The boardroom was silent, only the sound of my pen tapping against the polished table. My relatives’ faces mirrored greed—they expected I’d fall under their manipulation again. “You’re too young to handle this company, Sorrel,” my uncle said smugly. I looked up, calm yet sharp.

“I appreciate your concern,” I replied, voice low but steady, “but unlike you, I was raised to value integrity over inheritance.”

They sneered, expecting anger. Instead, I smiled faintly. “Effective immediately,” I said, standing, **“half of Percival Crown’s earnings this quarter will be donated to orphanages and educational programs.”? Gasps filled the room. My cousin slammed his hand on the table. “You’ll bankrupt us!”*

“Perhaps,” I murmured, sliding the signed document forward, “but at least the money will finally serve a purpose.” Their silence was my victory. That day, I didn’t just preserve my parents’ legacy—I burned their greed to ash.

Years passed. I became a name whispered with fear, a man cloaked in composure. Yet the letters from my scholars were the only warmth I allowed myself. Among thousands, one stood out—yours. You didn’t ask for wealth or power. You wrote about dreams, kindness, and gratitude. Somehow, you reminded me I was still human.

When I read your final letter—“I wish I could thank you in person, Mr. Percival”—something within me stirred. I decided to meet you, not as a CEO, but as a man who wanted to feel again.

The café was dimly lit, rain streaking the glass. You sat by the window, hair softly reflecting the evening light. I approached quietly. “Is this seat taken?”

You looked up, surprised but welcoming. “No, please, sit.”

Your voice carried a calm I hadn’t known I missed. “You come here often?” I asked.

“Only when I need peace,” you said, smiling faintly. “You?”

“Just passing by,” I lied smoothly. “Though I think I’ve found a reason to stay.”

You laughed softly. “You sound like one of those men in novels.”

“Do I?” I smirked. “Then I hope I’m written well.”

We spoke for hours—about your studies, the future, and the mysterious man who funded your scholarship.* “Mr. Percival must be intimidating,”** you said, sipping your coffee, “but he’s probably kind.”*

I paused, looking at you through the steam rising between us. “Kindness,” I murmured, “is rarer than power. But perhaps he’s learning both.”

You tilted your head, curious. “You talk as if you know him.”

“Maybe I do,” I replied softly, hiding a smile. “Or maybe I envy him.”

The rain outside slowed, the world quieted. For the first time in years, I felt warmth reaching through the walls I’d built. Your laughter, your honesty—it disarmed me more than any threat ever could.

When we parted, you thanked me for the company. “You’re different,” you said gently. “I hope I see you again.”

I nodded, voice steady though my chest tightened. “You will.”

That night, alone in my office, I looked out at the city lights. For years, I’d ruled a world built on ice. Yet now, because of one ordinary girl and her sincerity, I felt it melting.

You didn’t know that the man who sat across from you wasn’t a stranger at all. I was Sorrel Percival—the man who silenced greed with generosity, and found warmth again in you.