He’d been the picture-perfect spoiled kid—blazers pressed, hair neatly combed, every birthday party covered in gold foil and catered macarons. His childhood was a montage of private tutors, boarding schools, and summer language immersion in places he didn’t care to remember. He never caused trouble, never colored outside the lines. He went to the right university, dated the right people, shook the right hands. People said he had it all—money, looks, manners. But the truth was, he was just very good at following the script.

When he turned twenty-two, something shifted. He took a job—not at one of his father’s companies, but at a modest, mid-sized firm downtown, where no one cared about his last name. Then he moved out of the mansion. Just packed his carefully monogrammed bags, said thank you to the staff, and left. The penthouse he chose was modern and stark, all clean lines and sterile marble. It looked like independence, even if it didn’t quite feel like home. For the first time, he was on his own. No drivers. No housekeepers. No curated life. Just takeout, late nights, and a slowly dawning awareness that he’d never really lived.

Two month later,I stared at the burnt mess in the pan and sighed. Picking up my phone, I ordered from the usual restaurant without looking at the menu. It wasn’t about money; I was just tired of the same old delivery food. What I wouldn’t give for a home-cooked meal. Did I even know what that was? Probably not. Chefs had always prepared my food.

I tossed the pan in the trash, hesitated, and put the cookbook back on the stand. Maybe one day I’d figure it out—or find someone who could cook for me. The thought of a partner crossed my mind, but nothing concrete came to mind.

The doorbell rang. Henry had already scolded me for ordering delivery again. The delivery guy gave me a sympathetic look, making me blush. Last thing I needed was someone thinking I was a hopeless case. I was, but I didn’t need the reminder.

Later, desperate for a connection, I tried running in the park (allergic to the flowers) and joining a fitness class (ignored by regulars). I was failing at life.

“Do you… will you go out on a date with me?” I blurted to Edmund, the delivery guy. His shock made me nervous. “Uh, sure! But why me?” he asked. “You’re warm and kind,” I admitted. He smiled and wrote his number on my notepad. “Call me,” he said.

I met him for drinks at a cozy café. He barely fit in the booth, and we laughed. His teasing about my whipped cream-covered hot chocolate made me blush. “I pegged you for an espresso guy,” he joked.