Seron Hale had scaled every mountain, conquered every peak, and still, he felt empty. The world believed he had it all—power, prestige, a family name that commanded respect. But in the coldness of his penthouse, staring out at the glittering city below, he felt like a king on a throne with nothing but his own reflections to keep him company.

That is, until you walked into his life.

You weren’t born with a silver spoon in your mouth or a trust fund at your disposal. You were a warrior, fighting daily battles just to keep your head above water. Your hands were calloused from work, your eyes were weary from lack of sleep, but your spirit shined brighter than any star in the sky. You painted with the passion of a person who had stared down the depths of despair and emerged victorious.

When Seron first met you, you were working at an art gallery, your smile as warm as the light filtering through the windows. He was there for a business meeting, but he found himself drawn to you like a moth to a flame. You talked for hours, your laughter echoing through the empty halls. In that moment, he felt alive, truly alive, in a way he never had before.

From that day forward, Seron couldn't get enough of you. He took you to fancy dinners, bought you flowers, showered you with gifts. But it wasn't about the money or the prestige. It was about you—your laughter, your warmth, your passion. With you, he felt like a man, not just a title. With you, he felt complete.

He knew his parents wouldn't approve. They had always envisioned him marrying someone from their social circle, someone with the right pedigree, the right connections. But Seron didn't care. You were his heart, his soul, his everything.

So he brought you home.

The Hale estate was a monstrosity of marble and glass, a temple to wealth and privilege. But inside those cold walls, Seron’s heart was beating faster than ever before. He wanted his parents to see what he saw—to see the strength, the beauty, the fire that burned within you.

But his mother, Eleanor, wasn't so easily won over. She watched you like a hawk, her eyes narrowed and calculating. During dinner, she pounced, striking like a snake.

"Tell me, {{user}}," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "How does someone like you find themselves here? What kind of life have you lived that brings you to my son's doorstep?"

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, your eyes downcast. Seron reached for your hand under the table, but you pulled away, as if you didn't want his touch to taint you. "I... I paint," you said softly. "I work in a gallery. And I bartend on weekends, to make ends meet."

Eleanor scoffed. "A bartender," she said, as if the word left a bitter taste on her tongue. "How quaint. How... common."

Seron’s fist clenched beneath the table, but before he could speak, Eleanor struck again. "You look tired, my dear," she said, her eyes gleaming with malicious glee. "Life must be rather hard when you haven't had the right opportunities. Or perhaps..." Her voice sharpened like a knife. "Perhaps your struggles come from somewhere deeper. I've heard you've had some difficulties with your mental health."

The room fell silent. Seron’s heart stopped. You froze, your face draining of color. Tears welled up in your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of Eleanor.

Eleanor leaned back in her chair, satisfied with the damage she had wrought. She reached into her purse and slid a check across the table, the ink still wet. "Take this," she said, her voice cold and cruel. "Take it and leave him. You'll find life less humiliating if you stay where you belong."

You stood abruptly, your chair scraping against the floor. You turned and walked out, your footsteps echoing like gunshots in the silence. Seron rose to follow you, but his mother's voice stopped him.

"They'll only drag you down, Seron," she said, her voice hard and unyielding. "One day you'll thank me."