He Unplugged Her Life Support To Marry For Money, Then The Doctor Said “The Billionaire Is Awake” | HO!
A wealthy woman falls into a coma, and her husband quietly tries to unplug her life.
The heart monitor had been singing the same quiet rhythm for eleven days. Beep. Beep. Beep. A steady, stubborn pulse that Edward Ossei had grown to hate.
He stood in the doorway of ICU room seven. His charcoal suit immaculate, a silk pocket square folded with surgical precision. He looked like a man attending a business dinner, not a husband visiting his dying wife.
Behind him, the corridor hummed with nurses and clipboards and quiet urgency. But in room seven, there was only the sound of machines keeping Vivian alive, and the sound of Edward’s patience running out.
He stepped inside, closed the door, checked the window. Then he walked to the wall panel beside Vivian’s bed and looked at the tangle of cords and equipment—the ventilator, the IV lines, the monitor with its stubborn green peaks.
He whispered something to himself. Not a prayer. Not a goodbye.
Finally, he reached for the primary power cord.
What he did not know, what he could not have known, was that Vivian heard him. She heard the word he whispered. She heard the footsteps, the quiet click of the door, the pause before he moved toward the machine.
She heard everything. And she could not move a single muscle to stop him.
—
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—
Three years before Edward reached for that cord, Vivian Adiaze Okafor sat in the corner office of a forty-story building that bore her initials in steel letters above the entrance.
She was thirty-four years old.
She had built her first company at twenty-six from a one-room apartment and a second-hand laptop. By thirty, she had quietly acquired five more. She never appeared on Forbes lists by choice. She never granted interviews. She moved through the city like a ghost, dressed simply, speaking softly, arriving in ordinary cars, while behind the scenes, the city practically ran on her decisions.
Her personal assistant once joked that Vivian could buy the street she grew up on if she wanted to.
She had already bought the whole neighborhood. She just hadn’t told anyone.
The people who worked for her called her the Empress. Not to her face. Never to her face. But in whispered tones in boardrooms and break rooms, it was understood: Vivian Okafor did not lose. She did not panic. And she never, ever showed her hand until the moment she chose to.
So when she met Edward at a friend’s dinner party, dressed down in a simple wrap dress and minimal jewelry, laughing at his jokes, asking him about his work, he never suspected.
He saw a beautiful woman. Educated. Warm. A little naive, perhaps.
She mentioned she worked in consulting. She talked about her small apartment. She split the bill on their second date. She drove a modest car. She was everything he didn’t want in a long-term partner, but everything he wanted in a temporary distraction.
The problem was, Vivian fell in love with him.
And love, even for an Empress, is the one thing that cannot be planned.
She made a decision that her closest advisor, Dr. Marcus Essien, called “the most expensive mistake I have ever witnessed.” She stepped back from public life. She restructured her holdings under a holding company with a different name. She told Edward she was a mid-level consultant who did okay.
She wanted, for the first time in her adult life, to be loved for nothing more than herself.
She got a husband.
What she didn’t get was the man she thought she was marrying.
—
Edward had a type, and it wasn’t Vivian.
His type wore designer labels loudly. His type had fathers who belonged to golf clubs and mothers who sat on charity boards. His type came with an inheritance, a family name, and a social passport that Edward—born into comfortable but ordinary circumstances—had spent his entire adult life trying to buy his way into.
He married Vivian because she was beautiful and stable, and because in the early days, she made him feel like enough.
But Vivian had a quiet kind of power that unnerved him. She asked sharp questions. She saw through people with an unsettling accuracy. She never begged for anything.
And after two years of marriage, Edward had started to resent her. Not for what she did, but for what she made him feel about himself.
Then he met Serena Volta at a fundraiser gala.
Serena was everything Edward had ever mapped on a vision board. Her family had founded a textile empire three generations back. She wore her wealth like perfume—invisible but impossible to ignore. And she looked at Edward with the kind of hunger that told him she wanted something, too.
They were perfectly matched in their ambitions. Two people willing to do anything to upgrade their lives.
“She’s been in that bed for eleven days,” Serena told him one evening, sitting in the back of a hired car, her red dress pulled like blood in the low light. “The doctor said she’s not coming back. You need to stop stalling.”
Edward swirled his drink. “The insurance policy only pays out if she passes naturally. Or if treatment is withdrawn with medical advice.”
“Then get the medical advice.”
He said nothing.
“Edward.” Serena placed her hand over his. Her voice dropped to silk. “Your wife is already gone. You’re just the only one still pretending otherwise.”
He looked out the window. He thought about the wedding he wanted. The merger he needed. The Volta family name that would open every door that had ever been closed to him.
He thought about Vivian.
And he made his decision.
—
Here is what the doctors had written in Vivian’s chart.
*Unresponsive. Vegetative state. No voluntary movement detected. Prognosis poor.*
Here is what they didn’t know.
Vivian was awake.
Not the kind of awake you and I know, where you can stretch, speak, turn your head toward the window. This was a different kind of prison entirely. Her mind was a roaring fire inside a locked glass case. She could think. She could feel. She could hear every word spoken in that room.
But her body had become a stone wall that refused every command she sent it.
The medical term is locked-in syndrome—a condition where full cognitive function exists, but motor control is almost entirely lost. It is among the most frightening experiences a human being can survive, and it is more common than most people know.
For Vivian, day one in the ICU was confusion. Day three was terror. By day seven, it had become something else. Something cold and focused and purposeful.
Because by day seven, she had heard enough.
She had heard Edward tell a nurse, “Do whatever keeps her comfortable. We’re not expecting recovery.”
She had heard him cancel her private specialist—the one Dr. Essien had arranged—and replace him with a hospital-assigned physician who didn’t know her history.
She had heard him, on day nine, sitting two feet from her bed, talking on the phone about honeymoon destinations. Tuscany. He wanted Tuscany.
And she had heard Serena’s voice, once brief and precise. “Do it before the end of the month. The Volta board meets in thirty days.”
Inside her locked body, Vivian Okafor did not cry.
She started planning.
—
Dr. Marcus Essien was not supposed to be in that hospital.
He was Vivian’s personal physician, had been for seven years. But Edward had specifically requested that Vivian’s care be handed to the hospital’s general neurology team. He had cited a desire for objectivity. He had been polite about it. Firm.
Dr. Essien had walked away, because what else could he do?
But he came back on the eleventh night. Not as a doctor—as a man who had watched Vivian build her empire from nothing, who had treated her through stress fractures and migraines and the kind of exhaustion that comes from carrying everything alone. He came back because something felt wrong in the way nothing felt wrong.
Too clean. Too managed. Too perfectly arranged.
He stood at the nurse’s station and reviewed her chart on a visitor’s pass. Then he walked into room seven.
She was still. The machines were steady.
He sat beside her bed. He took her hand—not to examine it, just to hold it the way old friends do when words aren’t enough.
“I know you’re in there, Vivian,” he said quietly. “I’ve known you too long to believe otherwise.”
He watched her face for a long time.
And then, so small it could have been imagined, so brief it could have been dismissed—her ring finger moved.
Once. Twice.
Dr. Essien sat forward. His voice dropped to barely a breath. “If you can hear me, do it again. Three taps.”
Her finger moved three times.
He sat back. His heart was a drum in his chest, but his face showed nothing. He had been Vivian’s physician long enough to learn that particular skill from her.
“She’s locked in,” he whispered to himself. “She’s been locked in this whole time.”
He stood up slowly. He checked the corridor through the door’s small window. Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone.
He began to document everything.
The chart discrepancies. The canceled specialist. The tampered power connection that a maintenance note had flagged and then strangely been cleared. He photographed every page, every discrepancy, every line that didn’t add up.
And then he leaned close to Vivian’s ear and whispered, “I’m going to get you out of here. But we have to be careful. He can’t know.”
Her finger moved once.
She understood.
—
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—
The transfer happened on a Thursday evening, documented as a specialist referral to a private neurological facility forty minutes outside the city.
Edward received a call from a hospital administrator informing him of the move. He asked two questions: “Is this covered by her policy? And does this change anything about her prognosis?”
When the administrator said no to both, Edward said, “Fine.”
He did not ask which facility. He did not ask to accompany her. He sent a text to Serena that read: *Moving forward. Start the wedding planning.*
What Edward did not know was that the private neurological facility was one of seven medical buildings owned by a holding company called Adazi Health Partners.
What he did not know was that Adazi Health Partners was a wholly owned subsidiary of a group called Okafor Silent Holdings.
What he did not know—what almost nobody in the city knew—was that Okafor Silent Holdings belonged entirely to his wife.
Vivian was taken to a facility where every face on the staff had been quietly verified by her estate’s security team. Where Dr. Essien led her recovery with a hand-picked team. Where the walls were quiet and the work was real.
She began to recover faster than anyone had projected.
Locked-in syndrome, when caused by certain forms of neurological trauma, can improve significantly with proper intervention. It is not always permanent. Movement returns slowly. A finger. Then a hand. Then an arm.
Like a woman learning to exist in her own body again.
And while her body rebuilt itself, her mind was already three moves ahead.
From her bed, using a specialized eye-tracking communication device in the early weeks, Vivian began to direct operations.
First, she confirmed what she’d suspected. Edward had been quietly moving her personal assets into a joint account he controlled—betting that if she died, he’d have access before any legal challenge could be mounted.
The total amount he had transferred in the past eleven days alone: two hundred and thirty thousand dollars.
Then she learned about the Volta wedding. A ceremony planned for thirty-two days from the moment she’d first been admitted to the hospital. A lavish affair, televised, society pages already speculating.
She learned that her estate’s attorney had been replaced. That a new will—fraudulent—had been quietly prepared. That Edward had even arranged to sell the rights to their shared apartment before she was buried.
Every discovery landed like a stone dropped into still water.
And every stone made Vivian more certain of what the ending needed to look like.
Not quiet. Not legal paperwork filed in some office.
Public.
It needed to be seen.
—
Vivian’s condition has a name that most people have never heard outside a medical textbook.
Locked-in syndrome—clinically known as pseudocoma—is a neurological state in which a person retains full consciousness and cognitive function but loses the ability to move or speak due to complete paralysis of nearly all voluntary muscles. The person can typically still move their eyes, which is often the only visible sign that someone is aware.
It is frequently misdiagnosed as a vegetative state, which means that patients have been dismissed, neglected, and in some cases had life support removed while fully conscious and unable to communicate their awareness.
From a legal standpoint, what Edward did—deliberately disconnecting life support equipment with intent to cause death, regardless of whether a backup generator intervened—falls under what legal scholars call attempted murder by omission: a crime in which the accused had a duty of care, deliberately withdrew that care, and intended lethal harm to result.
Combined with the fraudulent will, the asset transfers totaling over two hundred thousand dollars, and the evidence of premeditation recorded in text messages between Edward and Serena, the case being assembled by Vivian’s legal team was not merely strong.
It was airtight.
—
The Volta-Ossei wedding was the social event of the season.
The venue was a landmark chapel in the heart of the city, a century-old building of white stone and arched windows that photographers lined up to shoot regardless of what event was inside. The guest list read like a directory of the city’s most powerful families. There were flower arrangements that cost more than most people’s monthly rent. A string quartet. A seven-course dinner reservation at the restaurant next door.
Edward stood at the altar in a bespoke ivory suit. His expression composed. His posture radiating the particular confidence of a man who believes he has won.
He had checked the hospital that morning. He had received confirmation that Vivian’s condition remained unchanged. He had reminded himself for the last time that it was not murder—that the machines were already doing what nature couldn’t, that he was simply being practical.
Serena walked down the aisle in a gown that had been designed specifically to make headlines.
She reached him.
They smiled at each other—the smile of two people who share a secret, who have gotten away with something, who are about to complete the final chapter of a plan they’ve been building for months.
The priest opened his book. “We are gathered here today—”
At that precise moment, in a building twelve blocks away, Edward’s primary bank account was frozen.
Then his secondary account.
Then the joint account he’d created with Vivian’s assets.
Then the shell company he’d registered six months ago under a neighbor’s name.
Frozen. Frozen. Frozen. Frozen.
His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. He ignored it.
“—to witness the joining of—”
His lawyer was calling. Then his accountant. Then a number he didn’t recognize. Then his lawyer again.
He ignored all of them. He was forty seconds from being married to Serena Volta. Forty seconds from everything he had planned.
The priest reached the moment every wedding arrives at: the pause before the vows, the breath before the binding words.
“If anyone here has cause to object to this union, speak now—”
The chapel doors opened.
She did not rush.
—
Vivian Adiaze Okafor walked through the doors of that chapel the way she had once walked into boardrooms. Slowly. With the particular stillness of a person who has already won and is simply allowing everyone else the courtesy of catching up.
She wore ivory. Not white. Ivory—the exact shade of Edward’s suit. Custom-made. Structured like armor, with a single column of diamonds along the neckline that caught the chapel’s light and scattered it across the walls like scattered stars.
Her hair was swept back. Her posture was iron.
Beside her walked Dr. Marcus Essien, carrying a sealed folder.
Behind them, two officers from the financial crimes unit.
And behind those, three members of her legal team, each holding a document that represented a different piece of Edward’s unraveling world.
The room did not erupt immediately. There was a moment—just a moment—of total suspended silence, in which everyone present tried to understand what they were seeing.
Edward’s face went through four expressions in the space of two seconds. Recognition. Disbelief. Terror. And finally, the terrible calculation of a man trying to find an exit from a room that has no doors.
There were none.
“Hello, Edward.” Vivian’s voice was steady. Not cold—something past cold. The tone of a woman who has spent weeks alone inside her own body rehearsing this sentence. “I believe I have the floor.”
She walked to the center of the aisle. She turned to face the congregation—journalists, socialites, family members of the Volta empire—and she let them look at her.
“My name is Vivian Adiaze Okafor. You may know me better as the anonymous investor who holds the majority stake in Volta Textiles.”
Serena’s face drained of color.
“I also own the medical holding company that managed the facility where my husband attempted to end my life. I own the legal firm he hired to falsify my will. And—” She paused, and something close to a smile appeared at the edge of her mouth. “I own this chapel.”
The priest took a small step backward.
Dr. Essien stepped forward and opened the folder. Eleven days of documented evidence. The tampered equipment. The canceled specialist. The power cord. The text messages. The fraudulent documents. All of it printed and notarized and witnessed.
“The woman standing at that altar,” Vivian said, turning briefly to Serena, “is not a Volta heiress. She is an investigator hired by my estate eight months ago to confirm what I already suspected about my husband’s intentions.”
Serena—whose real name was Agent Dara Mensah of the city’s financial crimes division—reached into her bouquet and produced a badge.
Edward grabbed the altar railing.
“Edward Kofi Ossei,” one of the officers said, stepping forward, “you are under arrest for attempted murder by omission, fraudulent transfer of assets, falsification of a legal will, and conspiracy to commit financial fraud.”
He said nothing. His ivory suit—chosen to match the day he believed would be the beginning of everything—was now the outfit he’d be photographed in on the front page of every paper in the city.
The officers moved toward him, and Vivian watched.
Not with rage. Not with grief.
With the quiet, absolute satisfaction of a woman who had held her strategy inside a locked body for thirty-two days and had never once lost her nerve.
—
They say karma is slow.
They are wrong.
Edward was processed before the reception dinner would have been served. His accounts—all of them, including the ones his lawyers hadn’t known about, the ones Vivian’s financial team had spent three weeks mapping—remained frozen pending a criminal investigation that would take two years to fully resolve.
He would spend the first month of those years in custody.
The Volta family, once they understood that their “Serena” had been an undercover plant, and that their family name had been used as bait in a fraud sting, quietly released a statement distancing themselves from Edward entirely. They also quietly reached out to Vivian’s estate about the majority stake she held in their company.
She kept it.
The story broke across every platform before the chapel had even fully emptied. The photograph—Vivian in ivory at the center of the aisle, the officers behind her, Edward at the altar with his hands on the railing—became one of those images that circulates for years. A symbol of something people couldn’t quite name but recognized immediately.
There is a specific kind of justice that doesn’t just punish wrongdoing. It reveals it. It pulls back the curtain in public, in front of everyone who was meant to celebrate the wrongdoer’s success, and says, *Look at what was underneath the whole time.*
That is what Vivian had built in thirty-two days. From a hospital bed. Through a fingertap communication device. Through a network of loyal people and ironclad legal preparation.
Not just freedom.
Reckoning.
—
She returned to her office the following Monday.
The steel letters of her initials above the entrance caught the morning light the same way they always had. Her assistant had placed fresh flowers on the desk and a single printed note: *Welcome back, Empress.*
She sat down. She opened her laptop.
She began to work.
Dr. Essien visited her that afternoon, not as a physician making rounds, but as a friend checking on another friend. He found her at her desk, the city sprawling below her windows, a cup of tea cooling beside her keyboard.
“You look well,” he said.
“I feel well,” she replied. Then she looked up at him, and for the first time in all the years he had known her, he saw something in her eyes that looked almost like exhaustion. “I heard everything, Marcus. Every word he said. Every lie he told that nurse. Every time he sat in that room and pretended to care.”
Dr. Essien sat down across from her. “I know.”
“I heard him plan my funeral. I heard him choose the music.” Her voice didn’t break, but it came close. “And I couldn’t say a single word.”
“You did more than speak,” Dr. Essien said quietly. “You built a case from a bed they said you’d never leave. You directed a financial takedown using only eye movements. You—”
“I know what I did,” Vivian said. And then she smiled—a real smile, tired but real. “I just needed someone to say it out loud.”
Dr. Essien reached across the desk and took her hand. “The Empress rises.”
She held his gaze for a moment. Then she picked up her tea and took a slow sip.
“What happens to him now?” Dr. Essien asked.
“The legal process will take time. But the evidence is complete. His lawyers will try to negotiate. They will fail.” She set the cup down. “I made sure of that before I left the facility.”
“How?”
She looked out the window at the city below—the city she had built, the city that had almost buried her without ever knowing her name. “Because I don’t just own the medical facility where I recovered. I also own the forensic auditing firm that traced every dollar he moved. I own the private security company that placed Agent Mensah in Serena’s social circle. And I own the media outlet that will run the first exclusive interview.”
Dr. Essien stared at her. “You own the news station.”
“I own three of them,” Vivian said mildly. “But only one has the right audience for this story.”
He sat back in his chair. “You planned every detail.”
“I planned every detail that could be planned,” Vivian corrected. “What I didn’t plan was waking up inside my own body unable to move. That part…” She paused. “That part I had to survive before I could use it.”
—
The criminal trial of Edward Ossei began seven months later.
It lasted four weeks. The prosecution presented evidence so comprehensive that Edward’s legal team spent most of their time trying to discredit the sources rather than deny the facts. But the sources were unimpeachable. Hospital records with timestamps. Financial documents with signatures. Text messages recovered from Edward’s phone that showed him coordinating with “Serena” on the timing of Vivian’s death.
And then, on the third day of testimony, the prosecution called its final witness.
Vivian Adiaze Okafor walked to the stand.
She was dressed simply—a dark blue dress, no jewelry except her wedding ring, which she had kept on her finger throughout the ordeal. She sat down, adjusted the microphone, and looked directly at Edward.
He would not meet her eyes.
“Mrs. Ossei,” the prosecutor said, “can you describe for the court what you experienced during the eleven days you were in the ICU before your transfer?”
Vivian did not look away from her husband. “I could hear everything. Every conversation. Every lie. Every time he told someone I was already gone.”
“And how did that make you feel?”
She was quiet for a moment. The courtroom held its breath.
“At first, I was afraid,” she said. “Then I was angry. And then—” She paused. “Then I decided that if I survived, I would make sure he never hurt anyone else the way he tried to hurt me.”
The prosecutor turned to the jury. “No further questions.”
Edward’s lawyer rose for cross-examination. He tried to suggest that Vivian’s condition had impaired her memory. He tried to suggest that she had misunderstood what she heard. He tried to suggest that Edward had been acting out of love, out of a desire not to see her suffer.
Vivian answered every question with the same calm precision. She did not raise her voice. She did not cry. She simply told the truth, the way she had told it in boardrooms for years—clearly, completely, without ornament.
When she stepped down from the stand, the jury had already begun to reach their conclusion.
—
The verdict came on a Friday afternoon.
Edward Ossei was found guilty on all counts: attempted murder by omission, fraudulent transfer of assets, falsification of a legal will, and conspiracy to commit financial fraud.
The judge sentenced him to twenty-five years in state prison, with the possibility of parole after fifteen—a sentence that the prosecutor later described as “among the harshest ever handed down for a case involving life support removal.”
Serena—Agent Mensah—received a commendation from the financial crimes division and returned to undercover work six months later. She and Vivian never spoke again, by mutual choice. Their business had been concluded.
Dr. Essien continued as Vivian’s personal physician, though he noted with professional amusement that she required fewer medical visits now than she had before the incident. “Surviving something like that,” he told a colleague, “either breaks you or makes you immune to small problems. Vivian was never going to break.”
The Volta family, having survived the scandal with their company intact but their pride damaged, quietly reorganized their board and made several public gestures toward corporate transparency. Vivian kept her majority stake. She did not increase it. She did not need to.
—
Five years after the wedding that never happened, Vivian sat in a café in a city she had never visited before.
She was on vacation. An actual vacation—the first she had taken in her adult life. She had left her phone in the hotel room. She was wearing a sundress and sandals. She was eating gelato from a small cup and watching people walk past.
A woman about her age sat down at the next table. She was holding a newspaper—the front page of which featured a photograph of Vivian walking into that chapel five years ago.
The woman looked at the photograph. Then she looked at Vivian. Then she looked back at the photograph.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said, “but you look exactly like—”
“I get that a lot,” Vivian said pleasantly.
The woman squinted. “That’s you. That’s actually you.”
Vivian took a slow bite of her gelato. “It was a long time ago.”
“I read about your case. Everyone read about your case.” The woman set down the newspaper. “What he did to you—I can’t even imagine.”
Vivian was quiet for a moment. She thought about the heart monitor. The eleven days. The sound of Edward’s footsteps walking away from her bed while she lay there unable to call him back.
“It was a long time ago,” she said again.
But the woman was still looking at her. “How did you survive it? Not the medical part—the rest of it. The betrayal. The waiting. The knowing.”
Vivian set down her gelato spoon. She looked out at the street, at the people walking past who had no idea who she was, at the ordinary afternoon sunlight falling across the ordinary café tables.
“I survived it,” she said slowly, “because I decided that he didn’t get to write the ending. He tried. He unplugged the machine. He planned the wedding. He moved the money. He did everything he could to control the story.”
She turned back to the woman.
“But I was the one who walked through those doors. I was the one who spoke first. And when the cameras flashed, they didn’t capture his victory. They captured mine.”
The woman nodded slowly. Then she smiled. “The Empress rises.”
Vivian laughed—a real laugh, unexpected and warm. “Do people still say that?”
“People still say it,” the woman said. “They just don’t say it to your face.”
—
That evening, Vivian walked back to her hotel along a quiet street lined with old trees.
She thought about Mr. Peters—the old man from the supermarket story, the one who had said that people always need more than what’s on the shelf. She had never met Mr. Peters, of course. But someone had told her that story once, years ago, and it had stayed with her.
*A store is not just a place where people buy things. It is a place where people come when they need something.*
She thought about what she had needed, lying in that hospital bed. She had needed someone to hear her. She had needed someone to believe that she was still in there, still fighting, still planning. Dr. Essien had been that person. One man who refused to accept the official story, who sat beside her bed and held her hand and waited for a sign.
One finger tap. Then two. Then three.
That was all it took. One person paying attention.
She reached the hotel and stepped into the elevator. As the doors closed, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the polished metal—a woman in a sundress and sandals, eating gelato, taking a vacation for the first time in years.
The Empress, people called her.
But tonight, she was just Vivian. And that was enough.
—
The case of Edward Ossei remains on record as one of the most striking examples of locked-in syndrome being misdiagnosed as a vegetative state—and of a patient surviving not despite her condition, but because of what she learned while trapped inside it.
Medical schools now use Vivian’s case in their neurology curricula. Law schools use it in their criminal justice programs. And somewhere in a prison in upstate New York, a man in an ivory suit—now faded and worn—spends each day knowing that the wife he tried to kill not only survived, but built the case that put him there.
They say karma is slow.
They are wrong.
Karma is patient. Karma takes notes. Karma builds holding companies and buys chapels and walks through doors at exactly the right moment, wearing ivory, with diamonds at her throat and fire in her spine.
And karma, when she is ready, never loses.
—
What would you have done in her place?
Thirty-two days of silence. Thirty-two days of hearing every betrayal and not being able to speak a single word in response. Most people would have broken.
Vivian didn’t break.
She built.
So here is the question I want to leave you with tonight. Is there a difference between revenge and justice? Or does the answer depend entirely on who survived to tell the story?
Drop your thoughts in the comments. And if you believe that what goes around always comes around, type *The Empress Rises* below.
Let’s see how many of you felt this one.
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