"Cynthia, since you've decided to leave the scene anyway, can you introduce me to your rich men? I'm tired of trying so hard." During the vocal lesson, Cynthia Miller heard her college classmate Wendy speak beside her, her expression indifferent. "He's already found someone new." Wendy pouted, muttering under her breath, "Oh, come on. I don't believe you're serious about quitting. You climbed up the ladder using your rich men's resources, and now you're pretending to step back. Trying to act all innocent when you've already gained so much." Cynthia's lips curled into a faint, bitter smile. Just a week ago, she had decided to leave this world behind because the man she cared for—the same man Wendy called her rich men, Patrick Brown—had fallen for someone else. She was no longer his only one. ...... As the bell signaled the end of class, Cynthia joined the flow of students leaving the lecture hall. Outside the gate of the music academy, her eyes were drawn to a limited-edition Aston Martin One-77, one of only five in the entire country, parked at the entrance. The deep blue exterior glistened, its flared exhaust vents on either side adding a touch of aggression. The matte black headlights gave the front a sharp, imposing look, exuding power and dominance. She recognized it immediately as Patrick's car. Like its owner, the vehicle radiated authority and a commanding presence. When Patrick stepped out, his long legs hitting the pavement with an effortless stride, gasps of admiration rippled through the crowd of female students nearby. His sharply defined features carried an air of nobility, his every glance and movement brimming with a natural commanding aura. The perfectly tailored black suit he wore only accentuated his composed and restrained demeanor. This was the man Wendy had referred to as Cynthia's benefactor. But as Patrick's gaze landed on Cynthia, his sharp eyes narrowed slightly. "Cynthia, you'll have to get home on your own today. After all, your brother's here." At that moment, a young woman in a white dress, her look pure and delicate, approached from the gate. "Mr. Patrick, what brings you here?" she asked sweetly. Patrick's lips lifted in a faint smile. "I'm here to take you home." A blush crept up Luna's cheeks as she lowered her gaze shyly. "That's not really appropriate. You should probably just drop me off at my place. Otherwise, my parents might worry. And it wouldn't look good if our classmates saw—it might cause rumors." Just then, another luxury car, a Porsche Cayenne, pulled up at the entrance. Cynthia froze as she recognized the familiar license plate. It belonged to her brother, Gavin Miller. But she knew he wasn't here for her. He was here for Luna. Sure enough, the two luxury cars stopped side by side in front of Luna, drawing envious stares from those around them. The window of the Cayenne rolled down, revealing Gavin's warm smile. "Luna, let me take you home." Luna feigned hesitation. "But Mr. Patrick already offered to drive me." Turning to Cynthia with an innocent expression, she added, "Cynthia, isn't anyone coming to pick you up?" Then, as if suddenly struck by an idea, she addressed Gavin. "Gavin, why don't you take her home instead? I'll ride with Mr. Patrick." "Alright," Gavin agreed with a nod. He then turned to Cynthia. "Get in. I'll give you a ride." But as Cynthia opened the car door, Gavin's cool voice stopped her. "Cynthia, you should sit in the back." Her gaze faltered. It was only then that she noticed the sticker on the front passenger seat—a cutesy sign that read, Reserved for Luna. "From now on, don't sit there," Gavin added. Cynthia's throat tightened with bitterness. Her mind drifted to the past, when both Patrick and Gavin had treated her like a princess, always going out of their way to pick her up, whether it was for school or events. They even accompanied her on flights to ensure she was never alone. But now, the seat that had always been hers had been claimed by Luna. "Alright." She moved to the back seat. The moment she sat down, the cloying scent of Luna's perfume hit her. Cynthia had always been sensitive to smells, and the wrong scent in a car could make her nauseous. Gavin used to know this. He used to make sure his car was thoroughly cleaned before picking her up, wiping away even the faintest traces of any odor. But now, everything was different. Pressing her lips together, Cynthia fought the wave of nausea rising in her throat. Gavin noticed her unusual expression through the rear-view mirror and asked, "What's wrong?" He had forgotten. Cynthia's thoughts wandered back to the day they first met. Thirteen years ago, she was just a little girl in an orphanage, bullied by the other children. Gavin, passing by, had stepped in to help her. It had been pouring rain that day, and ten-year-old Gavin had held her tiny hand tightly, his eyes full of sincerity as he asked, "Do you want to come home with me?" He had sworn to be her Gavin for life, to protect her, to never let her suffer. But now, all the pain she felt came from him. Pulling herself out of her memories, she replied quietly, "It's nothing. I'm just tired." When they arrived at the Miller family home, Cynthia stepped out of the car and immediately received a message from an overseas number. The message read: "Cynthia, I owe you an apology for what happened in the past. Back then, I couldn't afford to raise you on my own, so I left you at the orphanage. Now, I've earned a lot of money, but I've just been diagnosed with leukemia. I've left my entire inheritance to you. Will you come abroad to spend my final days with me?"