Two weeks later, at The Kensington Grand, there was a top‑tier venture capital gala packed with celebrities.
I walked into the venue on Finn's arm.
In the mirror, I was wearing a dark green haute couture gown, my long, loosely curled hair spilling over my bare shoulders, my makeup exquisite, my skin fair and glowing.
I hadn't dressed this beautifully in ages.
Back then, I had to squeeze every penny for Asher's project—no skincare, no nice clothes, just all‑nighters and cheap fabrics.
Thinking back, I'd been utterly foolish.
The moment I entered the venue, I saw Asher in the corner.
He wore a somewhat wrinkled suit, clutching that proposal which had been revised over a dozen times, his forehead covered in cold sweat, scrambling desperately from person to person.
Without my core data
