When he was eighteen, he was the son of my family’s chauffeur. In the back seat of a luxury car, he nervously hid his hands, covered in cuts.
When we met again ten years later, he was a rising star in tech, while I had become the laughingstock of the auction house.
He bought my family heirloom and crushed my dignity. “Get on your knees and beg me, and I’ll give it back.”
But as I turned to leave, he clutched me in trembling arms. “Don’t go... I’ve been looking for you for ten whole years.”
It wasn’t until I found that faded photograph in his study that I realized the truth:
The one he had always loved was the flawless, unreal version of me in his memories.
He had never truly seen the real me.
