My Billionaire Dad Got Arrested, So I Used a Magic Watch to Save Him… But I Saved My Dead Mom Instead

The Golden Pocket Watch

Two weeks later, I was miserable. The country silence was deafening compared to the city noise I was used to. I spent my days avoiding Ezra, who seemed to derive twisted pleasure from mocking my inability to do basic chores like washing dishes or cooking rice.

One rainy afternoon, Jadis found me crying in the library, a dusty room filled with books that looked like they hadn’t been opened since the war.

“He’s guilty, isn’t he?” I asked, looking at a newspaper clipping I’d found online. The evidence was mounting up—embezzlement, fraud, offshore accounts. Millions of dollars stolen from investors.

Jadis sat across from me and placed a small velvet pouch on the table. “People make mistakes, Abby. Sometimes, terrible ones. The question is, if you could stop them, would you?”

She opened the pouch. Inside lay a heavy golden pocket watch. It looked antique on the outside, with intricate engravings of vines and hourglasses, but when she clicked it open, the face wasn’t analog. It was a glowing digital display.

“What is this?” I asked, wiping my nose.

“A second chance,” she said softly. “Or rather, three of them. You get three chances. That’s all. You can go back as far as you want. Days, months, years. Just not before you were born.”

I stared at her, waiting for the punchline. “You’re crazy.”

“Maybe,” she smiled. “But try it. Set the date. Close your eyes. Press the stem.”

My heart hammered against my ribs. I thought of my dad, sitting in a cell. I thought of the life I had lost. “If I go back… can I change things?”

“You can try,” Jadis said. “But remember, Abby, some things aren’t meant to be changed. So focus on what’s worth holding onto.”

I didn’t listen to the warning. I only heard the opportunity. I grabbed the watch. My fingers trembled as I dialed in the date: one week before the arrest.

“I’m going to save him,” I vowed.

Jadis just looked at me with sad, knowing eyes. “Good luck, child.”

Attempt One: The Warning

The sensation was like being pulled through a straw—a violent, twisting compression—and then, sudden stillness. I opened my eyes and I was back in my bedroom. The silk sheets, the view of the skyline, the smell of expensive candles. It was morning, seven days before the raid.

I didn’t waste a second. I ran down the stairs, bursting into my father’s study. He was there, drinking espresso, reading a tablet. He looked so normal. So free.

“Dad!” I screamed.

He jumped, spilling coffee on his shirt. “Abby? What on earth—”

“You have to listen to me,” I panted, grabbing his arm. “They know. The FBI, the SEC—they’re coming. Next week. Tuesday morning. They have everything on the hard drives.”

His face went pale, draining of all color. For a second, I saw the guilt. He didn’t ask how I knew. He just knew that I knew.

“Who told you?” he hissed, his grip on my arm bruising.

“It doesn’t matter! You have to fix it. Turn yourself in, maybe get a plea deal, or… or put the money back! I don’t know how this works, but you have to stop it!”

He pushed me away, pacing the room frantically. “Turn myself in? Are you insane? I can’t go to prison, Abigail.”

“Dad, please—”

“Pack a bag,” he barked, grabbing his phone. “We’re leaving. Tonight. I have a plane in Teterboro.”

“No! That makes you look guilty! If you run, you’ll be a fugitive!”

He ignored me. He started shredding documents, making calls to people with names I didn’t recognize. I watched in horror as he spiraled. He wasn’t trying to fix his mistake; he was trying to outrun it.

That night, we tried to board the private jet. But because of his frantic, sloppy movements and large cash withdrawals that afternoon, he’d flagged the very agencies he was trying to avoid. They didn’t come next Tuesday. They came that night, on the tarmac.

It was worse this time. There were guns drawn. He was tackled to the concrete. He screamed at them, screamed at me.

“You did this!” he yelled as they shoved him into the cruiser. “You panicked and tipped them off!”

I stood on the runway, the wind whipping my hair, clutching the watch in my pocket. I had tried to save him, and I had only made his sentence longer. The scene faded to black, and I felt the pull of the present dragging me back.