A warm summer breeze drifted through Demanviel, carrying the quiet comfort of a city at ease with itself."
Rose Liu was awake before dawn, the digital clock on her bedside table glowing 5:00 a.m. in pale blue light. The Liu mansion still slept, thick carpets muffled sound, crystal chandeliers hung dark and silent, and the air smelled faintly of polish and expensive flowers changed daily by the staff.
She slipped out of bed without a sound.
Down the corridor, Sally Liu's door remained firmly shut. Sally would not wake until late morning—ten, sometimes eleven—when the sun was already high and breakfast long cleared away. Rose moved on instinct, tying her hair back, rolling up her sleeves. By the time the maid appeared, Rose had already begun sorting the scattered magazines in the sitting room, straightening cushions that had never been sat on, aligning porcelain vases by exact height.
"Miss Rose," the maid murmured, startled.
Rose only smiled and reached for the cleaning cloth.
She moved through the mansion like a shadow that knew every corner,organizing, tidying, preparing. When she reached Sally's room, she drew the bath water to the precise temperature Sally preferred, laid out silk towels, and selected the dress Sally would most likely choose once she woke. She knew her sister's habits better than her own.
By the time sunlight streamed through the tall windows, everything was perfect.
And still, no one thanked her.
Despite the Liu family's wealth,despite the marble floors beneath her bare feet and the gold-framed mirrors lining the halls—luxury had always existed at a distance for Rose. Close enough to see. Never close enough to touch. She had been brought into this family, adopted into it, yet she remained standing just outside its warmth, like someone pressing their palms against a glass wall.
In public, she existed.
At elite banquets, charity galas, and carefully staged family appearances, Rose stood beside the Lius, her presence deliberate. Cameras flashed. Smiles were arranged. Reporters nodded, satisfied that the adopted daughter was still there, still obediently filling her role. Once the night ended, she faded again—no longer required.
She was not the true heiress.
She never would be.
In the world of inheritance, status, and ownership, her place was fixed far below Sally's. That was not spoken aloud often, but it was understood. Sally was the blood daughter, the pride of the Liu family, the one whose name truly mattered. Rose was only ever meant to accompany her—to keep her company when she was younger, to soften the family image, to exist as proof of generosity.
Rose Liu slipped quietly out of the Liu mansion, careful not to alert anyone. The iron gates closed behind her with a soft clang as she broke into a light run, heading toward the small, aging bakery tucked at the far end of the next street.
Damenviels first-phase street was a world of its own—lined with grand villas, manicured hedges, and guarded estates owned by the city's elite. Wealth and poverty existed side by side, yet never touched. A single turn separated polished marble driveways from cracked pavement and flickering streetlamps.
Rose clutched her crossbody bag tightly against her chest as she ran. Inside were the few things she always carried: her phone, a handkerchief, a small notebook with a pen tucked neatly into its spine, and her gloves. It was a habit she had formed long ago—keeping only what she needed, nothing more.
By the time she reached the bakery, her steps slowed. The scent of yeast and warm dough greeted her before she even pushed open the door. Her reflection in the glass showed a tired face—eyes slightly swollen, cheeks flushed, hair loosened by the rush. She looked worn, almost fragile.
"Let me help you with that."
Her voice echoed softly inside the bakery.
Demetrius Sailor stood near the oven, sleeves rolled up as he prepared the fire, heat already curling through the air. He turned at the sound of her voice, surprise flickering briefly across his face before melting into a familiar, warm smile.
"Your gloves—already worn," he said lightly. "I just knew you'd show up."
Rose stepped closer, slipping on the gloves without a word. Soon, they worked side by side, kneading dough and shaping loaves. Flour dusted their faces and clung to their clothes, mixing with sweat as the heat of the oven wrapped around them. The bakery felt alive—warm, honest, uncomplicated. A place untouched by status or cruelty.
When the last batch was set, Demetrius opened a small oat-colored mini fridge and handed her a chilled bottled cocktail.
"My favorite," Rose said softly, smiling as she accepted it and took a sip.
He leaned against the counter, exhaling.
"Working alone in this bakery is exhausting. How do you manage to meet your targets?" rose questions
"I don't work alone," he replied after a pause. "My mother and sister used to help me.plus i had two workers,but recently… I couldn't keep up with the maintenance costs of the bakery or their fees. My mother's ill now, and my sister stays home to care for her. So it's just me."
Rose's expression softened. "That must be really stressful. And tiring."
He chuckled quietly, glancing at her. "You've been such a great help. What did I ever do to deserve you?"
Rose felt warmth rise to her cheeks. She quickly reached into her bag, pulling out her notebook and scribbling something down, shielding the page with her hand.
"When will you ever tell me what you're always writing in that notebook of yours?" Demetrius asked, amused.
She looked up, smiling faintly. "One day, I will. But for now, I'll keep it to myself."
She closed the notebook and tucked it away, glancing toward the door as the sky outside darkened.
"It's getting late," she said softly. "I'd better head home."
"Oh—that reminds me," Demetrius said casually as he wiped his hands on a cloth. "How's Sally doing? I hope she's well."
"She's good," Rose replied without hesitation.
"Tell her I said hello," he added, almost absentmindedly.
Rose nodded. It was a ritual she had grown used to. Demetrius never forgot to ask about Sally—not once. And every time, Rose answered the same way, her voice steady, her expression calm.
What Demetrius did not know was that Sally despised him.
To Sally, Demetrius was nothing more than an eyesore—always smelling of oil and flour, clothes stained from the bakery floor, skin pale and worn from long hours of labor. She had once sneered that he looked old beyond his years, unfit to even stand near her, let alone be spoken of in her presence.
Still, Rose always lied.
She always told Demetrius that Sally returned his greetings, that she remembered him fondly, that she held no ill will. It was easier that way. Kinder.
The truth was far crueler.
Sally had once cornered Rose and issued a cold, unwavering warning: Demetrius was never to be mentioned again. He did not befit her status. His existence alone, she claimed, would stain her reputation—an inconvenience to her carefully polished image of wealth and superiority.
"Bye," Demetrius called out as Rose stepped outside. "Run along. Be careful."
His voice echoed faintly behind her as she broke into a light run, heading toward the main road. Only there could she catch a cab—the bakery sat far too close to the edge of the street, tucked away where luxury no longer reached.
Rose did not look back.