Early autumn afternoon, somewhere in a quiet neighborhood of Skylark.
Grace Barron pulled the freshly washed clothes from the machine, hanging them piece by piece on the line. Once finished, she leaned on the balcony railing and gazed out. The weather was beautiful—lazy white clouds tangled softly in the sky, and the distant mountains rolled like a watercolor painting, translucent and serene.
She glanced down at the time, turned back inside, and headed into the walk-in closet to grab her sunscreen. She was planning to stop by Pinocchio's place and push for her draft.
Grace set her phone aside, slipped into a clean, moonlight-blue blouse and jeans, then moved to her vanity to find the sunscreen. As she opened a drawer, her eyes happened to catch the corner of a silver jewelry box, nearly dusted over from disuse.
She paused.
Opening it revealed a crystal bracelet resting on soft velvet—shimmering gently beneath the light, glistening and transparent like a frozen tear.
It was a gift from her ex, Jessica Brooks.
Grace had pursued Jessica from their freshman year all the way through two years after graduation. It wasn't until then that Jessica finally agreed to date her. But not long after, Jessica abruptly ended things.
The catalyst? Jessica had wanted to dine at an upscale buffet. Grace found it overpriced and declined. Jessica called her cheap.
At the time, Grace couldn't comprehend why Jessica would throw such a tantrum. It wasn't until later she learned the truth—Jessica had never been into her. She was straight from the start. Their relationship had been a transaction. Grace's money, Jessica's convenience.
When Grace's family suffered a financial collapse, Jessica turned cold in a heartbeat, discarded her like an expired coupon, and jumped into the arms of a wealthier man.
Two and a half years had passed since. Grace had completely purged Jessica from her life—but the scars lingered. Love now disgusted her in a visceral, almost physical way.
Plenty had pursued her in the last two years. She hadn't reciprocated. Not even once.
She used to think that once her finances stabilized, her heart would naturally reopen. But the truth? The better her life got, the less she cared for love. It wasn't bitterness. It was indifference—a cement wall sealing her heart.
Now, her only goals in life were career, and then more career.
Without another glance, she tossed the bracelet back into the box with a calm finality.
After applying her sunscreen and changing clothes, Grace took the box with her and headed downstairs.
She maneuvered her car carefully, swerving around a girl on a bicycle, and pulled up in front of a small roadside shop shaded by a banyan tree.
The sign read "Future Convenience." It sold cigarettes, alcohol, and snacks. The old man who owned it was hunched over with his reading glasses on, fully engrossed in studying how to eat a custard apple—as if deciphering some divine fruit.
Grace knocked twice on the counter and set the box down. She asked him to pass it to his granddaughter and say it was a gift.
Then, casually offering a tip on how to eat the fruit, she turned back to her car without a backward glance and drove toward Pinocchio's apartment.
Who was Pinocchio?
A rising star in internet culture, she'd gained massive popularity in recent years by posting faceless, soothing lifestyle vlogs. With an exquisite sense of aesthetics, her home was always beautifully arranged. In a world spinning too fast, where city dwellers struggled to find spiritual peace amid concrete and steel, her content struck a chord—and she became a sensation overnight.
Even the magazine Grace worked for had extended an olive branch, making Pinocchio a featured columnist for their A-section. Every month, she was expected to submit a 1,500-word inspirational piece.
But life rarely allows a person to have it all. Her career soared while her personal life unraveled into chaos—like a ball of yarn after a cat's play.
In the past two years alone, Pinocchio had been swept up in two massive scandals.
The first, last year: media reports claimed she had drunkenly attacked a homeless elderly man in the middle of the night.
The internet exploded.
Furious netizens demanded blood, accusing her of being violent, heartless, a menace to society. Some even said she should just disappear forever.
Fortunately, the truth surfaced quickly.
That "elderly man" turned out to be nothing more than a violent thug. Pinocchio's actions were entirely in self-defense. Once clarified, the online outrage simmered down.
But peace never lasts long.
Recently, a new scandal hit—accusations that she had been a homewrecker, seducing a married man and destroying a family.
This time, the backlash was worse.
Even though Pinocchio publicly denied the allegations, explaining that she had been set up by a deranged family trying to ruin her reputation, no one wanted to believe her. People even resurrected the old scandal, claiming the elderly assault was probably real too.
Every day, haters flooded her social media, cursing her with death wishes and damnation.
Originally, Grace hadn't been assigned to Pinocchio's column. But just a few days ago, her editor had suddenly quit to marry a cement factory boss and start a family. So Grace was tapped to fill in.
She had no interest in Pinocchio's personal drama. Real or not, it wasn't her concern—though instinct told her the scandals were likely fabricated. All that mattered to her was getting that draft, on time.
But Pinocchio's procrastination? Truly next level.
She had a hundred excuses each time an editor called.
Her hand was broken. Then burned. Then bitten by a pet.
The most absurd yet? That she sleepwalked onto her balcony and—wait for it—hugged a cactus. Both hands were too spiked to type.
It was… impressive. The audacity. The creativity. The commitment to chaos.
So Grace decided to visit in person and figure out what was going on.
She suspected Pinocchio wasn't just late on deadlines—she was likely deeply wounded by everything. Grace had noticed she hadn't posted any videos in weeks. That wasn't like her.
If the scandals had broken her spirit, Grace needed to know. These days, people were fragile. The emotional pressure was crushing. She was genuinely concerned Pinocchio might hurt herself if things spiraled.
Even if the haters didn't care, Grace did.
Pinocchio lived in Silvercrest Heights, one of Skylark's most luxurious residential complexes. Real estate there was so expensive that even a modest unit cost a fortune. Clearly, she'd earned quite a bit from her work.
Grace arrived around 1:30 p.m. The sun blazed down in full force. Though it was technically autumn, the heat rivaled midsummer—relentless and scorching.
After parking, she stepped out, slammed the door shut, straightened her blouse sleeves, and walked toward the elevator, back straight and purposeful.
Just as she pressed the button and the doors began to close, a hand reached in.
The doors opened again.
A woman entered.
She had flowing chestnut curls, oversized Prada sunglasses, and the kind of confident nonchalance that made people stare. Her beige dress hugged her waist perfectly, showing off her graceful figure. Delicate ankles, toned legs—her presence was magnetic.
Grace didn't stare. It wasn't polite. She simply turned and pressed the button again.
They rode the elevator in silence. People got on and off, but the two women remained. Floor after floor passed—until finally, both exited on the 25th.
Still keeping their distance, they walked down the hallway, footsteps echoing softly between them.
Then, both turned left. Both stopped in front of the same door: Unit 2501.
Grace blinked.
The other woman raised her hand to punch in a code but paused. She tilted her head toward Grace, then lowered her sunglasses slightly, revealing curious eyes. "Can I help you?"
Grace offered a slow smile. "Are you… the influencer, Pinocchio?"
The woman flinched like she'd been struck by lightning. Her entire face froze.
Then, without a word, she slung her bag over her shoulder and turned—ready to flee.
Grace was faster.
She lunged forward and gripped her wrist firmly.
The woman stumbled, clearly unprepared for resistance. Then—switching tactics in an instant—she smiled sweetly and launched into several languages:
"Sorry, I can't speak English. Lo siento, no hablo chino!"
Mid-sentence, her sunglasses slipped down, revealing a stunning, pale face. Almond eyes shimmered with soft vulnerability, framed by lashes that whispered elegance and fragility.
And Grace—stared.
That face… looked familiar.
She squinted. "Oakley Ponciano?"
Oakley blinked.
Recognition dawned in her amber-brown eyes. "Grace Barron?"
For a moment, both women stood in silence, stunned.
What were the odds?
Two people who thought they'd never speak again, meeting like this—on a hot afternoon, at a stranger's door.
Grace arched a brow and smiled. "So… you still remember me?"