech you’d see on the cover of Wired or in a Black Mirror episode. Calvin had sunk millions into it, chasing the next big thing. Now, he wanted to use it on me—not for science, but for revenge. There was a twisted poetry to it.

He shot me a look that could freeze hell.

His eyes were like ice—no warmth, no pity. If looks could kill, I’d have been gone years ago. He didn’t need to say a word; the message was clear. Whatever was coming, I deserved it.

"I’ll step into this piece of trash’s memories and take his place as the father—and we’ll livestream both his original memories and my own version, side by side."

He laid out the plan with the precision of a CEO rolling out a new product. Calvin always did love a spectacle. The idea was brutal—he wanted to humiliate me in front of the whole country. But he wasn’t just after my suffering. He wanted the world to see the difference between the father he wished he’d had and the one he actually got.

“I want everyone to see what a real father should be, and just how rough we had it.”

The challenge hung in the air. The room felt electric. Savannah nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. They weren’t just airing dirty laundry—they were hanging me out to dry for the whole country to see. The stakes couldn’t have been higher.

Savannah agreed, and decided the broadcast would start during prime time the next evening—after all, I didn’t have many days left.

She whipped out her phone, firing off a flurry of texts and emails. Within minutes, half of Hollywood knew what was coming. Savannah was a master at creating buzz—and this was her biggest show yet. She didn’t care about my dignity. All she cared about was making sure no one ever forgot what I’d done.

On the hospital bed, I was just skin and bones, my cheeks sunken, my muscles wasted away, tortured by illness until I was barely human. But I heard every word they said. It stung more than any wound.

The machines beeped softly, a reminder that I was still tethered to this world. My body was a shell, but my mind was sharp. Every insult, every accusation, cut deeper than any knife. I wanted to speak up, to defend myself—but what would be the point? In their eyes, I was already damned.

They hated me with everything they had. I didn’t blame them. If this is what it takes for them to move on, so be it.

Maybe this was my penance. Maybe I deserved every ounce of their anger. That's what a father does—he shoulders the pain so his children don't have to.

Because I am their father.

Even now, that was the one thing that kept me grounded. I wasn’t looking for forgiveness. I just wanted them to know I’d done the best I could, even if it never looked that way from the outside.

For my kids, I had to stand tall and carry the weight—even if nobody understood, I had no regrets.

Regret is a strange thing. It eats at you. I’d made choices—some good, some terrible. But every one was for them, even if they never saw it that way. In the end, that’s what mattered.

My time was almost up. I could feel it in my bones. Before I left, I wanted to spend a little more time with my children.

It wasn’t much—just a handful of days, maybe hours. I hung on, desperate for one last chance to make things right. Even if they never forgave me, I wanted them to know I’d never stopped loving them.

The second they left my room, Savannah and Calvin were already on their phones, contacting the streaming platform and flooding their social media with promotion.

Within minutes, their announcement was everywhere—Twitter, Instagram, TikTok. Savannah’s fans went wild, speculating about the mysterious ‘family project.’ Calvin’s business contacts buzzed with curiosity. The story spread like wildfire, faster than any PR campaign could’ve managed.

One was a superstar, the other a business mogul—their story instantly blew up online, trending everywhere.

News outlets scrambled for details. Hashtags trended nationwide: #WestFamilyReckoning, #TruthRevealed, #NeuralShowdown. The whole country was hooked before the first memory even aired. Even late-night talk show hosts were cracking jokes about it.

The next day at prime time, millions across the country tuned in to watch the show. My stomach twisted at the thought.

Families gathered in living rooms, popcorn bowls in hand, eyes glued to the screen. It was the kind of event that stopped traffic, the sort people would talk about at work the next day. For a moment, my family’s pain became America’s favorite drama.

No one had ever seen anything like this before, and everyone was eager to see it.

The chat window scrolled faster than anyone could read. People took sides, made bets, dissected every promo clip. Even the skeptics couldn’t look away. It was reality TV, true crime, and family therapy all rolled into one.