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📖 Chapter 5 — Learning How to Stand Alone
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The days after the gala stretched long and uncertain.
At first, Mira drifted.
She slept late, wandered her sunlit apartment in silk robes, made coffee she barely touched. She tried reading, only to set books down after three pages. Tried streaming shows, but the bright scenes and laughter felt like knives in the quiet.
She thought she'd miss her old life — the parties, the lavish breakfasts on the garden terrace, the endless social calendar that filled every minute.
But what struck her most was how little she missed the constant expectations.
No one to hover over her shoulder about posture. No discreet coughs when she used her sharp wit instead of polished sweetness. No watchful eyes calculating if she was good enough to tie to another empire.
For a while, that was almost enough.
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Then came the bills.
Of course, her parents had set up a very generous fund. The apartment was fully paid, the utilities on automatic draft, her wardrobe bursting with designer clothes.
But Mira found herself strangely hesitant to keep pulling from that account.
It felt too much like a leash. A silent string tied back to a house that was no longer truly hers.
So one morning, she sat at her marble counter, laptop open, and searched for part-time work. Not out of desperation — she knew she'd never truly lack anything if she didn't want to — but out of some quiet hunger to prove she could.
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The options were almost comical at first. Mira Song, once the darling of Westwood's elite, scrolling past listings for coffee shop baristas and retail clerks.
But a tiny voice inside whispered: Why not?
What was she so afraid of? Scrubbing her own dishes already felt strange and yet… oddly satisfying.
So she filled out a discreet application for a small boutique bookstore tucked on a vine-draped street she'd once driven past countless times without noticing. The pay was modest. The owner was an elderly man with warm eyes who seemed delighted by anyone who loved books.
He didn't even recognize her last name.
That, Mira thought when she stepped out after her short interview, cheeks pink from the owner's easy kindness, might be the best part of all.
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She started the next week.
Her days shifted into simple rhythms. Unlocking the doors in the quiet mornings, sweeping small piles of leaves tracked in by customers, recommending novels to tourists who wandered in because the shop "smelled like real paper."
It was humble, repetitive, a far cry from the glittering charity balls.
But it was hers.
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One rainy Tuesday, she was restocking a high shelf when her phone buzzed.
Adrian: Are you working?
She smiled despite herself, wiping dust on her apron before typing back.
Mira: Yes. Why?
Adrian: I'm outside. Bring me something tragic and literary. Or scandalous poetry.
She rushed to the window — and there he was, leaning against the brick arch in a slate suit dampened by drizzle, hair slightly mussed.
He looked up, caught her eye through the rain-flecked glass, and gave that small half-smile that always turned her bones to soft warmth.
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She brought him a collection of heartbreak poems by a forgotten 19th-century aristocrat.
He flipped through it, dark brows lifting. "Is this how you see me? Brooding and tragic?"
"Mostly dramatic."
He laughed, paid cash without question. Then, almost as an afterthought, pulled a small bag from under his coat.
"Lunch. From that little soup stall down the lane. I figured you wouldn't stop to eat otherwise."
Her throat tightened.
"You know me too well," she whispered.
"Yeah." His eyes softened. "I hope I never stop."
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By the time summer crept over the city, Mira felt changed in small, profound ways.
She learned to balance the register without double-checking each step. Learned to listen for the bell above the shop door and greet strangers without stiff courtesy, just warm welcome.
She found herself lingering in conversations — with a shy girl buying her first romance novel, an older gentleman who confessed his wife used to read poetry aloud by the fireplace.
At night, she walked home through streets alive with golden lamps and music drifting from open café windows.
No chauffeurs. No armored town cars. Just her, her shoes clicking on stone.
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It was the shop owner, Mr. Rehman, who first suggested it.
She was helping him go through old ledgers, learning more about the real shape of small business.
"You have a good head for numbers, Mira," he said, glasses perched on the end of his nose. "Have you ever thought of buying a little property yourself? This neighborhood is growing. A building with two flats above — you rent them out, cover your costs, maybe even live in one someday."
She blinked. "I… I wouldn't even know where to start."
"Start by asking questions," he said, smiling kindly. "You'd be surprised how many people like seeing young folks try."
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The idea gnawed at her.
That night she lay awake in her soft bed, the city breathing below her balcony. The apartment was gorgeous — but it wasn't hers in the truest sense. Just a gift, a pretty cage that could be taken back.
But a building she bought on her own? Something she managed, repaired, cared for? That would be real. That would be earned.
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So she started reading.
Late nights at her dining table, surrounded by printouts on real estate trends, bank loan pamphlets, cautious articles on managing tenants.
Her hands sometimes trembled — the numbers were terrifying. But underneath the fear was something bright.
Hope.
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When she finally made an appointment with a small realtor's office, she didn't tell her parents. Didn't even tell Adrian.
She sat across from a brisk woman named Samina who talked fast, explained zoning laws, gently steered Mira away from overpriced traps.
A week later, Samina took her to see a modest three-story building on a sleepy lane. The ground floor was a closed-up tailor shop, windows dusty. Two apartments above, small but charming, balconies tangled with flowering vines.
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Mira stood on the sidewalk, heart racing.
It wasn't grand. Not at all like the glass towers her father's firm built.
But it felt alive. It felt like possibility.
When she closed her eyes, she could imagine overseeing repairs, choosing soft colors for the walls, helping young couples move in.
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She signed the paperwork a month later. Her hands shook so badly she could barely hold the pen.
When it was done, Samina shook her hand with a proud grin. "Congratulations, Ms. Song. You're officially a landlord."
Mira let out a laugh — startled, breathless, a little tearful.
"Thank you. For everything."
Samina squeezed her hand. "No, thank you. It's rare seeing someone with your means decide to build something small and local. You're going to be good at this."
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That night, Mira took a slow walk past the little building. Lights were starting to glow in nearby windows, the street humming with quiet life.
She stood across from her property — hers, truly hers — and pressed a hand to her chest.
For the first time in months, the weight inside her felt like it might actually float.
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She texted Adrian a photo of the building with a simple caption:
Mira: Look what I did.
Seconds later her phone buzzed.
Adrian: Where are you?
She sent her location.
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Fifteen minutes later, his car pulled up beside the curb.
Adrian got out, didn't even glance at the building first — just wrapped her up in a tight hug. His coat smelled like fresh rain.
When he finally pulled back to look at the building, he let out a soft, impressed whistle.
"You really did it."
"I did." Her smile trembled. "On my own. No trust fund. No parent signatures. Just me."
"That's the most incredible thing I've ever seen you do."
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He cupped her face, thumbs brushing tears she hadn't even realized were falling.
"Can I tell you something selfish?" he asked.
"Always."
"I'm so damn proud of you. But also… I hope you'll let me be part of this new life too. Even if it's just carrying paint cans."
Her breath hitched on a laugh. "You'd do that?"
"I'd do anything if it meant being close to you while you build something that's truly yours."
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Mira leaned in, rested her forehead to his. The street was quiet around them, city lights blinking like tiny stars.
Maybe she was no longer the Song heiress everyone had expected. Maybe her old life was gone forever.
But standing there with Adrian's arms around her, the keys to her very first building warm in her pocket, she felt something better than old privilege.
She felt real.
She felt herself.