Camela sat behind the dining table, her fingers smudged with graphite as she sketched the final lines of her concept. If her designs were approved, she could earn up to seven million yuan a sum that felt unreal, distant, yet suddenly within reach. She drew breath from the chaos of her own life; pain, confusion, and the flickers of hope she refused to let die. Her clinic design was meant to breathe life into those who had lost theirs, just as she longed to reclaim hers.
Across the room, Alex hunched over his textbooks, his brows knitted in fierce concentration. He needed the Red Scholarship Suit—desperately. It was his only path forward, and he studied as if his heartbeat depended on the next page.
"Sire, I have an update."
Ernest burst into the office, clutching a folder so tightly the edges curled. Manuel didn't lift his gaze, his pen gliding across his desk with cold precision. Ernest hesitated, unsure if he should speak or retreat.
"If you don't have anything to say," Manuel said sharply, "you may leave."
Ernest swallowed. "Sire… I've learned that Camela's delayed information was deliberately blurred, and—" he hesitated, "—and that she may have ties to the Inner Circle. Lincoln's organization."
The pen stopped.
At the name Inner Circle, a rare crack in Manuel's composed demeanor appeared. His eyes snapped to Ernest, hard and focused. Ernest straightened instinctively.
"During my digging," Ernest continued, voice low, "I discovered she has a brother. We used him as the loophole. Through that, we managed to extract some partial data."
Only then did Manuel reach for the file. He opened it, flipping through pages with practiced indifference until he reached the next sheet.
His jaw slackened.
"What's the authenticity rate?" he asked, though his voice was quieter now. Sharp, but shaken.
"Ninety-five percent, sire."
Manuel leaned back. "She was the former CEO of Empress Corporation?"
Ernest nodded.
Manuel felt a jolt run through him. Empress Corporation his only equal in the corporate arena. The one entity that could rival everything he had built. And she… had ruled it from the shadows. No public appearances. No interviews. Only the whispered title Mrs. Banks, wife of the elusive Mr. Banks. A ghost at the helm of an empire.
He scrolled through the downloaded reports on his phone, every detail pulling the threads of his curiosity tighter.
"Bring her to me," he said finally, eyes still locked on the page.
Meanwhile, oblivious to the storm gathering around her, Camela drowned herself in caffeine. She sketched through dawns and dusks, chasing perfection like a lifeline. Three days passed without sleep. By the end of the third, she completed the Hermes Hospital design—every curve, every corridor breathing her intent.
Then she turned to him.
The rude gentleman.
Manuel.
She dug into his history his first interior design, his achievements, his preferences. She tried to understand the man behind the arrogance, and from that strange fascination, her second design was born.
She completed it thirty minutes before the week ended, her limbs trembling but her spirit oddly light.