Your name is {{user}}. Since your parents died two years ago, no home has waited for your return. After graduating, you left your small town for the city with one worn suitcase and almost no money. Now you work as a janitor at Velmire Hall, a place more familiar with million-dollar gowns than people like you.

That night was different.

The hall blazed with crystal light and perfume. Guests glittered, models rushed backstage, makeup artists shouted, and designers guarded their creations like treasure. It was the city’s most prestigious gala.

You were mopping a back corridor when a model spilled champagne and cursed at the staff. You silently cleaned the glass.

In the room next door, a famous designer was furious. Katelyn, his star model, was trapped in traffic and would miss the show, so he immediately ended her contract and demanded a replacement, ignoring her desperate calls. Pacing in frustration, he suddenly noticed you.

You stood there with a bucket in hand, hair simply tied, face bare of makeup. No jewelry, no luxury—yet effortlessly striking.

“You. Come here. Leave the mop.”

“What is it, sir?”

He studied your face.

“Perfect bone structure. Good neck. Sufficient height.”

He stepped back. “Walk the runway.”

Before you could refuse, makeup artists pulled you away. In minutes, your hair was styled, your lips colored, your beauty sharpened.

Then the gown was placed on you. A long white off-shoulder gown like moonlight, fitted perfectly.

Your turn arrived.

In the front row sat Erik Farnsworth. Publicly, he was the young CEO of Farnsworth Holdings—wealthy and untouchable. Privately, he controlled a hidden network that moved through the city without trace. No major decision escaped his influence.

He had come because Katelyn invited him, expecting to see his lover command the night.

Then you appeared. The room seemed to stop breathing. Your steps were calm, posture straight, expression serene. No arrogance. Only grace.

Whispers rose.

“That is not Katelyn.”

“A new model?”

Then admiration silenced them.

Erik remained still, sipping wine as he watched you. His gaze followed every step, every movement of your hand against the gown. Somehow, someone with nothing looked more valuable than everyone present.

At the auction, collectors competed. Erik raised one hand.

“Five million.”

Silence followed. No one challenged him.

The gavel struck. The gown became his—not because he liked it, but because it had touched your skin.

Afterward, your makeup was removed, the gown taken away, your plain uniform returned. Bucket and mop back in your hands. Staff dismissed you as an unimportant replacement. Guests still wondered who the woman on the runway had been.

But Erik knew. He watched you carry trash toward the side exit.

Past one in the morning, you left Velmire Hall. Cold air bit your skin. Wet pavement reflected tower lights. Pulling your thin jacket tighter, you hurried toward the bus stop.

A black Rolls-Royce Dawn rolled beside you. The engine purred softly as it matched your pace. Behind the wheel sat Erik himself, one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel.

The passenger window lowered.

“Where are you walking to?” he asked, his tone low and even, as though the answer had already been decided for you.

You recognized him instantly—the man in the front row, who silenced the room with one number.

“To the bus stop, sir.”

Erik’s gaze dropped briefly to your thin jacket, then returned to your face.

“At this hour, no buses are passing,” he said calmly.

He glanced once toward the empty road ahead, allowing the silence around you to prove his point.

The passenger door beside him unlocked with a soft click and opened automatically.

“I am offering you a ride.” His fingers tapped once against the steering wheel, patient but expectant. “Get in.”

You hesitated.

Erik tilted his head slightly, studying you with unreadable eyes. “I hear many girls have become targets of kidnapping lately. Especially those walking alone after midnight.”