"It's impossible… Mr. Quinton is not that kind of person!" I insisted.

Myra let out a cold laugh. "Even with solid proof, you're still refusing to admit it? Then tell me, why would he go to a hotel? To fix a Maybach there?"

I suddenly shoved Myra's phone away.

"He was delivering food! That car… It just happened to pass by!" I retorted loudly.

Tears streamed down my cheeks, making me look both pitiful and stubborn. "I won't let you slander him!"

Ignoring Myra's mocking laughter, I stormed out of the dormitory.

That evening, Henry came as usual in that old, beaten-up Geely to pick me up from work.

He had changed back into his shabby clothes, and there was even a faint sour smell on him.

The moment I got into the car, I didn't even bother fastening my seatbelt. Instead, I lunged at him, grabbed his collar, and buried my face against the side of his neck, taking in a deep inhale.

Henry stiffened at once. "What are you doing? Are you getting horny or something?"

I ignored him and continued checking for any trace of perfume.

Fortunately, I only picked up the scent of smoke and sweat.

I released him, choosing not to ask about the Maybach or bring up the hotel. Instead, I took an envelope out of my bag. It was thick and packed tightly.

It was my first internship salary, totaling two thousand dollars.

I placed it into his hands.

"Mr. Quinton, this is for you," I said.

Henry frowned as he pinched the envelope. "What do you mean by this?"

I kept my head down, nervously fidgeting with my fingers.

"Stop taking those exhausting part-time jobs. They don't pay much, but at least it's clean money. I can eat less. I don't need makeup, and I can wear old clothes."

I looked up at him earnestly and continued, "I can support you. Really."

Henry stared at the two thousand dollars in his hand.

For him, it wasn't even enough to buy a single cigar. Yet as he looked at me, there was, for the first time, a flicker of hesitation.

"Sam, what exactly are you after?" he asked.

He grabbed my chin and forced me to meet his gaze.

"I've got no money, no house, and I'm an ex-convict. I've also got a terrible temper. With your looks, you could easily end up with a rich heir. Why are you staying with me and putting yourself through this?"

I didn't answer him immediately. Instead, I leaned my face into his rough palm like a kitten clinging to its owner.

After a long moment, I finally mumbled, "I like that you're a little rough around the edges. I like that you don't always bother to shower, and I like the way you still shield me from the wind, even when you're scolding me. Those rich guys look at me like I'm an object, but you look at me like I'm a person."

In truth, Henry looked at me like I was an idiot, but my words still managed to move him. In that instant, I had completely hooked him, tugging at both his pride and his protective instincts.

He released me, said nothing, and lit a cigarette in silence. In the haze of smoke, he pulled me into his arms. His movements were a little stiff, but firm.

"You idiot," he muttered.

I rested against his chest, listening to his strong heartbeat.

From an angle he could not see, my gaze turned cold as I caught a glimpse of his wristwatch—a Celestara collection piece from Galaxia, worth over two million dollars.

…

I knew that Henry's real birthday was next week, and that it was also the day he would officially take over the family business and become the CEO of Quinton Group.

I took leave from work, telling them that I was going back to my hometown to visit relatives. In reality, I went to the black market in Solderton, wearing a cap and a mask.

I sold the only valuable thing I owned, which was the gold bracelet my grandmother had left me. It was the most expensive item I had.

With the money, I also took out several online loans using my ID, scraping together five thousand dollars.

I ran through the city's high-end boutiques and bought a ready-made suit. It wasn't custom-tailored, but it was the best I could afford. To pay for it, I would be living on instant Mac and Cheese for the next year while repaying my debt.

On the night of Henry's birthday, torrential rain poured down.

I stood at the entrance of his shabby house, holding a cake box in one hand and a suit bag in the other. I didn't have an umbrella as I had deliberately not brought one.

Rainwater streamed down my hair, soaking into my skin until my whole body trembled from the cold.

I stood there from 7:00 pm until 12:00 am. My legs went numb, and my lips turned a deep shade of purple. Still, I did not move a single step.

Myra posted a photo of herself partying at a nightclub on her social media, with the caption, "I heard that idiot Sam is waiting in the rain for that ex-convict. What a desperate loser. Serves her right if she freezes to death."

At 1:00 am, a Maybach stopped at the entrance of the alley. Henry walked over soon after, reeking of alcohol.

He had just returned from the Quinton family's banquet. He was dressed in a bespoke suit worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, looking sharp and commanding.

Before entering the alley, he took off his jacket, leaving only his shirt.

When he saw me drenched to the bone, he stopped in his tracks.

He frowned deeply and scolded, "Are you out of your mind? It's pouring, and you're just standing here? What, were you planning to die if I didn't come back?"

I looked up despite my trembling. Water clung to my lashes, blurring my sight.

When I saw him, I managed a weak smile. It looked worse than crying.

"Mr. Quinton…" I muttered. "You're back. I knew you would come back."

I carefully handed him the suit bag I had been protecting against my chest.

"Happy birthday. I thought you might need something decent for interviews or work."

Henry took the bag. Under the streetlight, he could see clearly that it was a ready-to-wear suit from a mid-range luxury brand.

The fabric was ordinary, and the tailoring only decent. In his world, it was no different from a rag. However, he knew exactly how much I earned, and he understood my situation at home.

Those five thousand dollars I spent on this suit were everything I had.

His hand tightened slightly around the bag, and he said nothing for a long time.

The rain kept falling, drumming heavily against us.

"Was it worth it?" he asked hoarsely.

Before I could answer, my vision briefly blacked out, and I nearly collapsed.

Henry caught me instantly. He kicked the door open and dragged me inside.

Without any hesitation, he pressed me against the cold wall and kissed me hard.

The kiss carried punishment, long-suppressed desire, and a hint of panic he didn't seem to notice.

"Sam, you asked for this," he murmured against my lips.

Afterward, Henry went to shower, and the sound of running water filled the bathroom.

On the bedside table, his phone suddenly vibrated. A pure black app icon lit up the screen, with no name attached.

I picked it up almost instinctively and tapped it. My heart fluttered.

It wasn't a bank balance notification, nor any chat records with women. It was surveillance footage.

Four split screens covered the entire shabby house from every angle. There was even a pinhole camera above the bed.

On the screen, I saw everything—the way I had been trembling in the rain just moments ago, the way I handed him the meat, and even the cold smirk I wore behind his back…

All of it had been recorded.

I launched the playback history.

Only then did I realize the truth. Every time I thought I had fooled him, he had been sitting on the other side of the screen, quietly watching my performance.

Shame surged up like molten lava, instantly burning my face red.

I thought I was the hunter. But in reality, I had always been the prey.

Just then, the bathroom door opened, and Henry stepped out, wrapped in a bath towel. The moment his eyes landed on the phone in my hand, his gaze turned dark and sharp.

He walked over, snatched it back, and let out a faint, amused smile.

"So, you've seen it?"