Chapter 1: The Girl Who Paid the Price
The autumn wind in Cambridge was merciless that night.
Inside the emergency wing near Harvard University, the air smelled of antiseptic and urgency. Monitors beeped. Nurses hurried. Stretchers rolled across polished floors.
Sheaonie Ray adjusted her white coat, her fingers slightly trembling—not from fear, but from exhaustion. A full scholarship student. Top of her class. A Filipino genius who had clawed her way from poverty to one of the most prestigious institutions in the world.
She had no safety net.
No rich parents.
No powerful connections.
Only her mind… and her stubborn heart.
"Intern Ray!" a nurse called. "Car accident victim incoming!"
The ambulance doors burst open.
A young man was wheeled in—unconscious, blood at the edge of his temple. Even in that state, there was something different about him. His posture. His aura. His hands—soft, uncalloused. Not someone who had struggled for survival.
Sheaonie leaned closer.
And froze.
He was wearing a black mask.
Not a medical mask.
A custom-made one.
Strange.
"Vitals stable," the attending physician announced. "Minor concussion. He's lucky."
When the young man finally opened his eyes, they were sharp—dark, observant, and unsettlingly calm.
He looked straight at her.
For a brief second, the world went silent.
"Where am I?" his voice was low and controlled.
"Massachusetts General affiliate," she answered softly. "You were in an accident."
He touched his pocket.
Empty.
His expression changed—barely noticeable—but Sheaonie saw it.
"My belongings…" he muttered.
"They weren't recovered," she replied.
The billing nurse soon approached.
"Payment must be settled before discharge."
The man frowned. "My assistant will handle it."
"Sir, you have no phone, no ID, no contact information."
A long silence followed.
Sheaonie watched him. Something in her chest tightened.
He didn't look like someone used to helplessness.
But right now—
He was alone.
Without thinking, she stepped forward.
"I'll cover it."
The room went quiet.
The nurse blinked. "Intern Ray, that's—"
"It's fine," she insisted.
It wasn't fine.
It was almost her entire month's savings.
But she paid.
The receipt felt heavier than paper in her hand.
When she turned back, he was staring at her.
Not arrogantly.
Not mockingly.
But intensely.
"Why?" he asked.
She shrugged lightly. "Because you needed help."
He studied her as if memorizing her face.
Her tired eyes.
Her worn shoes.
Her sincerity.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Sheaonie Ray."
He paused.
"Zyanth."
Just Zyanth.
No last name.
Before she could ask more, his assistant stormed in, breathless and panicked. Security followed. The atmosphere shifted instantly.
Power had arrived.
Within minutes, he was escorted out.
But before leaving, he turned back once more.
Their eyes met again.
Something unspoken passed between them.
Recognition?
Curiosity?
Fate?
She didn't know.
And she didn't expect to see him again.
Outside the hospital, inside a sleek black car, the assistant spoke urgently.
"Young Master Hat, are you injured badly? The chairman will be furious if he finds out—"
"I'm fine," Zyanth Hat interrupted.
He removed his mask slowly.
The city lights reflected on his sharp features.
"Find her."
The assistant blinked. "Sir?"
"The girl."
His voice was calm.
But his eyes were not.
"She paid my hospital bill."
A faint smile appeared on his lips—rare, unfamiliar even to himself.
"Sheaonie Ray."
Inside her tiny dorm room that night, Sheaonie counted the little money left in her wallet.
She sighed.
"Well… instant noodles for the next three weeks."
But as she lay down, exhaustion wrapping around her, one thought lingered.
Those eyes.
Why did they feel like the beginning of something?
Far away, in a private estate in China, Mr. and Mrs. Hat sat in a grand dining hall.
Across from them sat a poised young woman in silk—Jaira Waize.
"Zyanth must return soon," Mrs. Hat said calmly. "It's time to discuss the engagement."
Jaira smiled.
Possessive.
Confident.
Certain.
But somewhere in Boston, under the same night sky—
Zyanth Hat stared at a hospital receipt.
And for the first time in his life…
The heir who wore a mask felt something real.