Chapter 3

His eyes looked slightly red, though I might have been mistaken.

After sewing uniforms in a federal prison for three years, my eyes tended to play tricks on me.

"The car is in great shape," I said, straightening up and wiping the sweat from my forehead with my elbow. "But the brake pads are a bit worn. You should get them replaced. My shop is too small to carry OEM parts, so you’ll have to go to an authorized dealership."

I pointed him in the direction of the nearest dealership and immediately opened my lunchbox.

Orange chicken, beef stir-fry, and some greasy veggies—all my favorites.

But even as I snapped my wooden chopsticks apart, Mason made no move to leave.

Confused, I thought about it for a second and pushed the takeout box toward him.

"Are you hungry, Mr. Miller? If you don’t mind, you can have some."

Mason’s gaze flickered. His eyes lingered on the black grease permanently stained under my fingernails, then drifted to the shiny, oily food in the box.

When he spoke, his voice was raspy:

"This is all cheap, processed microwave food. It’s unhealthy... You never used to eat this."

In his memory, I was a picky eater who only ate organic salads and fresh sashimi.

If the food was even slightly un-fresh, I would spend the night throwing up in the bathroom.

I smiled.

"Well, prison food doesn’t have much flavor, and now I do manual labor all day. It cured all my spoiled habits."

"Every takeout place uses pre-made ingredients nowadays. Their spicy chicken is actually really good. You should try some, Mr. Miller."

"Oh, look! They even threw in an extra packet of chili oil today. What a steal!"

I happily took the chili oil packet and tossed it into a plastic storage bin behind me.

The bin was already half-full of free condiment packets. On tight days, buying a loaf of bread and using these was enough to get by.

Mason suddenly stood up, his voice thick with emotion:

"Stop it!"

I froze, startled by his sudden outburst.

In the next second, he threw a black card onto the counter.

"This is my secondary card. Take it."

He moved so abruptly that he knocked over the small camp stool and almost flipped my lunchbox.

Fortunately, my reflexes were quick. I leaned to the side and shielded my precious orange chicken.

"Mr. Miller," I said, feeling a bit helpless. "If you’re not going to eat, I’d like to finish my lunch..."

"Valerie!" Mason growled, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. "I’m serious!"

"This card is linked to my platinum account. It has a five-million-dollar limit. Use it however you want."

"Buy a nice storefront. Start a real, clean business. Be your own boss. Stop staying in this filthy hole working as a grease monkey!"

"You used to be an elite skier from a wealthy family! Have you forgotten who you are?!"

His roaring words echoed in the small shop, instantly dragging me back into the past.

My family indeed used to be incredibly wealthy. My father was one of the top venture capitalists in Seattle.

I was the pampered, only daughter of a billionaire family until I was seven, when my mother got pregnant with twin girls.

But just as we were happily anticipating the arrival of my baby sisters, my father’s affair came to light.

He fell head over heels for a mixed-race model, loving her with a passion that defied all logic.

It got so bad that the mistress literally showed up at our house, demanding my mother sign the divorce papers.

My mother was a proud, fiery woman. A fierce argument broke out. In the chaos, I saw with my own eyes that woman extending her long, red manicured nails, grabbing my mother by the throat, and shoving her down the grand spiral staircase.

One mother, two unborn babies. Dead on impact.

Afterward, to force me to change my police statement, my father locked me in the basement and beat me for a day and a night. His abuse eventually bought his mistress’s acquittal.

They got married. The mistress brought her own daughter from a previous marriage—my stepsister, Amber.

And so, my living nightmare began.

The beatings, the verbal abuse, the false accusations, the non-stop bullying.

To survive, I fled to Switzerland. I trained like a madwoman, became a competitive skier, and took the sports world by storm.

Back then, Mason was studying at a prestigious business school in Zurich.

After catching a glimpse of me on a live broadcast, he became my most devoted fan.

Every time I crossed the finish line, he would be in the front row of the stands, holding a giant banner with my name, screaming at the top of his lungs.

When a corrupt referee unfairly disqualified me, he led a protest with his classmates through the Swiss streets just to demand justice for me.

He was there to comfort me through my injuries, and he encouraged me through my darkest lows.

Finally, when I crossed the finish line in first place at the championships, I unbuckled my skis and ran straight toward him in the stands.

Amidst the swirling confetti and the roaring crowd, under the gaze of thousands, I hugged him tightly.

The dynamic of idol and fan ended there. He became my publicly acknowledged boyfriend.

But I never could have imagined that on the night of my victory, as we strolled down a quiet Swiss street, two armed muggers would jump us from the shadows.

They wanted our money and watches. To protect me, Mason immediately lunged at them, getting into a brutal fight.

I was terrified. Fearing he would get hurt, I threw myself into the scuffle without a second thought.

In the chaotic frenzy, a gunshot echoed. A bullet pierced my chest.

It didn’t kill me, but it collapsed my lung and scraped past my heart.

From that day on, I could never participate in any extreme sports again.

Including skiing.

But I never regretted it.

Mason was the love of my life. His safety was far more important than any trophy.

I could have won a hundred gold medals, but I only had one Mason.

As I lay in the hospital bed, weakly holding his hand and whispering those words to him, he wept uncontrollably, burying his face in my chest.

"Valerie, let’s go back to the States. My family has deep connections in both politics and business. No matter what you want to do next, I will back you up to the end!"

Mason was that kind of man. He wasn’t good with sweet words, but he showed his love through action.

Filled with hope and joy, I held his hand as we flew back home.

At the airport, we were met by Amber.

The moment she saw the wealthy young heir standing next to me, her eyes widened in shock, but she quickly masked it with a brilliant, sweet smile.

It reminded me so much of her gold-digging mother standing next to my father. Their smiles had the exact same, calculating curve.

And that dark premonition quickly became reality.