I flew halfway across the world for her. A red-eye from Paris, straight into the buzzing chaos of the national dance finals in New York, all to see Seraphina win. I was running on fumes, but the thought of her smile was better than any caffeine. Then I heard the interviewer’s voice boom through the auditorium. “Sera, we’re all dying to know,” the bubbly host said, holding up a phone, “who is ‘Maybach Moneybags’ in your contacts?” A ripple of laughter went through the crowd. On the giant screen above the stage, Seraphina offered a practiced, delicate shrug. “Oh, him?” she said, her voice light as air. “Just… an admirer.” In the shadows of the back row, the brand-new, custom Chanel box slipped from my grasp. It hit the floor with a soft, sickening thud. My car is a Maybach. And I’m the one who provides the “moneybags.” … I bent down, my hands trembling slightly as I retrieved the box, carefully brushing a speck of dust from its glossy surface. Another question echoed from the stage. “The word is, Seraphina, that your boyfriend is absolutely devoted to you. He’s often seen dropping off gifts, even meals, in a Maybach.” Seraphina’s smile was flawless, but her answer was a masterpiece of evasion. “My career has to be my focus right now,” she demurred. “Besides, I don’t think showering a girl with expensive gifts is truly a sign of love. A true connection is about a meeting of the minds, a spiritual bond.” In the roaring auditorium, I heard a distinct, quiet crack. It might have been my heart. Five years together, and I had been reduced to a nickname in her phone, a label. Seraphina was a star, the kind of beautiful that commanded attention the moment she entered a room. Smart, a gifted dancer, with a voice that could charm anyone. Whenever I was stressed out from a business deal gone wrong, she’d perform an impromptu dance for me, right there on the street, drawing a small crowd of mesmerized onlookers snapping pictures with their phones. She’d caused a major stir her senior year at Juilliard. A prestigious dance company had offered her a spot, a dream for most, but she’d turned it down to pursue a master’s fellowship instead. She’d laughed, her face bright with ambition. “A job can wait. This time, right now, is for my art.” I had to admit, she was strategic. In the three years of her master’s program, she’d not only swept every major award in the contemporary dance world but also fielded offers from half a dozen elite companies. Everyone called her an "angel born to dance." Compared to her, I was painfully ordinary. My grades had been average. I had no artistic talent to speak of. The only thing I had going for me was a relentless work ethic and a decent head for business. In college, while others were studying, I was hustling—hawking water bottles at campus games, roses on Valentine's Day, ridiculously overpriced apples wrapped in cellophane at Christmas. So, when graduation came, I didn’t follow her to grad school. I went to build my empire. I remember buying my first car that year, a beat-up secondhand Volkswagen. I drove it to pick her up from her dorm, but she stopped me at the main gate of the campus. “You can just drop me here,” she’d said, avoiding my eyes. “You should head back.” I was confused. I watched as other, sleeker cars drove past us onto the manicured grounds. “Is it the car?” I asked, the question tasting like ash in my mouth. “Are you embarrassed?” She’d pouted, her lower lip pushing out in that way I found irresistible. “Don’t be silly. I just don’t want people to think I’m getting special treatment.” There were other times, too. I’d buy coffee or snacks for her roommates, trying to be the good boyfriend, but she’d always intercept me. “I’ll take them up, it’s fine! I’d hate for them to get jealous of me having such a wonderful boyfriend,” she’d say, and the meeting would never happen. Until today. She knew I was in Paris closing a deal. She must have felt safe, posting that Instagram story yesterday: “Finals tomorrow! So nervous. Wonder who will be there to cheer me on?” It was paired with the official competition poster, complete with the time and address. A clear invitation. The interview on stage was causing a sensation. Seraphina glowed under the spotlights, a celestial body I was suddenly realizing I could never truly reach. I was about to slip away unnoticed when I bumped squarely into someone. A man in a sharp suit and designer glasses, his voice dripping with condescending amusement. “Well, well,” he said, loudly enough for those around us to hear. “If it isn’t Seraphina’s number one benefactor.” The chatter around me died. As if on cue, a spotlight swiveled and landed directly on me. On stage, Seraphina’s eyes widened. I saw a flicker of panic on the Jumbotron, but it vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by her signature, dazzling smile. “Leo! Oh my god!” she exclaimed into the mic. “Weren’t you just in Paris yesterday? Did you come all this way just to see me compete?” That look of innocent, joyful surprise. It could melt any man’s heart. For a moment, it worked. The anger, the humiliation, it all just evaporated. I found myself smiling back. “Of course,” I said, my voice smoother than I felt. “I came back just for you.” It was a flimsy lie, but after years in the business world, you learn one thing: never show your hand until the final card is played. And if I was being honest with myself, it wasn’t just habit. It was because, despite everything, I loved her. I wanted to give her a chance to make this right. Seraphina’s smile was warm, enchanting. “Everyone,” she announced to the auditorium, “I’d like you to meet a very dear friend and supporter of mine, the founder of the Pinnacle Group, Leo Pierce.” Chapter 2 A dear friend. That’s all. The words echoed in my head, and the anger and hurt I’d just suppressed came rushing back. The atmosphere was thick with unspoken questions. Every eye in the section seemed to drift down to the Chanel box in my hand, and I could see the dawning comprehension on their faces. So, he’s the one. The man in the suit, Julian, broke the tension. “Nice bag,” he sneered, his eyes glinting behind his glasses. “Must have set you back a pretty penny. Hope you didn’t have to take out a loan for it.” I just stared at him. A loan for a handbag? That was a new one. Before I could formulate a response, Seraphina cut in, her tone playfully scolding. “Julian, stop it,” she said. “Just because you landed that internship at Goldman Sachs doesn’t mean you’re the only one who understands finance.” They bantered like that, oblivious to the hundreds of people watching them, a private joke playing out on a public stage. Julian pushed his glasses up his nose, a smug, indulgent smile on his face. He looked every bit the polished, Ivy League intellectual. Julian. I’d seen the name before. On her Instagram. A photo of his back, with the caption: Hate how smart he is, always making me look bad. ;) She’d complained to me about him, too. Some finance guy at school who was annoyingly brilliant and could sing like a professional, always stealing her thunder. The complaint was couched in annoyance, but the subtext was sparkling with something else. The host, sensing the awkwardness, tried to recover. “Mr. Pierce came thousands of miles to witness Seraphina’s triumph!” he announced. “Let’s get him up on stage to present his gift to our star in person! What do you say, folks?” A wave of applause and cheers washed over the hall. Seraphina’s face fell. I saw it clearly on the screen. “That’s not necessary,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. The host froze. Quickly, she offered an out. “We’re all going for a celebratory dinner later.” A dinner. Not a date. A bitter laugh escaped me. I stood there, rooted to the spot, feeling utterly lost. Suddenly, there was a commotion. Julian, with surprising athleticism, vaulted from the front row onto the stage. He snatched the microphone from the host’s hand and turned to Seraphina. “I know you don’t care for extravagant, material things,” he declared, his voice ringing with sincerity. “So, to celebrate your victory, I wanted to give you something from the heart. A song.” A blush crept up Seraphina’s neck. She was half-delighted, half-embarrassed. “Right now?” she whispered. He nodded. “Well… okay. Go on, I’m listening.” Seraphina was right. The guy could sing. He had the kind of voice that wins reality shows, smooth and full of emotion. On stage, they were a perfect picture: the handsome troubadour and the graceful ballerina. He sang, and she began to move, an improvised dance that was fluid and breathtaking. They were perfectly in sync, two artists weaving a spell that captivated the entire audience. The song ended. The applause was deafening. And I, standing under my solitary spotlight, began to laugh. A hollow, ugly sound. On the Jumbotron, my cynical smile was stark and jarring for everyone to see. Chapter 3 Julian looked at me, a wounded expression on his face. “Does Mr. Pierce feel my gift is inferior to a Chanel bag?” he asked, his voice laced with false humility. The unspoken accusation hung in the air: All you have is your money. Seraphina shot me a look from the stage. It was a clear, undisguised warning. Don’t you dare say a word. But I hadn’t said anything. You can be greedy, you can be vain, you can even be unfaithful. But you can’t be blind. You can’t lack basic judgment. I held her gaze for a long moment, then, just as the spotlight on me finally faded, I turned and walked out of the auditorium. Seraphina was right about one thing. People need a spiritual connection, not just a pile of money. And, I had to admit, I did love money. I’d fought tooth and nail for every penny. For years, I’d worked day and night, tackling impossible projects, building the Pinnacle Group from nothing into one of the city’s leading investment firms. I had a sharp eye for opportunity; I wanted to invest in everything, to win every deal. I bought prime real estate, drove luxury cars, wore designer clothes. This dance competition was the first investment I’d ever made without calculating the return. I’d poured a small fortune into sponsoring the event, making quiet arrangements with the organizers to ensure Seraphina was crowned the winner. The plan was for her to then become the official brand ambassador for Pinnacle. We wouldn’t just be a couple; we’d be partners. Our lives, even more intertwined. I thought she was the one pure thing in my life, a refreshing stream in my world of crass commerce. In high school, my grandparents passed away. My parents had been out of the picture for years. I was, for all intents and purposes, an orphan. But orphans have to eat, too. So I started working, juggling classes and odd jobs. In that gray, washed-out world, Seraphina was the only splash of color. She’d secretly slip her breakfast into my desk, then deny it with a proud toss of her head if I caught her. She’d round up her friends to buy water from me at the track meets, flowers on Valentine’s, apples at Christmas. When kids whispered that I was the charity case whose parents had abandoned him, she’d just catch my eye from across the cafeteria, sipping her soda, and give me a small, conspiratorial smile. It was a silent, powerful comfort. No one had ever protected me, ever truly loved me. She was the first person to offer me any kind of warmth. That’s why I worked so hard, fought so fiercely. All I wanted was to give her the world, to protect her, to love her. I hadn’t even reached the parking garage when I heard a peal of giggles. “Wow, so this is a Maybach,” a girl’s voice said. “It’s so insane. I’ve never even been in one.” Another voice, dripping with disdain, replied, “Please. When Sera’s sugar daddy gets here, just ask him for a joyride.” I had a sinking feeling they were talking about me. Sure enough, I rounded the corner to see a group of long-legged dancers, two of whom I recognized as Seraphina’s roommates, huddled around my car. They saw me approach and didn’t even flinch. Instead, one of them raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Hey, you,” she said. “Take us for a spin, get us each a little something from Dior, and we’ll put in a good word for you with Sera. What do you say?” Her friend chimed in. “And just some friendly advice? That singer on stage? He’s a finance prodigy. Your stock is dropping, fast.” If my life were a play, I would have paid to watch it from the audience, just to understand how I had become so pathetic that my girlfriend’s roommates thought they could use her as a bargaining chip to control me. I remembered all the times Sera told me her roommates were "difficult," and how I’d constantly buy them makeup and gift cards, just so they’d be nice to her. Right then, I wished they were a pack of street thugs instead of a gaggle of aspiring ballerinas. At least then I could have thrown a punch. But I couldn't. I had to choose my words carefully, lest they twist them into some social media horror story. As they spoke, one of the girls brazenly tried the passenger door handle. To my surprise, it clicked open. She was about to slide in when a hand shot out and blocked her way. “Hold on,” a crisp, unfamiliar voice said. “I believe this vehicle is under a rental agreement. With me.” I looked up, stunned, into a clear, intelligent face I’d never seen before. She was about Seraphina’s age, dressed in a large, stylish overcoat that hid her figure, but on her feet were a pair of limited-edition designer heels. The dancers stared, confused, before one of them scoffed. “Whatever. Broke loser, pretending to be rich,” she muttered, and the group sauntered away. The strange girl opened the passenger door, slid in, and buckled her seatbelt with an air of familiarity. “Get in,” she said. The Maybach’s engine purred to life, the sound echoing through the concrete garage. A minute later, we were cruising down the avenue. “Sorry about that,” she said politely. “You looked like you were in a tight spot, so I improvised. Don’t worry, this isn’t some elaborate scam. You can just drop me at the nearest subway station.” I managed a small smile. The first real one of the night. A girl wearing thousand-dollar shoes was probably the one doing the scamming, not the other way around. Following her directions, I pulled over to the curb. “How are you getting home?” I asked. She grinned. “On the multi-billion-dollar MTA transit system. The 1 train awaits.” I laughed. It felt good. “Thank you,” I said again, genuinely. She waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t mention it.” With that, she hopped out and disappeared down the subway entrance. It wasn't until I was pulling back into traffic that her words from the garage fully registered. The way she'd said my name. No one in the business world called me Leo Pierce with that wry, almost playful tone. It was as if she knew me from another lifetime. A lifetime before the Maybach and the Pinnacle Group.
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