novelraw Chapter 85: Unresponsive
Chapter 85: Unresponsive
.The silver Audi R8 pulled away from the curb of his parents’ house, the engine’s low growl usually a sound that calmed him. But as Jake turned onto the main road toward the financial district, the sound started to grate. Every vibration of the car felt like it was vibrating through his teeth.
He was gripping the steering wheel so hard his hands were cramping. His mind was a mess of Aliya’s sobbing face, the word ’permanent’, and the name ’Alex’ looping like a broken record.
Then, it happened.
It wasn’t a slow build. It was a sudden, savage spike of pain that felt like a hot iron rod being driven through his right eye and out the back of his skull. Jake let out a choked gasp, his vision instantly fracturing into jagged, white-hot streaks.
"Ugh—dammit," he hissed, his foot slamming onto the brake.
The car lurched. He barely had the presence of mind to check his mirror before jerking the wheel to the left, the tires screaming as he mounted the curb and jolted to a stop on the sidewalk. He fumbled for the hazard lights, but his fingers felt like lead.
He slumped over, burying his face in his hands. The pain was rhythmic and brutal, a heavy, wet thudding behind his forehead that made every heartbeat feel like a physical blow. Nausea rolled over him in a cold wave. He felt the bile rising in his throat and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to breathe through his nose, but the sunlight hitting the windshield was too bright—even through the tint, it felt like it was stabbing him.
"Come on... not now," he whispered, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears.
He stayed doubled over, his forehead resting against the cool leather of the steering wheel. Sweat broke out across his neck and back, making his shirt cling to his skin. He counted his breaths, trying to find a rhythm, but the pain made it hard to think. It felt like his brain was swelling, pressing against the bone of his skull with nowhere to go.
For a terrifying thirty seconds, he wasn’t a billionaire or a trader or a protector. He was just a man in a car, shivering and broken, wondering if he was having a stroke.
Gradually, the sharp, stabbing sensation dullened into a heavy, miserable ache. The white spots in his vision started to fade, leaving behind a dull grey fog. He sat up slowly, his movements stiff and tentative, as if his head might literally fall off if he turned it too fast.
He reached into the center console, found a bottle of water, and took a long, shaky sip. It was lukewarm, but it helped settle his stomach. He wiped the cold sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and looked at himself in the rearview mirror. He looked like hell—pale, drawn, and completely exhausted.
"You’re falling apart, Rivers," he muttered, his voice raspy.
He sat there for another minute, waiting for the world to stop spinning. It was a migraine—it had to be. No sleep, no food, and enough stress to kill a normal person. He’d had them before, but never like this. Never this violent.
He checked his watch. He didn’t have time for a hospital visit. He had Alice waiting, he had Samuel coming over, and he had a sister who needed a miracle. He couldn’t afford to be weak right now.
He shifted the R8 back into drive, his movements slow and deliberate. The pain was still there, a constant, throbbing reminder at the base of his brain, but he could see the road again.
He would get to the Zenith, take some industrial-strength painkillers, and keep moving. He’d see a doctor once the world stopped trying to tear his family apart.
By the time he reached the parking garage of the Zenith, the headache had settled into a low, menacing hum. He stepped out of the car, the cool air of the garage hitting his face, and took a deep, steadying breath. He had to keep it together. He was the one holding the wall up, and if he crumbled, everything behind him went with it.
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The elevator doors had barely opened into the Zenith’s foyer when Jake’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored the dull throb behind his eyes and answered.
"Jake, it’s Alice," her voice was crisp, but there was an underlying urgency. "Samuel Carter just called. He said a situation has developed with the Meridian acquisition—something about the debt restructuring that can’t wait until tomorrow. He’s pushing for a face-to-face immediately."
Jake leaned his head against the cool glass of the elevator wall. "Tell him 13:00 at the office. I need a moment to regroup before I deal with Samuel’s ’emergencies.’"
"I’ll book the conference room for 13:00. See you then." Jake ended the call and tossed the phone onto the kitchen island.
The penthouse felt different today. Usually, the Zenith was a statement of his victory—a quiet, luxurious middle finger to everyone who had doubted him. Now, it just felt like a large, empty box filled with expensive things that couldn’t fix the one thing that actually mattered.
He stripped off his shirt on the way to the master suite, leaving a trail of discarded clothes on the floor. In the bathroom, he turned the shower to the coldest setting. When he stepped under the spray, he leaned his forehead against the damp tiles, letting the cold numb the back of his neck where the tension was anchored.
He spent the next twenty minutes under a steaming shower. He stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist, and checked his phone. There was a text from Alice sent five minutes ago.
"The specialists are mapped. The Pretoria contact is confirmed for a preliminary call at 2:00 PM. I’ve also secured the lease for the auxiliary server room at the Plaza. Waiting for your arrival."
He swiped to the next message. It was from Catharine.
"Office is quiet so far. I’m staying buried in the audit files. Hope Aliya is doing okay. I love you."
Jake stared at the screen for a long time. He wanted to tell her everything, but the weight of Aliya’s secret was a heavy, jagged thing he wasn’t ready to share, even with her. He typed a quick response.
"She’s resting. I’m heading to the office now. Be careful. I love you too."
By 10:30 AM, he was dressed in a fresh t-shirt and sweats. He had a few hours before he had to put the suit back on and play the role of the billionaire CEO. Usually, when the world felt like it was spinning out of control, Jake retreated to the one place where he was the undisputed god: the markets.
He sat down at his multi-monitor setup in the study. He didn’t just want to trade; he needed to. He needed to see the numbers move, to feel the rush of a win, and to bolster his liquid reserves. With the medical specialists he was about to hire and the potential war with Sterling, he wanted more "fuck-you" money than even his current accounts held.
He pulled up the Gold (XAU/USD) chart. He leaned back, centered his breathing, and focused his gaze on the flickering candlesticks, waiting for the familiar golden hum to vibrate in his retinas.
One minute passed.
The chart remained a flat, two-dimensional grid of green and red.
Jake blinked, rubbing his eyes. Maybe the migraine had left a film over his vision. He focused harder, staring at the 15-minute timeframe until his eyes began to water. Five minutes. Ten minutes.
Nothing.
The numbers didn’t glow. The projected lines of the future didn’t manifest. For the first time since he had received his ability, the market was just... a market.
"Come on," he muttered, his heart rate beginning to pick up. "Not now. Not today."
He scrambled to switch the tabs. He pulled up Bitcoin. He pulled up the S&P 500. He even opened a random Japanese Yen pair he never touched. He stared until his vision blurred, begging for that familiar spark of foresight to ignite.
Silence.
Panic, cold and sharp, flooded his chest. It was a different kind of pain than the migraine—it was the feeling of a man realizing the floor had just vanished beneath him.
He had the Zenith. He had the R8. He had billions in the bank. But all of that was built on the foundation of his eyes. Without the ability, he wasn’t a visionary trader; he was just a guy with a lot of money and a target on his back. The confidence that had allowed him to stare down men like Samuel Carter and Julian Sterling started to evaporate, leaving behind a hollow, sickening realization.
He began clicking through the charts frantically, his breathing coming in shallow, jagged gasps. He was "crashing out," his hands shaking as he refreshed the screens over and over. He felt like a blind man suddenly thrown into a dogfight.
"Is this it?" he whispered to the empty room, his voice cracking. "Is it gone?"
The silence of the penthouse felt mocking. He looked at the luxury surrounding him—the marble, the custom art, the high-end tech—and for the first time, it didn’t feel like an empire. It felt like a cage. If the power was gone, the clock was officially ticking on how long he could maintain the illusion of being invincible.
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