Chapter One

I had once been the favorite “little candy bird” of the most sought-after bachelor in this city—Alexander. By the fourth year, he was tired of me.

The first time we met, he saved me when my boss was squeezing me over my debts, and scooped me up into his arms.

The last time we met, he stood far away from me.

“Lillian, Cinderella marrying into a tycoon’s world doesn’t happen in real life. I don’t think you’re that naive.”

“Take this. Think of it as my last compensation to you.”

I stared at the one-dollar bill he handed me. I didn’t say a word. I quietly packed my things and left.

For a long time afterward, we never spoke.

Until the day he saw me again—from the audience.

Saw me, Lillian Chester.

The girl a billionaire had finally found and brought home.

…

…

His warmth still lingered against my skin, the air steeped in tobacco and musk, warm and heady. I curled up against Alexander’s broad chest like a satisfied cat, my fingertips idly playing with the delicate mother-of-pearl button on his shirt. My heart was beating too fast, swollen with a strange, chrysalis-splitting hope.

“Alexander.” I lifted my head and looked into his deep gray-blue eyes, my voice carrying the faintest, almost imperceptible tremor. “There’s something really important I want to tell you.”

I wanted to tell him I’d found where I belonged, that I wasn’t a rootless piece of driftweed anymore. I wanted to say, Look, there’s finally nothing messy between us. We can start over like any normal couple. Maybe… maybe we could even have a future.

But he spoke first. His tone was so calm, it was like he was discussing some trivial contract—instantly icing over all the warmth inside me.

“Lillian. Good. I have something to tell you too.” He gently eased me away from his chest, just enough, his gaze turning remote. “I’m getting married.”

My heart clenched hard. I blurted out, “...To who?”

“Isabella Wentworth.”

Isabella. The name jabbed into my chest like an icicle. His first love, the girl from an impeccable family, the untouchable moonlight he’d never really forgotten.

“Why… so sudden?” My voice came out dry.

“It’s not sudden.” He lit a cigarette, his profile looking cut from stone through the veil of smoke. “We’ve been planning it for a year.”

A year. Of course.

No wonder he’d been getting busier this past year, seeing me less and less, every hug feeling more perfunctory. He’d been paving the way for his bright, respectable marriage. I, the hidden mistress, had become a loose end that needed to be dealt with properly.

Four years of companionship, of countless nights spent holding each other up, all shriveled into a bad joke. Tears burned my eyes; I forced them not to fall.

“Then what were these four years to us…?” I heard the crack in my own voice.

He frowned slightly, as if my question was embarrassingly out of line.

“Lillian,” he said, impatience creeping in, like a parent lecturing a child, “don’t tell me you actually thought you could become Mrs. Thorne?”

He let out a short, derisive laugh, his answer mercilessly clear. “We were just taking what we needed from each other. You took care of my needs, I gave you a comfortable life. Fair trade, isn’t it?”

Mutual benefit. Perfectly fair.

The pain in my chest grew so sharp it tipped into numbness. I got out of bed in silence, bare skin prickling in the cool air, and walked over to the nightstand. I took out the credit card I’d begged off my biological parents—“for the person who’s helped me a lot.” The card felt cold and hard against my fingertips. I held it out to him.

I wanted to say, This is the last of what I owe you. We’re even now.

But he only flicked a glance at the card, then at me, a cold, almost cruel curve lifting his lips.

“Keep it.” He cut me off, his tone flippant, like he was shooing away some persistent beggar. “Call it your final payment. You’ve earned it.”

Payment.

So my four years of youth and love, in his eyes, were nothing but a transaction to be settled in cash.

He dressed quickly, sliding back into his suit and armor of distance until he was once again Mr. Thorne: immaculate, untouchable. At the door, he paused. Without turning around, he left me with a final, glacial warning:

“You’ve always known how to be discreet. Keep it that way. Don’t appear in front of my wife. Don’t cause trouble.”

The soft click of the door sounded louder than a slam. I was alone in the vast apartment, with nothing but the fading trace of his scent in the air.

I sat on the rumpled bed, chilled to the bone. The thin card in my hand suddenly weighed a thousand pounds, branding itself into my palm—and my heart.

After a long time, I picked up my phone and dialed the familiar number.

“Mom.” My voice was eerily calm, edged with a tired rasp. “It’s me.”

On the other end, Margaret’s voice was warm and urgent. “Baby! Our flight is in seven days, we’ll be there to get you right on time. Everything’s ready.” She paused, then her tone turned cautious and hopeful. “But… didn’t you say on the phone last time there was someone very important you wanted to bring home for us to meet?”

I stared out at the city beyond the window, glittering and cold in the night. Slowly, very slowly, I let my eyes close. A single hot tear slid down and splashed against the back of my cold hand.

“No. They don’t have to meet him.” I said softly, each word cutting through the girl I used to be.

“He… isn’t anyone important.”