The banquet hall gleamed with gold chandeliers and polished marble floors, every surface reflecting the extravagance of the night. Waiters glided through the sea of silk dresses and sharp suits, balancing trays of champagne and tiny hors d'oeuvres no one could pronounce. Classical music floated in the air, a string quartet playing something elegant that sounded expensive.
And then there was Alex Thompson.
He stood near the back of the room, not in a suit or even a clean shirt, but in a wrinkled black polo and faded jeans, his delivery bag slung across one shoulder. His shoes, once white, were now scuffed and gray from walking miles each day. Sweat clung to his neck, and his fingers still smelled faintly of fried chicken grease from his last delivery.
He shouldn't have been there. Not really.
But when he saw the address on the delivery receipt—The Grand Bellmont Hotel, 33rd floor, Event Room A—his gut twisted. He knew that address. Knew what kind of people hosted parties there. Rich people. Powerful people. People who wouldn't remember him unless it was to sneer.
Still, he needed the tip.
He walked through the automatic doors with his head down, trying not to draw attention. But fate had other plans.
"Alex?"
That voice.
He froze mid-step.
He didn't need to turn around. He knew exactly who it was.
Jessica Langford.
His ex.
The girl who once clung to his arm like he was the only man in the world. The same girl who left him the moment his bank account went dry.
And there she stood now, glowing in a deep red gown that fit her like it had been poured on her skin. Diamonds glittered around her neck, and her makeup was flawless, not a single strand of hair out of place.
"Well, well," she said, her lips curving into a smirk as she looked him over. "Did you get lost on your way to the kitchen?"
People around them turned to look.
Alex's face burned.
He cleared his throat and raised the brown delivery bag. "Uh, someone here ordered food?"
Jessica's laugh rang out like glass shattering.
"Oh my god. You're actually working as a delivery guy now?" she said, loud enough for the nearby guests to hear. "That's so tragic, I could cry."
The crowd chuckled, some politely, others not bothering to hide it. Her date, a tall man in a designer tux, leaned in and whispered something in her ear. She laughed harder.
"I remember when you used to say you were gonna be someone important," she said, sipping her champagne. "Guess you made it, huh? Just... not the way you imagined."
Alex clenched the strap of his bag, jaw tight. He wanted to disappear. But he also didn't want to give her the satisfaction of seeing him break.
He looked her dead in the eyes. "People have to eat."
She raised an eyebrow, amused. "And you're the one feeding them? How noble."
He turned to go, but her voice followed.
"Hey, wait. Before you leave—" She reached into her clutch and pulled out a crisp fifty-dollar bill. "Here. For the memories."
She tucked it into his shirt collar like he was a stripper, laughing as she stepped back and clapped mockingly. "You should've stayed with me. You could've been somebody."
The guests around her laughed again, like they were watching a performance. Alex could hear one of them whisper, "Is that her ex? The one who tried to start that tech company? What a joke."
He left without saying another word.
Outside, the air was cold, a sharp contrast to the heat crawling up his neck. He ripped the fifty from his shirt and shoved it into his pocket without looking. His phone buzzed with another delivery request.
Another job.
Another long walk.
He didn't have time to cry.
Didn't have the luxury.
He took the stairs down instead of waiting for the elevator. Each step echoed like a drumbeat of humiliation.
At the bottom, he slipped out the service door and walked into the alley where he'd left his old bicycle. The paint was chipped, the tires thin, but it still worked. Barely.
As he adjusted the bag and climbed on, a voice called out from the shadows.
"Rough night?"
Alex turned.
A man stood at the alley's edge, dressed in a black suit so sharp it looked carved. His face was calm, unreadable, and his shoes shone even in the dark.
Alex blinked. "Do I know you?"
The man stepped forward. "No. But I know you, Mr. Thompson."
Alex frowned. "Look, man, I'm not buying anything."
"I'm not selling anything."
The man reached into his coat and pulled out a small envelope. It was jet-black, sealed with a gold crest Alex didn't recognize.
"What is this?"
"An invitation," the man said. "You'll want to read it. But not here."
Alex hesitated, then took the envelope. The paper was thick. Real thick. Like money.
"Who are you?"
The man smiled faintly. "Just a messenger. Your life is about to change, Mr. Thompson. Be ready."
And just like that, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the city night like smoke.
Alex stood there, heart pounding, envelope in hand.
He flipped it over. The seal gleamed under the streetlight.
He broke it.
Inside was a card.
Just one sentence, written in perfect cursive.
You are the sole heir to the Dawson Consortium. Report to Blackwood Estate at dawn.
He read it once.
Twice.
Then a third time.
His breath caught.
The Dawson Consortium?
He remembered his mother whispering that name once, years ago, before she died. She said it was the name of a man who once loved her. A man who left before Alex was born. A name they were never allowed to say out loud.
Alex looked up at the empty alley.
The world suddenly felt like it was tilting under his feet.
And he had no idea what was waiting on the other side.