The Tycoon’s Secret Child and the Fiancée Who Stole My Face

He wore a slight smile as he reached for the woven bracelet again. It was deep winter, and he had been brooding for days, sitting there with a vacant, emotionless expression.

To cheer him up on New Year’s Eve, I slipped the handmade bracelet onto his left wrist, wishing him a happy new year. Only then did a flicker of warmth appear in his eyes. Now, the bracelet was worn and frayed, clashing with his designer clothes, looking awkwardly out of place.

He glanced at me, and to avoid drawing attention to myself, I quietly sat back down. His gaze shifted to something else in the room.

From Macy Elliott's perspective, the entire banquet hall seemed to revolve around Zahir Ross. Her eyes lingered intensely on him as she resumed the conversation: "Soon, when my beauty salon opens, we'll finally have our engagement party."

Someone quickly chimed in with praise, "Mr. Ross has invested in the most prestigious beauty salon in the city for you. It's truly enviable."

She smiled lightly, as if it were a trivial matter. Her long hair flowed over her vintage-style dress, and she appeared as serene and composed as a flower, earning admiration from those around her.

The guests continued to gossip. "To have stood by Mr. Ross through life's ups and downs is quite remarkable. Your story could be turned into a book!"

Macy's face briefly showed a hint of embarrassment, which she quickly concealed by serving Zahir some pulled pork and pouring him a coffee. Compliments, if ignored, would just lose their impact.

Zahir chuckled softly, and after a brief pause, he said slowly, "Our story is a long one, something only the two of us truly understand. It's not really something to share."

The crowd burst into laughter, and the atmosphere became more intimate. I felt a lump in my throat, almost bringing tears to my eyes. I quickly bowed my head, afraid anyone would notice my discomfort.

Yes, back then, it was just us. His mother had discovered his biological father wouldn’t acknowledge him and brought him back to the town, renting a small house before leaving abruptly. Before she left, she found me, the former top student who had dropped out, to tutor him. In truth, she just needed someone to look after him and leave him in his illness.

My foster mother, always greedy for money, readily agreed, took the money, and left, without leaving any money for living expenses. All things considered, we were both abandoned and forced to rely on each other, supporting one another through it all.

He was young and proud, yet ill. Life's challenges had made his moods unpredictable. One day, he suddenly screamed and ran out into the pouring rain, falling and rising repeatedly, undeterred.

I chased after him, losing my shoes in the process, and helped him up from the ground. Mud mixed with blood was running from his forehead down his face. He stood there, silent and still, like a ghost.

That night, we both came down with a high fever. He had a large gash on his head, and my foot was cut open. I thought we wouldn't make it through the night.

I was shivering uncontrollably. Stripping off my wet clothes, I lay beside him. Delirious with fever, he clung to me with all his strength and said, "Don't leave me. Even in death, we won't be apart."