Sunlight streamed through the window, filtering through a white, star-patterned curtain and scattering tiny sparkles on the floor. Two books lay discarded on the long, white shag carpet, their pages creased from being folded.

On the large bed, a woman in a red V-neck spaghetti-strap dress lay with wavy, curly hair cascading down her fair back, like seaweed. Red, white, and black created a vibrant visual contrast. Slowly, she opened her bleary eyes, stretching a hand to cover her mouth as she yawned. She sat up, dazed for a moment.

“Oh yeah,” she mused. “I got divorced yesterday! It’s been ages since I slept this late.”

The alarm clock on the nightstand showed almost ten o'clock. Cheyenne rose, washed, and changed into a black spaghetti-strap dress. She descended the stairs elegantly in high heels. The Lawrence family were early risers; George had already finished breakfast at seven and left for work. Sean, a high school senior, and Nora, a college junior, were both attending classes.

Only Malaya remained, knitting on the sofa. Seeing Cheyenne, she smiled gently, rising to greet her. “Cheyenne, you’re just getting up? Are you hungry? Shall I have a servant prepare something?”

“No need,” Cheyenne replied calmly, approaching Malaya. “I’m going to Grandfather’s for breakfast and to ask about Mother’s dowry.” She added with amusement, “It might be better if you helped me find those things instead of knitting a summer sweater.”

Malaya’s face stiffened momentarily, but she quickly recovered her composure. “You should visit old Mr. Edwards. And I’ll do my best to retrieve your belongings.”

“Thanks,” Cheyenne smiled, grabbing her bag and heading to the garage.

It had been nearly three years since she’d driven. At the Foley Villa, she’d always had a chauffeur. Touching the steering wheel, she felt a sense of reclaiming something precious. Her delicate white hands lingered on it before she tossed her bag onto the passenger seat and slid in.

Ewan, concerned, approached. “Lady Cheyenne, shall I find you a driver?”

“No need,” she replied confidently.

Minutes later, a light pink Lamborghini, adorned with cartoon stickers, appeared on the road—a beautiful but garish combination. It was hard to believe such an expensive car could be so…decorated.

Passing a cake shop, Cheyenne remembered her grandfather’s fondness for their pastries. She pulled over and lowered her window.

Her fair, delicate face attracted attention. A young man in a black leather jacket whistled, saying to Jerome Witt, who stood nearby, “Mr. Witt, look at that girl! Amazing figure!”

Jerome, a handsome man of about twenty-five with silver-white hair, wore a crisp white shirt and deep blue pants. He removed his sunglasses, just in time to see Cheyenne emerge, her black lace dress showcasing her legs—elegant yet alluring. She remained oblivious to her effect, admiring her profile in the car window.

“Nice. She’s a beauty.”

“Mr. Witt, how can you compliment another girl in front of me? I’ll be angry,” a girl said sweetly, clinging to Jerome’s arm. Looking at Cheyenne with disdain and jealousy, she muttered, “Who is that little vixen? What a shameless woman, trying to seduce Mr. Witt.”

Unfortunately, Cheyenne overheard. She stopped and turned. Her bright eyes, white teeth, and luscious red lips were captivating. Smiling, she approached them on her high heels.

“M-Mr. Witt…that girl is coming over.”

“Do I need you to tell me? I have eyes,” Jerome replied, patting the man’s head before turning to the approaching Cheyenne. He wondered who she was.

“Is there something you need, pretty lady?” he asked.

Cheyenne nodded innocently, softening her voice and feigning shyness. She paused, looking at the short-haired woman, who glared fiercely.

“But…you’re trash. And you belong in the trash bin!” Cheyenne declared. The air grew tense.

“What did you say?” he gritted out.

“Do you need your ears checked? You’re so young and already hard of hearing! How pitiful!” Cheyenne retorted fearlessly.

“How dare you insult Mr. Witt? Do you want to die?” The man in the leather jacket threatened, pointing at her.

Before he could strike, Cheyenne’s heel came down hard on his instep. He screamed in pain.

“I hate it when people point at me.”

Cheyenne’s unexpected temper caught Jerome’s attention. He clapped his hands. “Not bad. Beautiful and feisty. I like it. How much for one night?”

Cheyenne glared. “I doubt you can afford me.”

“Is that so? Is $100,000 enough for one time?”

The short-haired woman’s jealousy reached a fever pitch. She’d asked Jerome out repeatedly, and this woman had ruined it all!