Chapter 4

I made one last trip home and took with me a box that had long been gathering dust.

It was filled with letters.

They were from a pen pal I'd met online during my first year living with the Finch family.

Back then, I was living under someone else's roof. I was sensitive, withdrawn, and deeply insecure.

My pen pal was a boy I had never met, whose warm and thoughtful words gradually melted the chill of my loneliness.

We exchanged letters for an entire year, sharing everything—our happiness, sorrow, frustrations, and hopes.

Until one day, I noticed a familiar envelope on Darren's desk.

The handwriting was unmistakable.

Stunned and overjoyed, I ran to ask him about it.

He hesitated for a moment, then admitted, somewhat awkwardly, that he was the one behind the letters. That he had been "Skyler."

He said he only wanted to watch over me silently, to encourage me from the shadows.

And I believed him.

From that moment on, something shifted in me.

Gratitude became dependence. Dependence turned into love.

I thought it was fate—that we had met in such a strange and beautiful way.

I thought that beneath the arrogance and entitlement of this young heir, there hid a gentleness few had ever seen.

But now, looking back, everything felt wrong.

The boy in those letters—so emotionally intelligent, thoughtful, mature—bore no resemblance to the shallow, prideful, petty man that Darren was.

I took a deep breath, pulled out my phone, and unblocked Darren's number. Then I called him.

The line rang for a long time before he finally picked up. His voice, when it came, was heavy with impatience.

"What is it? Changed your mind? Realized you were wrong? Ready to come crawling back?"

I ignored the sneer in his voice and went straight to the point.

"Darren, I just want to ask you one last question. That pen pal from back then—Skyler—was it really you?"

There was silence on the other end.

Just as I thought he might not answer, he snapped.

"What are you even talking about? You're still hung up on that old crap? Do you really have nothing better to do than live in the past? Listen to me—my birthday's in two days. You better prepare a gift, and it better be good enough to make up for all this. Otherwise, I'll give you hell!"

He hung up, seething.

His outburst only confirmed what I had already suspected.

Maybe our entire relationship had been built on a lie from the beginning.

And everything I had endured, everything I had given over the years… meant nothing.

Outside, the sky was darkening. And with it, the last thread of attachment in my heart quietly broke.

…

Two days later, at Darren's birthday party, he was dressed in a tailored designer suit, surrounded by Carrie and a crowd of well-dressed friends.

Minutes ticked by, but I never showed.

His expression grew increasingly sour, just short of a tantrum.

Then, a deliveryman stepped into the room, holding a beautifully wrapped gift box.

"Excuse me, is Darren Finch here? This is a birthday gift from Paula Rice."

Darren's eyes lit up instantly.

With smug satisfaction, he tilted his chin and turned to Carrie and the others.

"See? I told you—Paula can't live without me. She just needed some time to cool off. Once I coax her a little, she always comes back."

Carrie's smile froze, but she forced a laugh and nodded along.

Darren took the box and unwrapped it carefully.

Everyone gathered around, curious.

But the moment he lifted the lid, his smile froze.

Inside was no apology, no gift of reconciliation—only a wooden box, filled with yellowed envelopes.

He recognized them instantly.

They were the very letters he had stolen from someone else to deceive me all those years ago.

Next to the envelopes lay several documents.

One was a copy of the agreement I had signed with his father, outlining my role as interim trustee of the Finch Corporation.

Another was a detailed report on the company's recent operations, along with a comprehensive risk assessment.

And the last—my resignation letter, signed in my own hand.

For a long moment, Darren stood frozen.

Then, with trembling hands, he picked up his phone and dialed my number.

By then, I was already seated on a plane bound overseas.

When my phone buzzed, I picked up without hesitation.

"Paula, what the hell is this?" His voice trembled with a trace of panic he couldn't quite hide.

I rubbed my temple and replied calmly, "Happy birthday, Darren. And by the way, I found out the truth. The boy who wrote me those letters—it wasn't you.

"You pretended to be him. You lied to me for ten years. But that's all right. I kept my promise to your father. I did what I said I would.

"From this moment on, I owe nothing to you or the Finch family. Goodbye."