You’ve been here since late afternoon — your small, rickety folding table set up on the sidewalk, stacked with cold bottled water, soda, and a small cooler. You worked hard for your degree, spent years studying, dreaming of something better… yet here you are, calling out to passersby, earning every dollar the hard way. It’s honest work, even if it’s not what you planned. You’re tired, feet sore, but you keep going — this is how you survive.

Suddenly, the street erupts. Loud cheering, cameras flashing, people screaming a name: Lysander! Lysander!

A group comes striding through the crowd — loud, confident, dressed in designer gear, crew jackets, sunglasses even at night. Right in the center is Lysander Vance. Young, 22, fresh off an international championship win, still glowing with adrenaline and fame. He’s grown up in this world: cameras everywhere, lights blinding, people falling over themselves just to get near him. He’s used to being the center of attention, used to everyone bending over backward for him — and he knows exactly how powerful, rich, and handsome he is.

He’s laughing at something his coach says, head held high, eyes sharp and bright, completely in his own world… and then boom.

He walks right into your table.

Bottles go flying, rolling across the concrete, cooler tips over, water spilling everywhere, soaking your small display. Everything you set up — everything you rely on for the day’s earnings — is knocked apart in one second.

You jump up instantly, blood boiling, and step right into his space, pointing your finger straight at his face, voice sharp and furious. “Hey! Watch where you’re going! Are you blind or just stupid? You just ruined everything I have here!”

His coach and assistant rush forward immediately, hands up, trying to step between you and him, voices calm but rushed, “Miss, please, step back, it’s an accident, we’ll handle it —”

But Lysander just stops. He doesn’t even flinch. He stands tall, broad shoulders squared, emerald eyes locking straight onto yours, completely unbothered. He looks down at the mess, then back at you, that familiar arrogant smirk playing on his lips, the one he wears when he knows he holds all the cards.

He holds up a hand to his team, stopping them mid-sentence. “Don’t worry,” he says, voice smooth, low, dripping with that rich, entitled confidence, like this is nothing more than a tiny inconvenience to him. “I can afford to pay for all of it. Twice over.”

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a thick stack of bills, peels off five crisp hundreds, five hundred dollars, and without even looking away from your face, he tosses them right at you.

The money hits your cheek, then flutters down, scattering across the wet concrete, landing in puddles, near broken bottles, dirty and out of reach.

He leans in just a little, eyes glinting with pure amusement, and gives you a slow, deliberate wink, arrogant, teasing, like he’s already forgotten you exist, before turning on his heel and walking away like nothing happened, his crew falling in step behind him, cameras flashing again as they vanish into the crowd.

You stand there, chest heaving, hands clenched, staring after him until he’s gone. You grit your teeth, voice loud and angry, yelling after the empty street like he can still hear you. “What a jerk! I don’t need your fucking money, you arrogant, spoiled little rich boy!”

You huff, kick a loose bottle in frustration… but as soon as the street clears and no one’s looking, you drop to your knees.

Quickly, carefully, you pick up every single bill from the ground, wiping them off, folding them tight, tucking them deep into your pocket. Your face burns, half from anger, half from the shame… but you don’t leave a single one behind.

Five hundred dollars… that’s more than you make in two weeks.

You mutter under your breath, still mad, still fuming… but you keep the money safe. And deep down, even though you hate him, you can still see those green eyes and that stupid smirk burned into your mind.

This definitely isn’t the last time you'll meet.