CHAPTER 3- Destiny Knocks at the Door.

A Reunion Long Awaited

"He's back!"

Nora's voice rang through the apartment, brimming with excitement. Her hands trembled as she clutched Rose's phone, rereading the headline for the tenth time just to make sure her eyes weren't deceiving her.

Dave Trump arrived at the airport this morning at 5 a.m. It has been five years since he left the country…

Her heart pounded against her ribs, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Five years. Five years of waiting. Five years of hoping. And now—he was back.

"I need to go see him!"

She shot up from her seat so fast that the chair scraped loudly against the floor. Her mind was a whirlwind of emotions—excitement, anxiety, longing. What should she do first? Where should she go? Did he look the same? Was his hair still neatly styled? Did his cold gaze still send shivers down her spine?

Before she could think too deeply, a voice cut through her moment of bliss.

Rose snorted. "I doubt he even remembers you."

The words sliced through the air like a dagger, but Nora barely flinched. She turned sharply, her dark eyes blazing with defiance. "No way! He won't forget me."

She refused to believe it.

Even after he left, she had never stopped reminding him of her existence.

She had sent gifts—personalized, handpicked, meant only for him. She had written letters, pouring out the feelings she could never say to his face. She had even arranged for meals to be delivered to the places he might be staying, just in case he ever missed home.

She had loved him relentlessly.

And love like that didn't just fade away.

Without another word, she spun on her heels and bolted toward her room, nearly tripping in her haste. Her pulse thrummed in her ears, her body buzzing with anticipation. I need to see him. I need to touch him. If I could just… kiss him…

Her breath hitched at the thought.

Five minutes later…

The bedroom door burst open.

Nora stepped out, fully dressed, twirling dramatically before striking a pose.

"How do I look?" she asked, a radiant smile lighting up her face.

Ruby's eyes widened in admiration. "Daebak!" she exclaimed in Korean, meaning awesome.

Nora's dimples deepened as she grinned. "See ya!"

Before anyone could say another word, she dashed out the door.

Rose watched her go with a tired sigh. "Ugly," she muttered under her breath.

She leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples. When would Nora wake up from this fantasy?

Twelve years.

Twelve years of one-sided love, of chasing a man who had never even looked at her properly. There were so many other men in the world—men who would cherish Nora in an instant. But no, she had to be obsessed with him.

Still… she was only twenty. She still had time.

If Dave rejected her again—maybe, just maybe—she would finally move on.

Meanwhile, Ruby sat in deep thought, absentmindedly tapping her fingers against the table.

Now that Dave is back… what happens next?

Her hands clenched into fists, eyes gleaming with excitement.

This was it.

This was the perfect moment to start writing her novel.

---

Trump Mansion

The grand doors of the Trump Mansion swung open.

A tall figure stepped inside, his presence alone enough to command attention.

Dave Trump.

His dark eyes, cold and unreadable, swept across the lavish interior. The house was the same—marble floors polished to perfection, grand chandeliers casting a golden glow over the space. Nothing had changed.

And yet, everything felt different.

Before he could take another step, a small figure shot toward him like a bullet.

"Brother!"

Dove Trump launched herself at him, her arms wrapping tightly around his waist as she buried her face in his chest.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the ice in Dave's expression melted—just a little.

He ruffled her hair with an almost imperceptible softness. "How have you been?"

Dove pouted, looking up at him with wide, bunny-like eyes. "I missed you."

Her voice wobbled slightly. Five years had been a long time.

Before Dave could respond, a scoff echoed through the room.

"Brat."

Dave turned his head slightly, his expression slipping back into its usual indifference.

An older man sat in the grand armchair near the fireplace, his sharp gaze locked onto Dave like a hawk eyeing its prey.

Matriarch Trump.

Dove beamed at her grandfather, still clinging to Dave. "Grandpa, Brother is back!" she announced excitedly, her happiness nearly spilling over.

But the old man remained unimpressed. His gaze was cold, calculating.

"So, you finally remember you have a family?" he said, his voice laced with quiet disappointment. "You vanished for five years. No calls. No visits. No explanations. And now you walk back in like nothing happened?"

Dave remained silent.

His grandfather's expression hardened. "You might as well go back to wherever you came from. We don't need you here."

Dove gasped. "Grandpa!"

But Dave? He merely chuckled. It was a dry, humorless sound, as if he had expected those exact words.

Then, Matriarch Trump delivered his ultimatum.

"If you want to stay, you must get married."

The air in the room turned heavy.

Dove immediately jumped in, desperate to intervene. "Grandpa, he just got back! Can't we talk about this later? Besides, he's only twenty-three! Why rush him into marriage?"

She needed to delay this as much as possible.

After all, when Dave was gone, her grandfather had ruthlessly slashed her spending. Now that her brother was back, she could finally enjoy his wealth again.

If he got married too soon, all his attention—and money—would go to his new wife.

That was not an option.

She needed to make use of him first.

(Of course, Dave had no idea that his beloved sister saw him as a walking ATM. If he did, he'd probably be speechless.)

But Matriarch Trump was unmoved. "If he wants to stay, he must agree to get married. That's final."

A heavy silence followed.

Then, a bodyguard stepped forward, clearing his throat.

"Matriarch, Miss Nora has arrived."

At those words, Dave's entire demeanor shifted.

His relaxed posture tensed. His once calm eyes darkened, a shadow passing over them.

His grip on his coat tightened slightly.

A slow exhale. A moment of stillness.

Then—

"Speak of the devil."