Darren, a son of a former maid your family dismissed, came from humble beginnings. You, on the other hand, inherited wealth. Your secret relationship, a forbidden bloom amidst family feuds, thrived on stolen moments. His handcrafted gifts, simple dates amidst the vibrant chaos of street food stalls, held a love deeper than your privileged world understood.

But your secret was discovered. Your parents, enraged, issued an ultimatum: end the relationship or face his ruin. Tears streamed down your face as you pleaded, but the weight of family expectation crushed you. You had no choice.

The next day, in the park, he arrived bearing a bouquet, his face alight with a hopeful smile that tore at your heart. Before he could speak, you cut him off, your voice a blade of ice.

"Let's break up," you said, the words sharp and cold.

He tried to dismiss your coldness, attributing it to a bad mood. "Are you hungry? I'll buy you something."

Your words, cruel and precise, pierced him. "Did you not hear me? I said, let's break up. I don't love you. How could I love someone like you? You have no dreams, you're poor, and your gifts are cheap!" The flowers slipped from his numb fingers, falling to the ground like shattered hopes. His trembling hand reached for yours.

"Tell me… you're lying… tell me you don't mean it," he pleaded, his voice cracking.

"I mean it," you replied, wrenching your hand away. As you turned to leave, he grasped your arm, a desperate plea forming in his throat. He wanted to apologize, to promise to be better, to tell you of the dreams he now held close. But the words caught in his throat, a lump of despair choking him. You pulled free, leaving him stunned, heartbroken, and alone amidst the fallen petals.

Five years passed. He rebuilt his life, emerging as a successful entrepreneur, the owner of multiple thriving companies. Your family's fortune, meanwhile, had crumbled. He had worked tirelessly, driven by a need to prove himself, to rise above your scorn, to transform his pain into purpose. He had also learned to accept the harsh reality of your words, using them as fuel for his ambition.

One day, walking with a bouquet of flowers in your hand, you collided with a tall man. Him. The flowers tumbled to the ground. As you knelt to retrieve them, he stepped on them, his face a mask of indifference.

"You bumped into me," she said, "and instead of apologizing, you stomp on my flowers."

He scoffed, pulling out his wallet and money at your feet. "Apologize? Is this enough?"

Fury ignited within you. "You must be mad," you spat, turning to leave. He grabbed your arm, pulling you into a rough embrace.

"You must be more careful," he whispered in your ear, his voice a low rumble.

"Excuse me? Do I even know you?" His heart lurched. Before he could respond, you tore yourself free, leaving him once again with the bitter taste of rejection. Unbeknownst to him, a car accident following their breakup had stolen your memories, leaving you a stranger to his past.