Chapter 2
It was 2:58 PM.
I stood on the back street of Central Plaza, fixated on the third trash can nearby.
My heart was pounding, and my palms were slick with sweat.
People bustled all around me, everyone dressed to the nines, while I was stuck in my faded T-shirt and jeans, looking like a misfit who'd stumbled into high society.
I could feel the curious glances from the people passing by, and my face was on fire.
I kept sneaking glances at the trash can, like a thief, worried I'd miss something important.
Time ticked by, second by second.
It was three o'clock sharp.
A sleek black Rolls-Royce Phantom glided up to the curb, silent as a shadow.
The window slid down, and a bony hand wearing black gloves reached out, holding an orange box.
With a careless flick, the hand tossed the box.
The orange box dropped perfectly into the opening of the third trash can.
Then the Rolls-Royce sped off, as if nothing had ever happened.
My breath froze for a second.
No way, someone actually tossed something.
I scrambled over, not caring about my dignity or the gawking crowd, and plunged headfirst into the trash can, which reeked of sour, rotten garbage.
Murmurs and snickers rippled through the crowd.
"Oh my god, what's that woman doing?"
"Is she crazy? Digging through the trash in broad daylight?"
I couldn't hear a thing. My mind and eyes were filled with nothing but that orange box.
I rummaged through the pile of rotten veggies and takeout containers, fishing it out and hugging it to my chest like it was the most precious treasure in the world.
The box was brand new, with the iconic Hermès logo printed on it.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
Inside was a crocodile-skin Birkin bag, its color fading from white to gray, nestled quietly in its dust bag.
The clasp was encrusted with tiny diamonds, sparkling fiercely in the sunlight.
It was the Hermès Diamond Platinum Bag.
Even though I was broke, I knew this was the ultimate Hermès bag, so exclusive that not everyone could buy it, and at auctions, it could easily go for millions.
I actually found a bag worth millions in the trash.
"Mom, hurry up. If the cleaning lady comes by and grabs it, we'll lose big time." My son's voice snapped me out of it just in time.
I snapped out of my daze, hugged the box tight, and bolted, sprinting all the way back to my shoebox apartment.
Once I slammed the door shut and leaned against the cold wall, I finally felt alive again.
I took the bag out and gave it a careful once-over, inspecting every detail.
It was brand new, not a single scratch on it.
The authenticity card, the manual, and even the store receipt were all there.
The price on the receipt had so many zeros that it made my head spin. It was 1.2 million.
I collapsed onto the floor, clutching the bag, laughing and sobbing like a crazy person.
I was saved. My baby and I were finally safe.
"Thank you, babe," I choked out, my hand resting on my belly.
My son's voice echoed, a hint of smugness in his tone, "Mom, this is just a little appetizer.
"Dad was in a bad mood today, so he only tossed out something small. Wait till he's feeling good. He'll be dropping the real treasures.
"Don't worry, Mom. Stick with me, and you'll be living the good life. Soon, you'll be the richest pregnant woman on the planet."
I couldn't help but laugh through my tears.
Even though it all felt like a dream, I knew my life had changed forever.
The first thing I did was head to a luxury resale shop and sell the bag.
When the shop owner saw the bag, his eyes nearly popped out of his head. He kept turning it over, checking every detail, and finally looked at me like he'd just seen a unicorn. "Miss, is this bag legit?"
"A friend gave it to me. I don't like it, so I'm selling it," I lied, not even blinking.
At the end of the day, I sold the bag for 1.1 million.
When the deposit notification pinged on my phone, I stared at those numbers, my head spinning with excitement.
The next thing I did was ditch that shabby apartment and rent myself a luxury place.
Finally, I could sleep on a big, soft bed and eat hot meals, instead of jerking awake from nightmares, worrying about tomorrow's rent.
I even hired a nutritionist to cook up a variety of meals every day, all tailored for expectant mothers like me.
My son piped up, "Mom, this sea bass is awesome. Eat more. It's brain food. Oh, and let's have some soup. It's great for my skin."
As I ate, listening to my son call out his cravings from inside my belly, I felt happier than ever.
This was the life.
But there was this nagging question in the back of my mind.
Why would Tavian, the richest man in the country, do something like this? Was he really my baby's dad?