Bad billionare

The evening air carried a soft chill as I sat beneath the grand willow tree, my favorite spot for reflection and writing. The world around me was quiet, save for the distant laughter of noblewomen enjoying their evening strolls and the occasional sound of a carriage passing through the estate gates. I dipped my quill into the inkwell, ready to pour my thoughts onto parchment, when a voice interrupted my solitude.

"Your father saved my dog twice, so yes, he is a great man," a deep yet smooth voice said, cutting through the silence.

I turned my head sharply, my eyes meeting those of a young man standing a few feet away. His dark brown hair was neatly styled, and his sharp, intelligent eyes held an unreadable expression. His clothing was of fine quality, yet not ostentatious. Whoever he was, he was unlike any of the noblemen I had encountered before.

"Firstly," he continued, stepping closer, "why do you think of him in such a light? I mean, he is your father, is he not? Secondly, where did you learn to speak so eloquently? From the way you speak, one can tell you read a lot of books. I have never seen you at Dynasty Hall, though I am not certain whether you go there or not."

He circled me slowly, his gaze unwavering. I stiffened at his intrusion into my space but maintained my composure. Compliments were rare in my world. Most of the words directed at me carried either mockery or veiled disdain, but his tone was different. It was neither arrogant nor demeaning; it was curious, almost admiring.

"Thank you very much," I said coolly, careful to keep my emotions in check. "I work hard on myself, considering I do not have the same privileges as you. And no, I do not attend Dynasty Hall. Whatever thoughts I have about my father are nobody's business. Now, if you would excuse me, I was working on a piece before you distracted me."

He chuckled, unbothered by my sharp words. "Perhaps I can help, Melody."

My name rolled off his tongue effortlessly, as though he had known it for years. A shiver ran down my spine, though I could not tell if it was from unease or curiosity.

"I wrote something about him months ago," he continued. "Because he saved my life, twice. I wasn't able to give it to him in person for obvious reasons, so I think you might need it." He reached into his coat and pulled out a small folded paper. "I may not be as learned as you are, but I don't write so badly. Please, take it."

Before I could respond, he turned and began to walk away. I stared at his retreating figure, my mind scrambling for an explanation.

"How gentlemanly of you to leave without a name," I called after him, trying to suppress the strange mix of emotions welling up inside me.

He paused but did not turn around. "I did not think you were interested." His voice carried an amused lilt. "If you take the time to read the piece I wrote for your father, you will most definitely remember me. What is uncertain, however, is when you finally do, will you accept me?"

With that cryptic remark, he walked away, disappearing into the night. My heart pounded as I clutched the folded paper in my hands. Remember what? Remember who? Why would I need to accept him?

My fingers trembled slightly as I unfolded the note, scanning the words hastily written in elegant script.

To the man who saved me,