After the session concluded, Sarah approached the Eastbridge executives' table with composed professionalism. She handed over a sleek flash drive and an envelope containing the technical breakdown—detailing everything Mark had crafted the night before: algorithms, system architecture, simulation assumptions, and implementation timelines.
"I believe this will answer any deeper questions your analysts may have," she said, her voice poised.
The lead executive, a tall man with a sharp gray suit and steel-framed glasses, accepted the materials and nodded appreciatively. "We've reviewed a dozen proposals today, but this one stands out. It's not just innovative—it's grounded. You've clearly done your homework."
Another executive flipped through the printed documents, pausing at a chart. "These simulations… they're remarkably accurate. If this works even at eighty percent of what's projected, we're still looking at a significant upgrade."
"We'll be in touch soon," the first one added, offering a firm handshake. "Very soon."
Sarah nodded once, offered a professional smile, and turned to leave. The pride swelling in her chest was hard to suppress—but she wore it with control.
Meryem rushed to catch up with her just outside the conference room. "Ms. Whitmore!" she whispered excitedly. "That was insane. The other companies looked like amateurs in comparison."
Sarah kept walking, her heels clicking briskly against the marble floor. "We were prepared," she said coolly.
Meryem, clutching her tablet, grinned. "Prepared? You didn't even start until last night! I'm your assistant, remember? How in the world did you put all that together so fast? Those simulations, the data analysis, the AI scheduling—none of that's in our usual materials."
Sarah paused briefly at the elevator, glanced sideways with a small, amused smile. "Let's just call it a... secret advantage."
Meryem narrowed her eyes, still full of curiosity. "You've got to tell me one day, Ms. Whitmore."
"Maybe," Sarah said, stepping into the elevator. "But not today."
As the doors closed, Meryem shook her head, still in awe.
Outside, Sarah met up with the rest of the TrueMotion Logistics team who had been waiting for her at the hotel café. With no dramatic celebration, no over-the-top fanfare, she simply said, "Let's head back."
*****
Sarah didn't stay long at the company after completing her important tasks. She reviewed the final edits on the Eastbridge proposal follow-up documents, held a short debrief with her operations team, and approved the pending schedules for next week's fleet upgrades. After that, she glanced at the time and stood from her desk, her heart still buoyed with the energy of a successful morning.
She was confident now—confident that Eastbridge would choose TrueMotion Logistics. The project wasn't just another client contract; it was a door. A door that, once opened, would lead her company into a new league. Recognition. Growth. A future with bigger stakes.
But the day wasn't over. Far from it.
Today was also the mayor's auction gala, an exclusive gathering filled with power, money, and veiled agendas. A world Sarah was born into but never quite at home in. And thinking about it now, she felt the tension creep into her shoulders again. Not because of the glitz or the formality—but because of the whispers.
The whispers that had already spread like wildfire through high society.
That the Whitmore heiress had picked a beggar from the street, spent a scandalous night with him, and married him by morning.
Of course, the truth was far deeper than that—but when had truth ever mattered in rooms filled with suits and champagne?
By 2:15 PM, Sarah stepped into her Audi Q3 and drove herself home, her mind split between victory and caution.
The moment she opened the front door, the aroma of something warm and savory drifted through the air. Garlic, butter, something roasted—maybe rosemary. She paused, closed her eyes, and smiled softly. The quiet peace of home washing over her.
This was what she needed.
She walked through the hallway toward the dining room, where the table was already neatly set. Bowls of creamy mashed potatoes, grilled lemon-garlic chicken thighs, butter-glazed carrots, and a simple garden salad. A bottle of red wine rested in the center beside two glasses—already half full. Everything looked effortless, but Sarah knew how much care went into each detail.
At the far end of the room, through the open archway to the kitchen, she saw Mark.
His back was to her, sleeves rolled up, focused on plating something with quiet precision.
She smiled.
"It's like you read my mind," she said, her voice soft. "This is exactly what I needed right now."
Mark turned slowly, a slight smile curling on his lips. "You're back. Come on, wash your hands before the food gets cold."
She obeyed with a light nod and disappeared to the sink.
When she returned, Mark was already seated. She joined him, and for a moment they simply ate—no rush, no words. Just the rhythm of forks, the hum of the afternoon outside, and the warmth of the moment stretching out between them.
But then, as she set her glass down, Sarah looked across the table at him. Her voice came quieter than before.
"Mark," she began, "I don't think I've ever thanked you properly."
He glanced up, surprised.
"I mean it," she continued. "You've done so much. You didn't just agree to marry me that day to help me escape my father's plans… you've been here for me since. You cook for me, you taught me how to cook. You even started teaching me how to defend myself, how to live smarter, stronger. And now, this—helping me with the company. That proposal this morning? I couldn't have done it without you."
She paused, emotion tightening in her chest. "I know it probably doesn't seem like much from your side, but from where I'm sitting… you've done more for me than anyone ever has. And I've given you nothing in return."
Mark leaned back slightly, studying her. His voice was gentle when he finally spoke.
"Sarah… you don't owe me anything."
"But—"
"I like what I'm doing," he said simply, without hesitation. "I like being here. With you. It's not about trade or favors. You gave me something too, even if you don't see it yet."
"What did I give you?" she asked softly.
"A chance," Mark said. "You saw something in me when everyone else saw nothing. And that night under the bridge… maybe you were looking for an escape, but so was I."
Sarah didn't say anything for a long while. Her eyes were on him, quiet, full.
Then she reached for her wine, swirling it once, and smiled faintly.
"Maybe fate knew what it was doing that night."
Mark just looked at her, then nodded once, slowly.
"Maybe it did."
---
Sarah wanted to ease the tension in the air, shifting the conversation from its serious tone to something lighter. With a playful smile, she said, "Oh, tonight's the auction night at the mayor's house. Are you prepared?"
"What is there to prepare?" Mark asked casually.
To Mark, nothing ever seemed serious. He carried a calmness that made even the most significant matters appear light. Sarah often noticed how effortlessly he moved through situations others would obsess over for days.
"Mh! High socialites... They're really a pain in the ass. Quite annoying," Sarah said with a grin.
"Not to me," Mark replied without a hint of sarcasm.
He had lived for thousand of years, enduring wars, revolutions, betrayals, and grief on a scale most could never imagine. He had seen empires fall, witnessed civilizations rise and crumble, and encountered every kind of personality imaginable. Compared to all that, these arrogant high-society elites were hardly a challenge. They never were.
"Good, then I guess I worried for nothing," Sarah said, relaxing into her seat.
"Are you going to bid on anything?" Mark asked.
This auction wasn't just about antiques or rare art. It was a charitable gathering, organized to raise funds for children with chronic pediatric illnesses—young lives bound to hospital rooms, enduring constant pain with little escape.
"Yes," Sarah replied. "I have to buy something. It's the least I can do to contribute to the society."
Mark looked at her with a knowing gaze. "These children… they don't get to live normal lives. For many, hospitals become their second homes, sometimes their only homes. Machines breathe for them, tubes feed them, and they grow up watching the world through glass windows instead of playgrounds."
Sarah blinked, surprised by the depth of his words.
That was what Mark used to do every time he moved from one place to another—quietly donate whatever wealth he had built up to causes like this. To him, wealth meant nothing unless it served a purpose. And no cause was more worthy, in his eyes, than helping children who bore the burden of suffering.
Sarah hadn't known he cared so deeply. She hadn't expected him to understand so much about health, pain, or compassion.
She looked at him in awe. "You really do know a lot…"
He simply nodded. There was nothing boastful in his expression. Only quiet resolve.
---