Part 17 Years, Flash Marriage, Regret

I was grabbing a greasy kebab from a street cart—a guilty pleasure—when I ran into an old college classmate.

Her eyes widened. She said I was taking the silent treatment with Sophia too far.

Sophia Thorne. Daughter of the wealthy family my father worked for, and my first love.

We’d planned to study abroad together—a bright, clear future.

But at our graduation party, someone drugged her.

When I rushed to help, she suddenly came to her senses in the haze.

She had her bodyguards throw me, naked, out of the room as everyone watched, screaming I was a gold digger who’d do anything for money.

After that, my name meant “social climber.” The city’s scorn grew suffocating, so I left with my father. That was two years ago.

Now my classmate pulled out her phone. “You have no idea—Sophia’s been searching for you like crazy,” she said. “Just apologize and humor her. Couples fight and make up. It’s not a big deal.”

A bitter laugh escaped me. I showed her my lock screen—a smiling woman and a baby—and the gold band on my finger.

“Make up?” I said flatly. “I’m married. I have a kid.”

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