The night air was cool, brushing softly against Valeria's tired face as she walked through the quiet Boston streets. Streetlights flickered above, throwing long shadows across the pavement.
She held her satchel close, the faint smell of coffee and ink still clinging to her. Her mind was a whirl of confusion and disbelief.
Why did he come to the café?
Why me?
Adrian De Vere Leone wasn't a man who stepped into small places like that. His presence alone was enough to silence a crowd and yet, he had looked straight at her and said, "Be at the research building tomorrow."
Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. "What does he want from me?" she murmured under her breath.
When she reached her building a fading complex tucked behind a narrow lane the familiar creak of the gate greeted her. The hallway smelled faintly of paint and dust, but it was home. Her little apartment might've been small, but it was hers.
Or so she thought.
She unlocked her door, stepped in, and sighed.
Her worn-out books were stacked neatly on the tiny table. A half-empty cup of tea sat on the window sill. The room was silent, but comforting.
She turned on the single dim lamp and whispered to herself,
"One more night, Valeria. Tomorrow could change everything."
But across the city, in a marble-floored mansion, someone else wasn't sleeping
Chantel's hand gripped her phone so tightly her knuckles turned white.
Her social media feed was buzzing with one name Valeria.
Pictures. Rumors. Students posting about how Adrian De Vere Leone himself had walked into a café and spoken to her.
Her.
Not Chantel. Not the De Morgan family's precious daughter but the scholarship girl who lived in the slums.
"Impossible," Chantel whispered, eyes flashing. "He doesn't even look at people like her."
Her father's secretary had just left after a late meeting. And that's when she decided she wasn't going to wait.
Pulling out her phone, she called him back immediately.
"Mr. Rayner," she said sharply, "find out where that girl lives. The one who did the presentation yesterday Valeria."
The man stammered, "Miss Chantel, it's late—"
"Then work faster," she snapped. "I want her address tonight."
By midnight, she had it.
And by twelve-thirty, her car was already parked outside Valeria's shabby building, its headlights cutting through the darkness like accusation.
Her diamond heels clicked against the cracked cement as she stepped out, disgusted by the surroundings.
"So this is where she hides," Chantel muttered, eyes narrowing at the peeling paint and flickering lightbulb above the stairwell.
Her father's secretary followed nervously. "Miss Chantel, this isn't a good idea"
She turned sharply. "Do you think I care what's a good idea? That girl embarrassed me in front of Adrian. He actually praised her work."
She took a slow breath, smirk returning. "Let's see how long her pride lasts when she has no roof."
And before the man could argue, Chantel walked into the small office beside the stairwell the landlord's place. The old man blinked up at her from his seat, startled by the sight of a woman who clearly didn't belong here.
"M-Miss, this building's closed for the night..."
Chantel slid a check across the desk, her tone smooth as silk. "Not for me, it isn't."
He frowned at the paper, his eyes widening at the number written on it.
"Ma'am, what's this?"
"Payment," she said sweetly. "Double what your tenant Valeria pays you. You'll tell her she has to move out immediately. Renovation, new owner, new rules, whatever you like."
The man stuttered. "But she's a good tenant—"
"Good tenants don't steal what doesn't belong to them," Chantel interrupted, eyes darkening. "Do we have an understanding?"
The landlord hesitated, guilt flickering across his face. But greed… greed was stronger.
He swallowed hard. "Yes, Miss. I'll tell her tomorrow morning."
"No," Chantel said coldly. "You'll tell her now."
Her lips curved into a cruel smile. "People like her should learn their place before the sun rises."
And just like that, she turned and left, her perfume lingering in the stale air a poisonous scent of money and arrogance.
Minutes later, a knock echoed through Valeria's small apartment.
She looked up from her notes, startled.
"Mr. Howard? It's late, is something wrong?"
The landlord shifted uneasily in the doorway. "Valeria… I'm sorry, but you have to move out."
Her brows knitted. "Move out? Why?"
He sighed, looking anywhere but her face. "The building's going under renovation. New management wants all tenants out."
Her heart sank. "But you can't I just paid this month's rent."
"I know, kid. I'm sorry. But I can't do anything."
Valeria stared at him for a long second.
And then her gaze dropped to the faint gold logo printed on the folded check peeking from his pocket.
De Morgan.
The realization hit like a slap.
Her chest tightened. "Who told you to do this?"
"Valeria, it's better if you don't ask—"
"It was her, wasn't it?" she said quietly, eyes narrowing. "Chantel De Morgan."
He didn't answer. He didn't have to.
For a moment, the silence stretched heavy, tense, full of humiliation and anger.
But then Valeria took a deep breath and straightened her back.
"Fine," she said softly. "I'll leave."
"Valeria—"
She looked up at him, her eyes tired but burning with quiet strength. "Don't apologize. You're not the first man who sold his conscience for money."
She packed her small suitcase in silence. Every zipper, every folded shirt felt heavier than it should. When she finally stepped out, the wind outside was colder but she kept walking.
No tears. No begging. No breakdowns.
Just quiet fire.
From across the street, Chantel sat in her car, watching through the tinted glass as Valeria stepped into the street with her single suitcase.
A slow, satisfied smile spread across her face.
"Perfect," she whispered. "Let's see if Adrian still looks at you when you're homeless."