The November wind in the Sovereign Metropolis cut straight through her coat.

By the time Lydia Whitmore reached the entrance of the Skyvista Grand Hotel, her fingers were so cold they barely listened to her. She lifted her gaze toward the top floor, bit her lip to steady herself, then pushed through the revolving doors.

Just a week ago, she had still been the eldest daughter of the Whitmore Clan.

Paris runways, London auctions—she and those socialite friends she used to jet off with would charter flights like it was nothing, buying anything they fancied without even blinking.

Then overnight, the Whitmore Group collapsed.

Her father passed away.

Her mother couldn’t handle the blow and slipped into near madness.

Those relatives who once hovered around the Whitmores suddenly acted like they’d never even shared a drink with them, pretending they’d cut ties centuries ago.

And those “besties” who used to call her “sweetheart” and “sister”? They blocked her everywhere—calls, messages, everything gone in seconds.

Villas, cars, designer bags, jewelry…

She sold every single thing that could be sold, yet the Whitmores still owed a hundred million.

It felt like blinking once had been enough to turn her from a polished heiress into a debt‑ridden ex‑socialite overnight.

The Skyvista Grand Hotel belonged to the Caldwell Clan, and the VIP9999 presidential suite on the top floor never opened to outsiders—it was Harrison Caldwell’s personal hangout.

That was where he and his friends partied, drank, played cards, did whatever.

Over the last few years, Lydia had been there more times than she could count.

The Caldwells and Whitmores had known each other for half a lifetime.

The elders treated each other like family.

She and Harrison had grown up together, had been engaged for two years, and were supposed to register their marriage once she turned twenty.

She just hadn’t expected that the year she turned twenty… her whole world would shatter.

Harrison… he should help her, right?

If he was willing to lend her the money, perfect.

And if he wasn’t… then she’d just have to figure something else out. There’s always a workaround, even if it’s ugly.

Taking a slow breath, Lydia Whitmore stepped out of the elevator and headed straight toward the private suite at the end of the hallway.

She tightened her grip on the door handle. The moment it clicked open, she exhaled without meaning to.

For the whole past week, Harrison hadn’t reached out once.

While she was going around begging for loans, those so‑called “plastic besties” of hers were having the time of their lives mocking her—finally catching a chance to step on her while she was down.

What they really meant was: if Harrison genuinely cared about her, he’d have stepped in long ago and fixed everything. He wouldn’t have left her scrambling to beg anyone at all.

Part of her wanted to believe it was just Whitmore business, and Harrison was giving her space so she wouldn’t feel embarrassed.

But another part of her… yeah, it couldn’t shake the feeling those girls might actually be right.

She had been running around so frantically these days that she hadn’t even had time to think about what Harrison felt or didn’t feel.

And now, seeing that her fingerprint access was still active, that taut string in her chest finally loosened.

The clatter of mahjong tiles mixed with loud chatting drifted out. The moment she heard her own name, Lydia froze mid‑step.

“Harrison, you’re really not planning to step in for the Whitmore Clan? I heard Lydia’s been begging everyone she can find lately!”

“Let her beg…”

A lazy, careless voice followed. “We were counting on the Whitmores to back up the Caldwells, but who knew they’d go downhill this fast? For years now, they’ve been getting worse and worse. The old man’s been dying to call off this engagement—regretting it so much he probably dreams about it every night. Their bankruptcy? Honestly, perfect timing. Saves him from having to bring it up.”

“Mr. Whitmore’s gone, but Mrs. Whitmore’s still alive. Aren’t you worried they’ll try to cling to your family?”

"Latching onto me? Seriously…"

Harrison Caldwell let out a cold, mocking laugh. "You can force a cow to drink water? Please. I’m telling you right now, I’m not marrying her. What’s she gonna do about it?"

"You really don’t care? Lydia Whitmore’s face—man, even if she debuted in the entertainment circle, she’d outshine half those fresh-faced starlets. Give her a few more years, she’s gonna be a full-on stunner. You’re really gonna let that go?"

"Care? Depends what we’re talking about! If it’s, like, a few million, fine, whatever, I’d suck it up. But a whole damn hundred-million-level rich-but-broke princess? If you wanna save her, be my guest. I’m not signing up to be that idiot."

"Tsk tsk… Young Master Caldwell, always so ‘clear‑headed,’ huh?"

Laughter erupted around him.

Lydia’s heart crashed straight into an ice pit.

The sharp sting rushed up from her chest. She bit down on her pale lip, turned around, and walked out of the suite without a word.

In the elevator, as it descended floor by floor, Lydia pulled out her phone and typed a WeChat message to Harrison: “Let’s break off the engagement. From now on, you walk your road, I walk mine. We’re done.”

She didn’t even wait for his reply before blocking and deleting his WeChat and number altogether.

Ding!

The elevator chimed softly as the doors slid open. Lydia stepped out with her head slightly lowered.

“Mr. Morrison…”

“…Watch out!”

A cool, faint sandalwood scent.

A sudden, solid impact.

That icy, blade‑sharp aura hit her like a slap of winter wind. Lydia shivered, too startled to even rub her throbbing forehead. She instinctively took a small step back.

Then she lifted her gaze—and froze.

The corridor lights were glaringly bright. A man in a black coat stood at the center of the hallway, surrounded like the moon by a cluster of stars.

He was tall, posture razor‑straight, his striking features made even harsher and colder by the backlight behind him.

And the men encircling him, whether older or younger, all stood with their backs slightly bent, as if equal parts respectful and terrified of him.

"Boss Morrison, are you alright?"

"Seriously, how did she even walk into you?"

"She's so young… how can her eyesight already be this bad?"

Everyone was talking over each other, but the moment the man shot them a cold glance, the whole group shut up instantly.

Silence dropped over the elevator entrance.

With her temples throbbing, Lydia Whitmore stole a quick look at the man, then lowered her gaze. "Mr. Morrison… I—I’m sorry!"

"No need."

His voice was low and cool, but when his eyes skimmed over the redness at the corners of her eyes, the icy aura around him faded a little.

Lydia ducked her head and hurried off through the crowd.

It wasn’t until she stepped outside the hotel that she realized it had started snowing. She stood at the entrance of the Skyvista Grand Hotel, a little dazed.

Friends and relatives—she’d already gone through them all.

Everything at home that could be sold had already been cleared out.

Even her best friend Chloe had sold her only apartment and her brand‑new car, scraping together thirty million for her.

Who else could she possibly turn to?

There had to be a way.

There *had* to be.

Clenching her jaw, Lydia stepped into the swirling snow.

…

Up ahead, her small figure kept moving forward like she didn’t know what exhaustion was.

In just a short while, a thin layer of snow had already settled on her hair and shoulders.

Snow turned the road into an ice rink. Every time the wind sliced past, her whole figure swayed, like she might face‑plant any second.

But even so, she’d pause, steady herself, and force her legs to move again.

Just that lonely silhouette was enough to make anyone feel her mix of helplessness and stubborn grit.

Yale Shepherd glanced at the rear‑view mirror. The face reflected there—jawline tight, expression dark enough to freeze blood—made him hesitate before whispering, “Boss… should we maybe… invite Ms. Whitmore into the car?”

The moment the words left his mouth, the air in the car dropped a few degrees.

Yale shrank his neck automatically.

One look at the Boss’s stormy expression, and he knew he’d said something dumb.

He racked his brain, hesitated forever, then still tried, “Ms. Whitmore’s been running around for a week, and the Whitmore Clan still owes a hundred million. Boss, if you’re thinking of helping her, why not just…”

“Why not pay that hundred million for her?”

The cold voice from the back seat cut in.

Yale snapped his mouth shut.

He waited. And waited. Just when he thought the Boss would never answer, the man in the back finally spoke, voice still like ice. “There’s no reason for me to interfere. And besides… she’s about to get married. If I step in now, I’m not helping her—I’m ruining her.”

Yale instantly got it.

No matter morally or logically, the Caldwell Clan should be the one stepping up.

If they just watched from the sidelines while the Boss helped instead… once Lydia marries Harrison Caldwell, that hundred‑million debt would be a giant wedge between the couple.

Such a waste.

If she hadn’t been engaged to Harrison, with the Boss’s influence, the Whitmore Clan wouldn’t have gone bankrupt in the first place.

For a moment, Yale didn’t know whether to sigh at the Caldwells’ heartlessness or the cruel timing of fate.

He did his job and crawled the car forward like a turtle, brain spinning non‑stop, trying to cook up some perfect excuse to get Lydia into the car without it looking weird.

Then suddenly—lightbulb.

“Boss—”

The car screeched to a halt as Yale braked hard. His voice shot up, urgent, “Ms. Whitmore fainted!”