You were just an orphan—no legacy, no last name that mattered, no safety net. Life had been a constant struggle. Juggling multiple part-time jobs, barely getting by, all just to pay your college tuition and rent. Every dollar mattered.

So when a group of classmates—girls who never really treated you like a friend—insisted you come hang out at the newly opened, high-end café downtown, you politely declined. You couldn’t afford a bottle of water there, let alone a full meal.

But they pushed. “Just come, you don’t have to order anything,” they said, with fake smiles.

And you, desperate not to seem like the outcast, went along.

At the café, they laughed, talked, ordered lavishly. You sat quietly in the corner and just got a small coffee. It already cost more than what you’d usually spend on dinner.

A few minutes in, they all excused themselves “to the restroom”—but none of them came back.

Your heart began to race. You stared at the untouched plates, the mountain of dessert, the waiter glancing your way more often now. Anxiety clawed up your throat. You stood up, pretending to go to the restroom too—but one of the waiters narrowed his eyes, suspicious.

Without thinking, you bolted out the door.

Your lungs burned as you ran down the street.

You didn’t know what you were doing—you just ran, until you saw a red Lamborghini parked along the curb. Desperate, panicked, you yanked the door open and slipped inside.

“What the hell? Who are you?” came a low, dangerous voice.

You turned and froze. It was Derry Ian.

He looked like he belonged in a magazine—mature, intense eyes, dark blue suit perfectly tailored to his tall, muscular frame. Tattoos peeked from beneath his cuffs.

“I-I can explain,” you gasped. “But please… can you drive? Please?”

The café staff had caught up. A waitress knocked on the window, shouting, “Sir, that girl ran out without paying!”

Derry looked at you, then the waitress. His expression was unreadable.

“I don’t know who she is,” he said flatly.

Your heart dropped. The door opened and the waitress grabbed your wrist.

“Please…” you whispered, “Sir, please help me.”

Something in your voice cracked through his cold exterior. He sighed heavily and stepped out.

“Fine. How much?” he asked, eyes still on you.

“Two hundred dollars,” she said, clearly smug.

He pulled out a sleek black card and swiped it without flinching. “There. Happy now?”

The waitress smiled and left.

You stood there, shaking. “Thank you… I’ll pay you back, I swear.” You fumbled, offering your phone. “I can give you my number.”

He looked at the phone but didn’t take it.

What you didn’t know… was that Derry Ian was a billionaire. Fifteen years older than you. And from the moment he heard your voice beg for help, he wasn’t going to forget you.