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"I'm telling you, Somerset—just because we're poor doesn't mean we don't have dignity. Who do you think you are, humiliating us like this?" Harvey Thompson shoved me hard and pulled Tilly behind him, the look he leveled at me sharp and hostile.

The familiar scene replayed itself so vividly that my mind went blank for a moment. Hadn't I already died, burned alive in that fire orchestrated by my wife and her beloved childhood sweetheart? Yet what stood before me now was the moment from 12 years ago, the day I had insisted on sponsoring Tilly.

At this point in time, Tilly was still wearing a plain floral dress, a pink ribbon in her hair fluttering in the breeze like a butterfly caught in spring. A few loose strands framed her already pale face, making her look even more fragile and pitiful. That image of her—resilient yet delicate, like an untouched flower—had hooked me completely, turning me into someone who willingly hovered around her, asking for nothing in return.

I had first met Tilly at an upscale bar. We were still in high school back then, and on weekends, she worked part-time to earn her living expenses. That lingering air of youth made her an easy target for sleazy, well-off men.

She clutched a bottle of alcohol in her hands, biting her lip so hard it trembled, tears welling in her eyes. That stubborn refusal to give in only made her look more vulnerable—more tempting.

"Come on, sweetheart. Just drink this bottle, and we'll let you go."

"If you don't want to drink, that's fine too. Spend the night making us happy, and we'll cover all your living expenses."

"Heh, little girl, this pays way faster than working here as a server."

One of them—a bald man—reached out and grabbed Tilly.

"Please don't… I'll pay for the broken glass, I swear…" Her weak, trembling plea only fueled their arrogance.

As the bald man wrapped an arm around Tilly's waist and was about to cross the line, I shot to my feet, grabbed an empty bottle, and smashed it straight down on his head. I was young and hot-blooded back then, and that bar happened to be partly owned by my father.

Once those men realized I wasn't someone they could afford to mess with, they scattered.

After that incident, I couldn't stop paying attention to Tilly. Her parents had jumped to their deaths over loan shark debts when she had just started her first year of high school. Left completely alone, she survived by working odd jobs.

She was poor, but she never accepted public donations, only applying for government aid at most. Even so, she consistently ranked among the top students at the best high school in Addison. With her stipend, scholarships, and part-time income combined, she barely managed to get by.

I had thought that incident would bring us closer. Instead, she began avoiding me.

I was the only child in my family, raised with everything handed to me on a silver platter. There had never been anything I wanted but couldn't get. The more Tilly avoided me, the more determined I became to close the distance.

That was when I fell for her.

I liked her quiet resilience, the cool distance she kept from the world, her ability to tune out everything around her and stay true to herself. I even liked the way she looked at me sometimes—aloof on the surface, yet with a trace of longing and fear buried deep in her eyes. No one had ever captured my interest like that before.

So, I went after her without holding back.

Her classroom happened to be next to mine. Bringing her breakfast every morning became routine—though every single one ended up in the trash. Lolita fashion was all the rage back then, and during breaks, the girls in class were always chatting about it. Whenever those conversations came up, Tilly would press her lips together, retreat to her seat, and bury her head as if she were focused on her exercises.