Chapter 1
The destruction was absolute.Violent.Personal.
The desk—custom-built from imported walnut—hadn’t just been smashed.It had beenslaughtered.Deep gouges marred the once-polished surface like claw marks, as if someone had tried to carve their rage into the wood itself.The drawers were strewn across the room in splintered pieces.The chair had been reduced to jagged limbs, a pile of kindling left like a warning.
Across the wall, someone had spray-painted one word in angry, red letters:
CHEAPSKATE.
It dripped down the stark white wall like blood.
But it wasn’t just the wall.The insult had been sprayed across the carpet, the glass-topped side table, even the damnceiling.Curtains lay in ribbons, shredded as though attacked by wild animals.The lamp shades hung in limp tatters, the bulbs still flickering.
Prince Saif Al-Sintra stood in the wreckage, breath slow, spine rigid.His first thought wasn’t fear.
It was confusion.
Why that word?Why not “liar,” or “traitor,” or even something more primal—thief,bastard,monster?Whycheapskate?
Of all the insults…
He prided himself on fairness.Born into luxury, yes—but he had seen too much of the world to mistake privilege for worth.He paid above-market wages, offered full benefits across all levels of employment.Warehouse staff.Factory teams.Security crews.Every one of them had healthcare, paid leave, child care stipends.No one in his empire went unseen.
Even his mistresses had praised his generosity—often loudly, and with great enthusiasm.
His jaw flexed.
Except one.
Jemma.
That name dropped like a pebble into his mind, rippling outward.A flash of her—dark hair, quick wit, those heartbreakingly hazel eyes.He could still hear the last words she said to him, but notwhyshe’d said them.She’d cried, but offered no explanation.Just… vanished.
No parting gift, no farewell dinner, no warning.One day she was in his bed, the next she was gone.
Not fired.Not threatened.Not even slighted.
And yet, the word still burned on the wall behind him: CHEAPSKATE.
Saif's hands curled into fists on his hips as he scanned the room again, a slow churn of unease tightening in his chest.This wasn’t random vandalism.This was deliberate.Focused.
Targeted.
And maybe—just maybe—it had nothing to do with money.
“Damn it,” he growled under his breath.A year had passed and still,still, Jemma haunted his thoughts.
Now she was haunting his office.
Or someone wanted him to think she was.
Why couldn’t he stop thinking about her?
Why did her smile—and those damn eyes—still haunt him, even now?
“Your Highness.”
The low voice cut through the silence, dragging Saif out of the memories he never seemed to escape.His lead bodyguard stepped into the wreckage with a tablet in hand, his expression tight.
