Chapter 1
The prince of Metropolis high society was bawling his eyes out over a woman who'd run off.
My high-and-mighty boss, Charles Peyton, scoffed, "She's just a plaything. If she's gone, buy yourself a new one. Why the drama?"
I wiped the orange juice off my hands, totally agreeing with him.
That night, I packed up the roughly 27 million dollars I'd made off him over the past five years.
I left a resignation letter and flew off to Alzsee.
After I landed, the man who always had everything under control sent me ninety-nine voice messages.
The last one, his voice sounded like a dying dog, was, "Sophia Dean, how dare you leave me?"
It was late autumn in Metropolis, and the wind was sharp as a knife.
But inside the VIP suite on the top floor of The Pullman Club, the heat was blasting, making it almost hard to breathe.
Lucas Reed was sitting on the carpet.
There were seven or eight empty Romanée-Conti bottles scattered around him.
The young heir of Metropolis high society, who was usually so full of himself, was now hugging a pillow and sobbing like a mess, all dignity out the window.
Lucas shouted, "What right does she have to leave? I bought her a house and a car. I made her the leading actress. And now she just says she doesn't love me and runs off to France?"
Lucas's eyes were red as he pounded the edge of the sofa, gritting his teeth.
I sat in the corner on an armchair, peeling a tangerine.
The juice got on my nails, making them sticky.
Charles sat right beside me.
His legs were crossed, and his dark gray tailored suit was flawless, not a wrinkle anywhere.
He was fiddling with a silver Zippo lighter in his hand.
The metallic click of the lighter opening and closing echoed through the suite, sharp and grating.
"Enough," Charles said, lifting his gaze, his tone cool and detached. "It's not worth all this drama. Why act like it's life or death?"
Lucas looked up at him, desperate, like he was clutching at straws. "Bro, you don't get it. Joey's different..."
"Different how?" Charles scoffed, the blue flame of the lighter flickering, casting a cold light on his handsome but emotionless face.
"She's just a canary in a cage, there for your amusement. If she flew away, it means she was never yours to keep. Better to cut your losses now, it's for your own good," Charles said.
Charles leaned back, looking relaxed and unbothered.
"I'm getting engaged to the Shaw heiress next month. You should pull yourself together and stop wasting your time on those girls who aren't even worth mentioning," Charles said.
The suite fell into a dead silence.
Lucas just froze, completely caught off guard.
Even my hands paused, the tangerine half-peeled in my fingers.
Engaged.
The Shaw heiress.
Melissa Shaw.
I lowered my gaze, staring at the bright orange juice on my fingertips.
I pulled out a wet wipe and cleaned each finger, one by one, until they were spotless.
Charles turned to me, opening his mouth like he expected it.
I just fed him the peeled tangerine segment, no questions asked.
He took a bite, his brow furrowing slightly. "It's sour."
"Sorry, Mr. Peyton. Next time I'll pick a better one," I said, my voice gentle and perfectly polite.
He seemed pleased with how obedient I was, reaching out to ruffle my hair like I was some prized ragdoll cat.
"Tomorrow, go pick out a set of jewelry. Next month's engagement party, you're my chief secretary, so you need to hold your own," Charles said.
I looked into his deep eyes.
There was admiration, familiarity, and the possessiveness of a man who was used to owning everything.
Respect was the one thing missing.
And love? Not even a trace.
"Yes, Mr. Peyton," I replied, curving my lips into a perfect, unbreakable smile.