Chapter 2

When I got back to my apartment, Uma Hart was waiting for me.

She jumped up as soon as she saw me. "Maeve, did you check Twitter?"

I unlocked my phone.

The top-trending topic was [Alex and Lacey Engaged].

I tapped on it and saw tonight's photos. Alex and Lacey's fingers entwined, with the champagne tower still in the background, not cleared away yet.

The caption read: [The heir of Pollard Group and his first love have finally made it official. Sources say they were already dating ten years ago.]

The comments were flooded with well-wishes.

Now and then, someone would throw shade. [Wasn't he engaged to another woman yesterday?]

But they'd get shut down right away. [That woman was a stand-in, get it? The woman Alex really likes was back, so of course, the stand-in had to step aside."

Uma was shaking with anger. "I'll clap back at those trolls for you."

"No need," I said, putting my phone down.

"Aren't you mad?"

I walked over to the window and stared out into the night. "Uma, if a dog bites you, would you bite it back?"

She froze.

"I won't bite back," I said. "But I can make sure it never bites anyone again."

That night, I couldn't sleep.

It wasn't because of sadness. My mind was a mess, swirling with all kinds of thoughts.

I remembered the first time I met Alex three years ago. He was standing at the party in a white shirt, and I spotted him right away. Later, he told me he liked how quiet I was, how I made him feel at ease.

Then I thought about how, during the past two years, he got busier and more distant. I had figured that was how relationships went sometimes, and never gave it much thought.

I remembered when he proposed three months ago, I really believed I'd finally get the happy ending with him.

But now I realized, from start to finish, I was nothing but a stand-in.

My phone lit up.

It was a text from an unknown number. [Don't let today bother you. Try to get some sleep. Ethan Sinclair.]

Ethan Sinclair? Was he the guy who gave me the handkerchief?

How did he get my number?

I stared at the text for a long time, but didn't reply.

Strangely, I didn't feel so weighed down anymore.

Three days later, I got a call. "Hi, is this Ms. Sutton?"

"Yes, speaking," I replied.

"I'm calling from the Cultural Heritage Preservation Center. Your entry won first place in the 'Reviving Heritage' design competition, and the prize is 60,000 dollars. Are you able to come pick it up?"

I was stunned.

Half a month ago, Uma practically dragged me to sign up for the competition, saying it would help me take my mind off things. So, I tossed in a few sketches without hoping I'd actually win.

60,000 dollars would cover my rent for a whole year.

"Sure, when should I come?" I asked.

As soon as I hung up, Uma shrieked, "Maeve, you've made it."

"Just lucky, I guess," I said.

"Lucky? Seriously?" Uma shot me a look. "You're talented, girl. Alex must be blind. He threw away gold and chose dirt."

I didn't say anything.

Sunlight streamed through the window, spilling across the couch.

I walked over, sat down, and closed my eyes.

Uma kept chattering next to me, saying, "You have to go get your prize. Make sure you look amazing. Let those people who look down on you see you shine."

I listened, eyes still closed.

Sunlight soaked into me, all warm and cozy.

Honestly, that was all I needed.

The day I went to the Cultural Heritage Preservation Center to pick up my prize, I wore a simple white shirt.

The staff was super friendly, gave me a tour, and introduced me to a few legends in the field, the kind of people I never expected to meet in real life.

Finally, a middle-aged man met me privately.

He was dressed in a dark gray suit, giving off a refined, scholarly vibe. There was something familiar about his eyes and brows.

"I'm the director here. My surname is Pollard," he said, handing me his business card. "I've seen your work. It's really good. It's got spirit, and it's rooted in tradition."

"Thank you, Mr. Pollard," I said.

"Would you be interested in working on a project?"

"What's the project?"

"Designing some gifts," he said. "Next year is the establishment of diplomatic relations between our country and Famatish, and we need some gifts for the occasion. You're the right person for this."

I was stunned.

Gifts for the establishment of diplomatic relations? Those must be for presidents and prime ministers.

"I... I'm just a rookie designer," I stammered.

"You're too modest," he said with a smile. "Think it over, and let me know whenever you're ready."

As I was leaving, the receptionist handed me a bouquet.

It was white lisianthus, with a handwritten card that said: [You got this.] No signature.