Chapter 1

A decade earlier, I summoned the bravery to express my feelings to him. He responded with a faint smile, admitting he cared for me too, but wasn't prepared for a romantic relationship. He proposed we strive together to enter Ivory Heights Academy, painting a picture of a joint aspiration.

However, mere days later, I witnessed him entering a luxurious vehicle belonging to an affluent young woman. Overcome with desperation, I attempted to stop him. He exited the car, his eyes cold and unyielding.

"Your feelings for me are meaningless," he stated, his words piercing my heart. "Amara can provide opportunities you never could. Even if she's merely playing with me, I'd prefer to be her toy in wealth than waste time on useless emotions."

I stood motionless, my heart shattering as his words echoed in my mind. Then, Amara Sterling emerged from the vehicle, her voice laced with contempt. "Run over her and file an insurance claim," she instructed the driver, her tone as harsh as the Bentley's engine roar.

My knees gave way, and I collapsed, shaking. Amara walked to him, linking her arm with his possessively. She cast me a look of pure scorn, sneering, "Hah, a pauper."

He glanced at me one final time, his expression unreadable yet distant, and said, "Forget about me."

Ten years later, I returned to the city, no longer an overlooked face from my youth but a rising force in the business world. Fate played a cruel joke; a class reunion, hosted at my own exclusive club, brought me face-to-face with specters from the past.

——

Midnight Reverie wasn't just a venue; it was a symbol of my success, a sanctuary reserved for Bellemont's elite. When I acquired it, profit wasn't my primary goal. It was a meticulously designed filter, distinguishing the influential from the inconsequential, ensuring only the most prestigious crossed its threshold.

Only those with wealth exceeding a hundred billion or wielding significant social influence could receive an invitation. Tonight's guest, however, was extraordinary: Jaxon Alderidge, the man guiding Bellemont's economy.

He was a minimalist in every respect. No wine, no lavish indulgences, just coffee. And not even the expensive kind. After a brief exchange of courtesies, we finalized a multi-billion-dollar deal with the ease of old acquaintances.

Just as his phone rang with a call from the city office, I excused myself from the room.

Outside, Westley Kingsley, my assistant, approached. His tall frame, sharp features, and undeniable charm demanded attention.

"Ms. Calloway, a second-generation real estate heir, has just arrived at Amber Crescent Pavilion downstairs. Would you like to meet him?" Westley inquired, his smile carrying a hint of intrigue.

I glanced back at the private room, where Jaxon was absorbed in his call, then nodded. "Very well, let's see what this is about."

Waiting for Jaxon seemed pointless; his calls always dragged on endlessly. As a businesswoman, my time was valuable, and networking with industry leaders was how I invested it. Anyone Westley considered important was certainly worth my attention.

I descended to Amber Crescent Pavilion, carrying a fine bottle of wine, and gently knocked on the door.

"Enter," a voice called from inside.

I stepped in, my smile polite and composed, but as my eyes surveyed the room, I halted mid-step.

The faces before me were achingly familiar, yet time had made them seem distant, almost foreign. At the head of the table, commanding the room with effortless authority, was Amara. Even after a decade, the memory of her Bentley's roar and those scornful words, "Hah, a pauper," remained vivid, etched like a scar.

And then, my gaze fell on him, Gabriel Montgomery. The man who had dismissed my love as worthless now sat beside Amara, cradling a small girl as though he had perfected the art of gentleness.

My thoughts drifted back to five years ago, in Cedarwick, where I had encountered him by chance. He had been trapped in negotiations, pressured to drink. When he refused, the consequence of his defiance had been a harsh slap across his face.

I intervened to ease the tension, sensing the situation was on the brink of chaos. He turned to me, his eyes unfocused, and mumbled that he wanted a drink.

As the evening progressed, he succumbed to the influence of alcohol. Disheveled and crumbling under the weight of his emotions, he said it was a matter of dignity, a line he wouldn't cross.

But wasn't this the same man who once sneered he'd rather be toyed with in opulence than drown in "worthless feelings"? Now, after five long years, he spoke of dignity as if it were a sacred relic he'd just unearthed.

But hadn't he once claimed he'd rather be toyed with in luxury than entertain worthless feelings?

Why, after five years, had he suddenly unearthed his so-called dignity?

I asked him how much his dignity was worth; I'd buy it.

He wept, tears streaming down his face, but stubbornly wiped them away and said it wasn't for sale. Instead, he told me he'd give it to me for free.

I told him, "If you dare to give it, I dare to take it."

That night, I brought him home. But when I woke up, he was gone.