In the slums of Marseille, you don’t get to be just a "Dreamer Girl." You have to be a warrior first. Amélie sat at the cracked wooden table of the small café, her knuckles still red from the shift at the warehouse. Across from her, the chair was empty. He was supposed to be here. They had made a pact: one year to make enough money to leave this life behind. A promise to meet and merge their savings. She looked at the envelope on the table. It was thick with her hard-earned Euros—money she had earned by working three jobs, sleeping four hours a night, and fighting off every person who tried to step on her. She had kept her side of the promise. But he was nowhere to be seen. The waiter walked by, smirking. "Waiting for a ghost, chérie?" Amélie didn't flinch. she didn't cry. She looked the waiter in the eye with a cold, sharp stare that made him stop laughing. "I'm not waiting for anyone," she said, her voice like steel. She grabbed the envelope and stood up, her back straight. "I just realized that a promise kept by only one side isn't a debt. It's a divorce." She walked out into the cold French rain, her boots clicking loudly on the pavement. If she could survive the streets, she could survive a broken heart. She had the money. She had the grit. And most importantly, she had the power. "Watch me," she whispered to the wind. "I’ll build my empire alone.