Chapter 1My Love's ROI Was 10%, so I Vanished

My wife, Abby Wright, is a top-tier venture capitalist who measures everything and everyone in terms of return on investment (ROI).

If something promises a high return, she pours her heart into it. Anything under 20% gets tossed aside.

On our fifth anniversary, she assessed our relationship at a 10% ROI. That same night, she dropped millions of dollars to host an art exhibition for her childhood friend, Edward Dawson, citing an 80% return.

When Mom was rushed to the ER with a sudden heart attack, Abby calculated her survival ROI at 15%. She left me stranded all night just to fly overseas with Edward to chase the aurora—a trip she rated at a 90% return.

The breaking point comes when my PhD research team gets trapped while mountain climbing and I injure my leg.

With rescue teams too far away, we desperately need Abby to deploy her company's helicopter.

But she coldly refuses over the phone. "A single helicopter flight costs hundreds of thousands. What kind of return can a bunch of broke students like you actually give me?"

Weak from hunger, I plead, "We're completely out of food and water. We're going to starve."

She snaps impatiently, "Edward's cat is a rare, award-winning breed worth a fortune. If it freezes to death, can you afford to pay for it?"

As I suffer through dehydration and starvation, waiting for help that never comes, I scroll past a new post from Edward.

"Turns out kitty was just hiding under the couch, but she dropped a multi-million dollar deal anyway, calling this her best investment yet."

The photo shows Abby gently stroking the cat.

Turns out ROI assessments were always just an excuse. The truth is, she just doesn't love me.

As the sun dips below the horizon, I dial the one number I've avoided for a year.

"Professor Buckner, I'll join that classified national project you mentioned."

* * *

On the other end of the line, the voice of my mentor, Henry Buckner, buzzed with suppressed excitement. "Johann, you've finally come around! Did you sign the authorization?"

I looked down at my lower leg. The bone had snapped, tearing through the flesh, and blood had already turned the surrounding snow a deep crimson.

"Not yet." My throat was so dry it felt like I'd swallowed sandpaper.

"Good. Whatever you do, don't sign it. Our country needs you. Military rescue is already on the way."

The line went dead, and my phone screen faded to black.

Hypothermia was setting in, numbing my limbs, and my heartbeat slowed to a crawl.

The three messages from my wife, Abby Wright, haunted me.

None of them asked if I was alive. They were just pushing me to send her the patent authorization tomorrow. It was a spacecraft propulsion patent I'd spent countless sleepless nights developing.

She wanted to use it for the electronic holographic projection at her childhood sweetheart Edward Dawson's art exhibition.

Return on investment (ROI).

Those three words twisted inside my heart like a viper.

For our fifth anniversary, she calculated my ROI at 10%. When Mom was rushed into emergency heart surgery, 15%.

Yet, Edward's exhibition got 80%. His trip to shoot the aurora got 90%.

Even Edward's cat, who was hiding under the couch, was worth more than my life.

I forced a bitter smile, tasting blood on my chapped lips.

Suddenly, a deafening roar echoed across the valley. It wasn't the light sound of a civilian helicopter but the heavy, air-shattering beat of military rotors.

Gale-force winds whipped up the fallen snow.

Three heavy-duty rescue choppers bearing military insignia hovered overhead, and fully geared special rescue units began rappelling down.

I saw camouflage uniforms, tactical helmets, and cold, gleaming weapons.

The team leader strode right up to me. His combat boots crunched heavily in the snow.

He snapped to attention a foot away, close enough that I could hear his heavy breaths, and gave a crisp salute. "Dr. Aguirre, our country needs you."

I closed my eyes as the medics loaded me onto a stretcher.

By the time the chopper doors sealed shut, I had lost consciousness.

When I came to, I was staring at the stark white ceiling of a ward. The smell of disinfectant wasn't overpowering, just crisp and clinical.

My lower leg was locked in a thick cast, and the dull hum of anesthesia still lingered in my nerves.

Beside my bed, the phone screen lit up, with barely 3% battery left. Abby's name flashed across it.

I picked up.

"You've really outdone yourself this time, Johann Aguirre!"

Her scream rattled my eardrums.

"Do you have any idea how much money Edward lost because you went missing and left his exhibition without holographic tech? We're talking hundreds of thousands in lost traffic revenue. Can you even afford to pay for that?"

I looked out the window at the armed guards standing post outside.

My chest didn't even clench at her words.

"I almost died on that mountain," I said.

Silence fell over the line for a beat, followed by Abby's scoff. "Bad weeds don't die easily. Besides, your life isn't worth 100 thousand dollars. Just sign the authorization already, unless you want me to cut off your mom's medical bills to cut our losses."

Edward's voice sounded in the background. "Don't be mad, Abby. If Johann wants to play the victim to get money, he can just say so. I'll lend him some."

The passive-aggressive act made my stomach churn.

I didn't yell. I didn't argue. I just quietly watched the IV solution fall, drop by drop.