"I'm serious," I said, prying her fingers off.

Turning around, I looked at the face that now repulsed me to my core.

"Two years of theater. Aren't you tired?" I spat. "The ring is gone, and so is any lingering affection. How much longer do you intend to string me along?"

Her eyes flickered, but she quickly donned her old, fragile mask.

"What are you talking about?" she sobbed. "My legs were genuinely impaired. Treatment has just started showing results. Are you ditching me now? You always resented me, eager to flee?"

Once again, she wielded her disability and fear of abandonment for sympathy. But now, her masterful act was just ridiculous.

I had no energy left to argue with her. Silently, I went back to retrieve the soiled, vacant delivery box.

Without sparing another glance at her or the gawking crowd, I pivoted and trudged into the deluge.

From behind, Mark's puzzled tone carried over. "The truth is out, so what? Scared he'll cry?"

Someone echoed, "An heiress falling for a delivery boy? No way."

Jessica's response eluded my ears.

With the relationship shattered, my delivery gig lost its purpose.

I called my supervisor to resign.

He was baffled. "What's up? You are killing it here. Why quit out of the blue? What about funding your girlfriend's recovery?"

"She's recovered," I smiled bitterly, "fully."

"That's good news," he said sincerely. "After all you've endured, she'll surely repay your kindness. Better days ahead, buddy."

"Better days?" I let out a silent, sardonic laugh.

Jessica was the one who had suggested this grueling job to share burdens. In truth, it was engineered to grind me down on Mark's behalf.

Thankfully, that chapter was closed.

I gathered my belongings and arrived at the city's most opulent hotel the next day.

In the lobby, I looked every bit the disheveled wanderer with my bags in tow.

My ragged appearance clashed with the elegant surroundings, drawing sidelong glances and whispers.

A shrill, venomous voice echoed from behind me. "Well, if it isn't our tireless delivery dynamo, Noah Lane."

Turning around, I saw Mark and his cronies standing there.

I pressed on without pause, lugging my gear deeper into the lobby, but Mark had no intention of letting me slip away.

He and his entourage encircled me, gawking as if I were a circus freak.

"Check this out." Mark theatrically pinched his nostrils, feigning offense at some imagined odor. "A grubby schmuck waltzing into Regal International? Security! What's this place coming to, letting in street scum? It's revolting!"

His cronies piled on.

"Hey, don't soil the rugs."

"Mark, remember? This guy is all principled, claiming money means nothing. Now that his gimpy girlfriend is history, he is here trolling for a rich benefactress?"

Their malicious cackles reverberated through the lobby.

Enduring their fabricated slander, I fixed Mark with a steely glare and ground my teeth. "Back off!"

Mark's expression soured. "Say that again!"

He lunged forward, shoving me with brutal strength.

Unprepared, I reeled backward, slamming into an enormous display cabinet of premium wines and spirits.

The collision sent the cabinet quaking violently.

Scores of exquisitely packaged bottles of château reds and elite malts tumbled down, shattering on the floor.

The cacophony startled everyone. They stared, slack-jawed, at the devastation.

A momentary hush descended, swiftly shattered by amplified mockery.

"What a klutz! Total catastrophe."

"Tally up the damage. This bumpkin is doomed."

"Lafite Rothschild, Romanée-Conti, Macallan rarities... Good lord! What's the tab?"

"Millions easy. Selling himself off wouldn't cover it."

"Can't cover it?" Mark sauntered closer, smirking. "No sweat. Get down and lap up the spill. For each lick, I'll foot a drop's worth. Keep going till I'm satisfied."

The crowd latched onto his cruel suggestion with glee.

"Kneel and slurp."

"Show us your floor-cleaning skills."

They closed in, seizing my arms and forcing me down toward the shattered glass and spilled fortunes.

"Down on your knees! Lick it up!"

"Or jail now!"

A wave of degradation and agony engulfed me as they grabbed my head and shoved me down.

Summoning every ounce of resolve, I jerked my head up and rasped, "I'm the exclusive successor to the Lane Group. Janet Lane is my mother!"

There was a stunned pause, but an explosion of derisive howls followed.

"Did you hear that? The Lane heir?"

"Tycoon mom? He is delusional or brain-fried to spout nonsense."

"If you're an heir, then I'm president."

Mark convulsed with laughter. "Please, the Lane heir owns this joint, and he is my sister's fiancé. Skip summoning your mom. Bring out your fiancée to handle us."

His cronies booed, "This guy is full of hot air. Hilarious!"

Amid this soul-crushing mortification, a silhouette drew near.

Jessica's gown swayed elegantly, her posture exuding confidence.

Spotting me, she gasped, "Noah? Mark? What's going on here?"

She surveyed the wreckage and my subdued position, then addressed me from her lofty vantage. "Noah, how did you wind up like this? Stirring up trouble again? Never mind. If you beg me, I might consider our history and handle this..."

Before she could finish, a commotion came from the hotel entrance.

The onlookers parted quickly, whispering among themselves.

"Is that Pauline Castro? Stunning as ever."

"You bet. Groomed in elite circles, her poise is unmatched."

A striking woman, clad in a black couture gown accented by a sophisticated jacket, marched in with purpose.

Her eyes zeroed in on me, and her face darkened at my pinned, bedraggled state.

"What are you doing?" she snapped.