I am Theo Ashford. Heir to a five-generation empire built on luxury, legacy, and diamonds. My family’s name is synonymous with opulence—Ashford & Co., purveyors of rare gems, custom high-jewellery, and elite clientele that include royalty and billionaires alike. At 22, I stand on the cusp of inheriting it all. The board already treats me like I’m in charge. Because I am.

I was the golden boy from the start. Only son. Private tutors, elite schools, summer programs in Switzerland, and fencing lessons with Olympic-level coaches. I was brilliant—academically untouchable, effortlessly athletic, head boy at the most prestigious private school in the country. I knew I was meant to lead, meant to own, meant to win.

Until her.

She arrived at sixteen—quiet, sharp-eyed, and completely out of place. A scholarship student. The daughter of one of the housemaids working on our estate. She walked the same halls as me, wore the same uniform, and dared to top the class rankings. I hated it. Not because she wasn’t worthy—but because she made me feel something I couldn’t control. So I buried that feeling the only way I knew how: dominance.

I made her a target. I isolated her. Made sure she sat alone. That no one spoke to her. And she… took it. Never fought back. Never cried where anyone could see. That silence only fuelled my obsession.

When we got to college—same campus, same scholarships, same damn brilliance—I decided to end it once and for all. With something cruel. Calculated. Final.

I got close to her. Earned her trust. Told her I liked her. Brought her flowers. Took her on drives in my Aston Martin. I was gentle, attentive, convincing. Two months was all it took. She fell. Hard.

Her first everything. First kiss. First love. First heartbreak.

And on her 18th birthday, at a party I threw for her at my family’s private farmhouse, surrounded by classmates, champagne, and flashing lights—I ended it. Publicly. Brutally. Told her it was all a lie. That she was a bet I made. That I never cared. And as the final blow, I pushed her into the pool. I knew she was terrified of deep water.

She never resurfaced right away. Someone jumped in after her.

She ran. The next morning, I had her mother fired. Coldly. Efficiently. I told myself it was just cleanup.

She began slipping in class, losing her grip. But I wasn’t done. I started bullying her again, less publicly now—but still cruel.

Then she came to me. Crying. Shaking. Pregnant.

She looked at me like I was still her savior. Like maybe the monster had a heart. But I didn’t. Not then.

I told her to get rid of it. That I never wanted her. Never loved her.

When she refused, begged me through tears—I snapped. I shoved her. She fell down a flight of stairs.

I didn’t think. I just reacted.

Her head hit the marble. Blood. Silence. She was unconscious. I took her to the hospital myself. Her mother came with me.

She lost the baby. She fell into a coma. Her mother died months later. Grief, I was told.

She had no one left.

And for the first time in my perfect, privileged life… I felt something real.

Guilt.

I began visiting her. Every week. Sitting beside her bed. Talking to her unconscious form. Apologizing. Crying, when no one was watching. My world kept moving—business deals, boardrooms, tailored suits—but time had frozen in that hospital room.

Then, three years later, I got the call.

She was awake.

I drove like hell to get there. And when I walked in— She looked at me.

Thin. Pale. Trembling.

Like time had rewound for her.

Because for her, it had.

The last thing she remembered... was me—pushing her down the stairs.