Chapter 3: Birthday Memories and a Business Proposal

Suddenly, I remembered where I’d seen him before.

On my eighteenth birthday, a blizzard had paralyzed the town. I ordered a cake, but every delivery app kept crashing, and my friends joked about Venmoing hazard pay. Most drivers refused, but one slim figure braved the storm and brought it anyway.

While my friends and I popped champagne inside, he delivered the cake, soaked through, standing awkwardly on the hardwood at the entrance, never stepping onto the rug.

We made eye contact—maybe by accident, maybe not. He seemed like he might be waiting for a tip.

I tipped him a hundred bucks through the app. My friends whistled, one of them mouthing, “Rich girl flex.”

It felt transactional, but I remember the way he nodded—silent, polite, eyes refusing to meet mine for more than a heartbeat.

After the SATs, I’d gone to a bar with friends.

The bouncer barely checked my ID—everyone knew my last name. The place reeked of spilled beer and cheap cologne. In the dim light, Marcus leaned against the wall, smoke curling around his face like a movie villain. He was striking, almost dangerous in the shadows.

A friend nudged me, teasing, "He looks like he bites." I shoved her away, laughing nervously. “Forget it, I think it’s sketchy.”

Looking back now, that was Marcus Reed—the poor student, living rough, never part of the main group.

This world was clearly a political drama: the male lead’s dad was a county sheriff; the main girl’s mom, a district attorney. My unlucky, broke childhood friend? His dad ran the Chamber of Commerce. Everyone in the main group was rich or powerful. Their names were all over city plaques and Rotary Club programs. Marcus glanced at me, about to leave.

I quickly stopped him. “Six hundred a month probably isn’t enough, right?”

His gaze was unreadable. “So?”

“I’ll sponsor you. Or, in other words, I want to keep you.”

He stared at me, eyebrows raised. “You don’t want someone like me,” he muttered, voice thick with irony.

His words dripped with mockery, his tone low, almost bitter—like he already knew how the world judged him, and he dared me to admit it.