I jolted awake to the sound of my mother shouting and cursing. It was never a good sign. I dressed silently, terrified of letting her know I was awake, even more terrified of seeing the liquor bottle clenched in her hand.

Mom wasn't always like this.

She came from a Catholic family. She never laid a finger on me until I turned thirteen.

That was the year I started frequenting the city library. There, amid dusty newspaper archives and internet searches, I pieced together a hazy image of the man—my father. A playboy, now a real estate mogul. He slept with her once, vanished without a trace when she got pregnant, leaving her utterly alone.

She was a talented pianist once, full of promise. How she failed to see the unbridgeable class chasm between them, I still couldn't fathom.

The only silver lining was that after that hard lesson, she never mentioned him when sober, and forbade me from doing the same.

We lived in a shabby little house, its location painfully "strategic"—right next to the city's most expensive, modern riverside district, separated only by a river. There stood the glass-walled headquarters of ThreadLink, and its founder and CEO—his smile, omnipresent on screens 24/7, was the thing I clung to for survival. He was my lifeline.

He knew nothing about it, and I had absolutely no intention of letting him know anytime soon.

His name was Wesley Jones. He was like a god from another galaxy.

The archetypal American Dream tech wunderkind, gracing the covers of finance and tech magazines while still young, always pictured alongside the impeccably bred, elegant Paige Amorta. Every time a news feed showed them side-by-side at a charity gala or industry summit, my heart felt pricked by a thousand tiny needles. But thank God, the tabloids had never dug up anything more concrete.

I felt myself sinking slowly into the mire of my life, and I could not, would not, drag him into my filthy quagmire. Even if it was just the unrealistic fantasy I indulged in before sleep.

My name is Emilia. A silly name for a silly girl. At least, that's what my mom says.

Ever since John Green wrote that book, the name's been everywhere. People would always ask, half-joking, if my mom named me after it, completely ignoring the fact I was born years before it was published.

I ride my motorcycle too fast, and I'm far too sharp-tongued with my colleagues at the community center. It's not entirely my fault—some of them can be insufferably stuffy—but my inability to hold my tongue definitely is.

Okay, I'm a community worker. Though most of the time, I suspect I got this job because my mom was genuinely worried she'd end up killing me in a drunken rage at home. This way, it's just easier.

But this job forces me to work hard at concealing the bruises my mother leaves on my arms, and the shadows that lurk in my eyes when my mind occasionally drifts.

It's another reason why there can be no real intersection with Wesley. Even though his skyscraper and my community center face each other across the street. He can't be pulled into this. A mother who's an alcoholic, emotionally volatile mess would only hurt anyone who tried to get close to me. I used to have friends, but once Mom started spiraling, her midnight screams, the sound of shattering objects, and her vicious suspicions and curses directed at my friends drove them all away.

Let's just say they caught a whiff of the madness seeping from behind my front door, and afterwards, their eyes held only fear and distance whenever they saw me.

Mom detests any connection I might have with any man because it's a constant reminder of *him*. He was her dream, who then discarded her like trash upon waking, for a woman better suited to his status and class. It shattered her completely. And Mom, in turn, poured all her pain and hatred onto me.

On my way out, I caught a hurried glimpse in the cracked hallway mirror. A fresh bruise on my jawbone stubbornly announced its presence. Mom always hit with "precision." Even with my youth speeding recovery, it would be clearly visible for a while. I sighed in relief at having successfully slipped out this morning without triggering another storm, climbed onto my second-hand scooter, and sped towards the "community center" across the river.

The community center. My refuge in reality, and my personal "hell"—where I had to perpetually play the role of the positive, cheerful, can-handle-anything Emilia.

The Sunnyvale Community Center, nestled among slightly unkempt old houses in an aging neighborhood, was as ordinary as they come. A mix of volunteers, aid recipients, social workers—all sorts. But even here, invisible lines existed. A subtle glass wall separated the wealthy college kids from nearby universities, volunteering in their designer sneakers to pad their resumes, from the families truly struggling to make ends meet.

And I was the center's resident "girl with a past." Though I didn't touch a drop myself.

I guess showing up a few times with a black eye, or the lingering scent of cheap liquor on my clothes (which I had no time or means to fully wash off), started the rumors. Rumors of a wild, drinking lifestyle. The center nearly fired me over it. In reality, it was just my out-of-control mother hitting me with the bottle again. If I was late for work… let's just say the "punishment" at home would be worse.

I wobbled my scooter into its spot in the bike shed, sighed, and my gaze involuntarily drifted across the street to the glass giant gleaming in the morning sun—ThreadLink Headquarters. My heart gave a violent lurch. Because there, right outside the imposing main entrance, I saw him. Wesley Jones in the flesh. He didn't even glance at this insignificant corner across the street. Those famously cool blue eyes, which often looked detached in magazine photos, now held a rare, soft warmth as they looked at the girl on his arm.

Paige Amorta.

Breathtakingly beautiful, with that bone-deep elegance money and good breeding provide. And, by all accounts, kind, charitable, flawless.

She probably wasn't the type to lose her composure if you just talked to Wesley. Rumor had it they'd known each other since childhood, their families old friends. When the time was right, and both families deemed it suitable, she would be the obvious "Mrs. Jones" in everyone's eyes. It didn't matter to me, though a pathetic corner of my heart still fluttered for him.

*'Hey, if you didn't skulk around like a damn shadow, maybe he'd notice an actual living person.'* The more impulsive voice in my head piped up again. She surfaced every time I saw him, even though she understood the hopelessness of our situation. She was the one screaming and recoiling in my mind whenever we even fantasized about dragging him into our real-life picture.

She couldn't even imagine the hysterical reaction my mother would have to him, to everything he represented. A man from the rich lists, a young king of a tech empire! It would absolutely make her think of my father.

I quickened my pace past the community center entrance, forcing myself not to throw another glance across the street. My worn-out Doc Martens made a firm *clack* on the concrete. My perpetually unruly black hair was tied in a simple ponytail. I could almost smell his cologne—ocean breeze, crisp mint, a hint of morning coffee beans—a hallucination, of course, born from magazine interviews and a busy street between us.

I could picture his low laugh, blending seamlessly with the efficient, clean world around him. A familiar, sharp ache twisted in my chest as I pushed open the community center's somewhat heavy glass door.

A world that had nothing to do with me.

Yet its gravitational pull felt utterly real.

I walked down the slightly noisy hallway, shoved my backpack into my tiny assigned locker, slammed it shut, and headed for my first task: assisting the after-school teen program. I habitually took a seat in the corner by the window in the activity room, closed my eyes, and let the morning sunlight filter through the grimy windowpane onto my face. Long after the signal for the session to start had sounded, I remained in that position, not even noticing Lisa, the supervising social worker, had begun roll call.

"Emilia? Sweetie, care to join us and share that community mural idea you mentioned last week with the kids?" I opened one eye to find about a dozen children, and Lisa, all looking at me.

"Doesn't have to be me," I forced my usual easygoing smile. "But if you're really interested, I can ramble a bit." The kids gave a good-natured chuckle. Even the quiet boy in the corner, newly arrived, head perpetually bowed, suspected of being abused—the corner of his mouth twitched. God, that tiny crack in his facade made my heart soften instantly.

"We're discussing using art to express community spirit for the upcoming street art festival. If you were to lead a project, what theme would you want to express? Or, beyond the usual 'unity' or 'hope,' do you have any… bolder ideas?" Lisa looked at me encouragingly.

I pressed my lips together, my thoughts drifting for a second. "Maybe… 'camouflage'?" The words slipped out, surprising even me, my voice rising unconsciously. "Or 'resilience.' Or, hell, 'a silent scream'!"

My tone turned sharp on the last few words, edged with an aggression I hadn't intended. Lisa's eyes widened in surprise. I snapped back to reality, realizing I'd let my real emotions slip. I scrambled up from the floor, grabbed my canvas backpack, muttered a hurried "Sorry, need air," and practically fled the activity room.

I leaned against the cool metal lockers in the hallway, my fingertips trembling slightly. Less than ten minutes in, and I'd messed up again, almost exposing the fragile facade in front of the kids.

I slid down the locker door to sit on the floor, letting the back of my head gently thump against the hard metal surface.

"Stupid, Emilia. So stupid," I whispered to myself, eyes closed.

"Why think that about yourself?" A gentle male voice spoke above me. My eyes flew open. Looking up, I saw Andrew Collins standing there. Wesley Jones's constant companion, ThreadLink's co-founder and COO, frequently appearing alongside Wesley in business news. And, incidentally, also a volunteer at the community center.

Wesley and Andrew were polar opposites.

Wesley was the quiet one, the thinker lost in code and strategy, often appearing aloof or awkward in public. Andrew was the born socialite, with a charming smile, a master of PR and negotiation, ThreadLink's smoothest and most public-friendly face. Wesley cared about every logical detail of the product; Andrew seemed to navigate the business world with sheer savvy and interpersonal skill, securing astounding deals without deep technical diving.

"Lost it a bit in the session, huh? I'm guessing that's making the rounds in the volunteer chat." He nodded, then, to my shock, simply sat down on the floor opposite me. Those perceptive dark eyes gazed calmly into my green ones.

"Actually, Lisa just texted asking if I'd seen you. She's a bit worried." Damn smartphones. Damn WhatsApp. I cursed internally.

"You know she's grouping the kids for the street art festival project, right?" I groaned, closing my eyes and shaking my head, fingers digging into my hair. "And, to introduce 'cross-disciplinary thinking,' she wants to bring in some 'guest advisors.'"

"Any clues as to which big shot I might be getting paired with?" I looked up to see an impossibly fast, thoughtful flicker cross his face. He tapped the side of his phone once, clearly reading a message or typing a quick reply. This new tech elite really needed to learn how to mask those micro-expressions better from the old-money crowd.

"You and… well, Wesley. Our CEO. Have been proposed as a 'cross-disciplinary creative pair.' Lisa pulled some strings, got through to ThreadLink's CSR department. Wesley actually agreed to take it on himself." My eyes widened. He watched the color drain from my face, his brow furrowing with concern.

"Fuck. I have to go." I scrambled to my feet, grabbed my backpack, and fled down the hallway towards the restroom. I stared at my panicked reflection, rubbing my eyes hard until tiny sparks danced in my vision.

"It's fine. Be professional. Keep your distance. Pretend you don't know him. Treat him like any other collaborator. Keep it strictly business. Don't touch him. Don't get close. Don't let him sense anything… or this will be beyond humiliating." *'I don't even believe that crap myself,'* I sneered internally.

I rolled my eyes at my reflection. Just then, my old phone buzzed in my pocket—the next session was about to start. I took a deep breath, grabbed my bag, and headed for the children's activity zone. Thank God he wouldn't be there. Yet. But my thoughts were already spiraling towards that name.

I could almost feel the aura of his world in the air—not a scent, but an intangible pressure, a sense of ultimate order and efficiency, radiating from James, his ever-present, sharp-eyed head of security.

I carefully constructed his image in my mind, the imagined mix of sea salt, mint, and coffee unsettling me. What would I even look like under his reportedly algorithm-like observation? Probably like an incongruous bug in the code, bearing the marks of a struggle at the bottom, with occasional defensive spikes.

Time crawled by in a blur of mundane tasks until the lunch break finally offered a sliver of respite.

Entering the cramped staff lounge/kitchen, heading for the vending machine, I felt several pairs of colleagues' eyes on me. I pulled out a crumpled five-dollar bill—today's lunch budget—and bought the cheapest yogurt and an apple. At least it saved money and made me look less pitiable. Turning to find a quiet corner, I almost bumped into someone.

"Emilia, wait!" It was Andrew. He stood by the small round table usually claimed by management and senior volunteers, waving me over. Curious glances immediately ping-ponged between us. So, "mysterious, prickly Emilia" talking to "ThreadLink's co-founder" was going to be lunchtime gossip.

"What is it, Andrew?" I tried to keep my voice neutral.

"Wesley wanted to have a preliminary chat about ideas for the art festival project. He's got an urgent conference call, but it should wrap up soon." I knew exactly what this meant, but said nothing. That familiar, twisted ache of longing and dread bloomed in my chest again, so familiar it was almost numbness.

The first time I'd realized my absurd fixation on him, it felt like a shameful torment. But I'd learned to live with it. This hopeless "pang" had been a constant for two years now.

"Emilia. Hey." A low, slightly rough voice, infinitely more real and affecting than any audio clip, sounded behind me. I turned and met Wesley Jones's famous blue eyes. Something *clicked* in my mind, like a secret switch had been thrown. I felt a part of me screaming internally, begging to be let out, but I used all my strength to shove it back down. He was walking over with Paige, who looked like she'd just rushed from a formal event, a strand of hair out of place.

"Hey, uh—" My throat was dry.

"Wesley." He supplied, the corner of his mouth seeming to quirk ever so slightly. I knew his name. God, of course I did.

"Sorry, this art festival collaboration is a bit… unexpected. Any initial thoughts on adapting Shakespeare for street art?" He leaned in slightly, pulling a worn paperback from his impeccably tailored briefcase—*The Complete Works of Shakespeare*. The spine was cracked, as if read countless times. A faint scent, like antique paper mixed with clean, crisp wood, wafted towards me. It took all my willpower not to inhale deeply, obviously.

"You mentioned camouflage or resilience earlier… I thought the core idea could be interesting combined with drama." I nodded, almost mechanically taking the book, my fingers brushing the damaged cover. The cool touch grounded me slightly. Clutching the book and my half-eaten apple, I made to turn away.

"Okay. I'll look this over. We can talk later."

"Wait." Just as I looked down to hide my fluster, a warm, dry hand gently closed around my upper arm.

Not a grab. Just a steady hold.

Instantly, a strange current shot across my skin. Not painful, but it made every hair stand on end and my heart stop. I froze, eyes wide, clearly hearing his own breath hitch almost imperceptibly behind me.

*Shit.*

"Later, Wesley." I didn't turn, my voice tight. I quickened my pace, trying not to look like I was running.

I practically shoved the lounge door open, then broke into a jog towards the stairs. Just as I rounded the first landing, I heard the door open behind me. "Emilia, wait!" "Damn it, damn it, damn it," I hissed under my breath, taking the stairs two at a time.

I climbed several flights until I reached the usually locked fire door to the roof. Fumbling out the spare key Lisa had given me, I unlocked it, slipped through, and gently closed it behind me. Thank God. It was high enough, quiet enough, far enough from his disorienting sphere of influence.

I walked to the shaded edge of the roof, slid down the rough brick wall, and took a bite of my now-browning apple before opening the heavy book.

I did what I'd wanted to do downstairs—brought the pages close to my nose and took a deep, stealthy breath. The scent lingering there, maybe from his study, his fingertips, his orderly world. I spent the entire lunch break flipping pages, smiling at the occasional hasty pencil notes in the margins. The handwriting was sharp, a bit rushed, with a few tiny ink blots.

On the flyleaf, in elegant script, it read: *"For Wesley, may you always retain your insight into classic texts. Love, Mom. July 23, 2007."*

A birthday gift for the ten-year-old future ThreadLink founder. Knowing this made me feel like a pathetic voyeur, but I couldn't stop imagining the little boy who'd received it.

Just before the bell signaled the end of lunch, I headed back down. Passing the conference room sometimes rented out to corporations for high-end training, I made the mistake of glancing inside the partially open door.

My gaze crashed directly into Wesley Jones's icy blue depths. He was listening intently to someone's presentation, but in that split second, he seemed to sense something. His eyes shifted to the doorway, locking with mine.

Time suspended. It was a dizzying, weightless feeling. My lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. Then, a child's piercing scream erupted from downstairs, yanking me violently back to reality.

"Damn." I turned and dashed down the stairs as fast as I could, running for the bike shed. I jumped on my scooter, started it, and sped away. In the rearview mirror, I saw him step out of the community center's main doors, standing on the steps, his gaze following the taillight of my retreating scooter, his figure looking oddly tall and… solitary in the afternoon light.

That night, Mother was particularly vicious.

Maybe some memory had resurfaced. Her liquor bottle connected with my cheekbone, splitting the skin. The sting of alcohol mixing with blood was nothing compared to the insane hatred in her eyes.

"Spacing out?" She sniffed the air like a feral animal, though I swore I carried no scent. "Over what?? A man, isn't it? You want to be like me? Want to end up a worthless, discarded mess like me?!"

After her tirade, she collapsed, exhausted, onto the sofa. I stumbled upstairs to my tiny room. Locking the door, I stripped and stood before the full-length mirror.

The body reflected back wasn't perfect, marked by fresh purples and old, faded scars. I took out the razor blade hidden deep in a drawer, closed my eyes, and pressed the sharp edge against the skin of my thigh.

Too thick. The lines weren't elegant enough, not slender. Not like Paige, whose every gown in news photos accentuated just the right curves.

Would he ever accept this? I wasn't blonde, had no pedigree, no carefree past—just a messed-up family and a heart full of scars. I only knew my biological father's name: Everette Collins. A man I'd never met, reportedly successful in real estate. I'd never tried to find him until this moment, when the thought pierced me sharply—if I had a normal father, a decent family, would I have the courage to face Wesley Jones on slightly more equal footing?

Maybe, if I had those things, I'd have allowed myself a shred of genuine fantasy about him. Maybe he would have… No. Stop. Irritated, I tossed the blade aside, not bothering with the thin line of blood on my leg, and fell onto the bed fully clothed. Muffled, hitched sobs drifted up from downstairs. She still loved the man who ruined her, using her pain to torture both herself and me. Every time she sobered up slightly, the regret and rage intensified, and I was the only available target.

My cheek burned, the bruise on my cheekbone stark in the mirror. I closed my eyes, feeling my way downstairs, holding my breath, moving like a shadow along the wall.

Only after slipping out the front door and swinging onto my scooter did I let out a long breath. The engine's roar temporarily drowned out the internal screaming. I'd barely slept an hour last night before Mom, drunk, stormed in and woke me by squeezing my throat. I knew there would be fingerprints. Thank God for today's high-necked sweater.

As I rode into the dedicated parking behind the community center, the air seemed to freeze for a second. Andrew, James, and Wesley himself were walking from a低调 but undoubtedly expensive black sedan, seemingly returning from a meeting. I sighed, parked, kicked down the stand, and bent to fiddle with my lock, head down.

"Hi, Emilia." Andrew's voice was, as always, friendly.

I took a deep breath, looked up, and removed my helmet. Andrew's customary smile froze instantly. James's pupils contracted slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. My hair tumbled down, attempting to veil my cheek.

Wesley's gaze was like a precision laser, instantly locking onto the bruise on my cheekbone I couldn't fully hide. His Adam's apple bobbed. His jawline tightened abruptly. A storm seemed to gather in those ice-blue eyes. He took a step forward, his voice low, but carrying a cold, terrifying anger:

"Who did this? Do you need me to call the police?"