The Last Mystery Box Says No Chapter 01

The Last Mystery Box Says No Chapter 01

On the third day after our daughter was born, I asked Weston Ashcroft for money to buy formula, and he showed up carrying an armful of mystery boxes instead.

“Pick one,” he said.

Three years of marriage, and my entire allowance had come from those boxes.

The biggest payout I’d ever pulled was $108.

It started on the day we got engaged. The agreed bride price was $108,000.

Instead, my father showed up with a mystery-box crate and grinned.

“We’re not tacky,” he said. “Whatever you draw, that’s what you get.”

I froze on the spot.

What nobody expected was that Weston drew $1.88 million.

He paid every cent of it without blinking, then threw us a wedding so extravagant it stopped traffic across Meridian City.

Everyone said he must be madly in love with me.

Then, the morning after the wedding, he dumped an entire crate of mystery boxes in front of me.

“Your family likes games like this, don’t they? From now on, your allowance gets decided the same way.”

For three years, my allowance was whatever the box gave me.

Sometimes $9.90. Sometimes $108.

When I got pregnant, I told myself things would be different once the baby came.

They weren’t.

All I wanted now was a can of formula for my daughter, and the box sat in front of me as always.

Nine dollars and ninety cents.

A second later, my sister Brielle posted to her feed. She’d just given birth too.

The photo was a bank transfer screenshot: $990,000.

[Thank you to my brother-in-law for the welcome gift for the baby.]

I stared at that photo for a long time, then dialed an overseas number.

“Remember when you said you’d be willing to be my child’s father?”

“Come get me in seven days.”

—

The nurse peeked over curiously while I was opening the boxes.

“Wow, a gift from your husband? That’s so thoughtful of him.”

She looked at the pile with open envy—until she saw the slip of paper: $9.90 for living expenses.

The air went quiet.

Weston, expressionless, told his assistant to clear away the rest of the boxes. His voice was flat.

“Rules don’t change just because there’s a baby now.”

The nurse opened her mouth, then closed it, her face uncertain.

She probably wanted to ask what kind of rule gives a new mother $9.90 and makes her draw a box for it.

But how could I explain?

How could I explain that my parents swapped the agreed bride price for a bulk lot of high-stakes mystery boxes to scrape together a dowry and buy a flat for Brielle—without telling me—and sprang it on me at the engagement ceremony?

How could I explain that when I confronted them, my mother clutched her chest and said, “If you dare tell Weston, I’ll jump off this building”?

How could I explain that ever since, under the shadow of the Ashcroft name, no company in Meridian City would hire me, and my only income had been whatever a box handed me?

I looked down at my daughter beside me.

Her face was scrunched, sleeping peacefully.

“Weston, can I get her a temperature-regulated sleep sack? The newborn’s temperature isn’t stable…”

“Trying to milk the baby for cash?” He cut me off. “The hospital has blankets.”

The door shut.

His footsteps echoed down the hallway, growing fainter.

The nurse suddenly turned and left, then came back a moment later with a small blanket.

“Extra from the nurses’ station. It’s clean. Use it for the baby for now.”

She wrapped it carefully around my daughter—a stranger showing more care than the baby’s own father.

I said thank you.

She hesitated, then said quietly, “Your husband… he probably just isn’t good at showing it.”

I smiled and said nothing.

That evening, I scrolled past Brielle’s feed.

A VIP nursery suite, an entire imported layette.

The caption read: [He said nothing but the best for the baby.]

A row of likes underneath.

Weston. My mom. My dad. All there.

I stared at “nothing but the best” for a long time.

I remembered—years ago—Weston once said,

“If we ever have a daughter, I’ll spoil her rotten, make her the happiest little princess in the world.”

His eyes had light in them back then.

Now that light seemed to be shining on somebody else’s child.

I folded the $9.90 slip and put it in my wallet.

There was already last month’s $6.60 in there. The month before that, $5.30.

Weston was standing in the doorway. I hadn’t heard him come back.

He watched me fold the slip, paused, and finally said only:

“Take care of the baby. Stop thinking about squeezing money out of this.”

Out in the hallway, he made a call.

Through the door, I heard it clearly.

“You lost. She didn’t make a scene.” He laughed.

“A gold digger wouldn’t give up the position of Mrs. Ashcroft that easily—especially now that she’s had a baby.”

I leaned back against the headboard and closed my eyes.

My phone rang. An overseas number.

Silence for a beat on the other end.

“Flight’s booked. Seven days. I’ll see you there.”

I didn’t answer.

“Sabrina,” he said. “Wait for me.”

I looked at my daughter. Still asleep, her small hand gripping my finger, gripping tight.

“Okay.”