Her Castoff Blind Date, My Road to Riches

My cousin, Myra Walsh, leaves a voice message in the family group chat in a mean and uncouth manner.

"Mom, I'm not meeting that guy who drives a rundown car. One look at him tells me that he's a single pathetic loser."

She then kicks my chair. "Hey Sam, that useless piece of shit is a good match for you. Why don't you take my place on the blind date?"

I follow Myra's line of sight. There's an old-looking car parked outside, and the owner, Henry Quinton, is currently reclining against the car while smoking.

My entire family thinks he's just an ex-convict who has just gotten released from prison and is unable to land a job yet. I'm the only one who knows that's not the truth.

Last week, when I was carrying out my internship at a bank, I witnessed the bank manager inviting Henry into the vault. Apparently, the trail of numbers Henry has in his savings is as long as a phone number.

After putting on some makeup on my face to make me pure and innocent, I put on an oversized shirt before heading out of the apartment.

In the cold wind, I cower slightly from the cold as I hand a thermos flask over to Henry.

"Sir, Maya said she's not a match for you, so I'm here in her place."

Henry snuffs out his cigarette, his gaze fixing on my flapping hem for three seconds.

"Lass, if you want to be with me, you'll have to suffer tremendously in life."

"I'm willing to go through anything as long as I get to be with you."

That night, Maya flaunts photos of the bag a rich scion has given her. As for me, I've gone over to Henry's apartment.

When I opened the car door, a sharp, stale stench of cheap tobacco hit me in the face.

The passenger seat was coated in dust. It was as though the car had just been dragged out of a junkyard.

Henry Quinton gave me a sideways look. Holding a cigarette, he made no move to roll down the window.

I didn't frown. Instead, I took out a pack of wet wipes from my bag and carefully cleaned the seat. Only after that did I sit down obediently, placing my bag neatly on my lap like a grade schooler riding in a car for the first time.

Henry let out a cold laugh and flicked his finger.

A speck of burning ash dropped straight onto the hem of my white dress, scorching a tiny black mark into the fabric.

He waited for me to scream, or at least show some disgust.

But I only paused for a second. Then I quickly pulled out a tissue, not to wipe my dress, but to brush off his pant leg instead.

"Mr. Quinton, be careful," I said softly. "Don't burn yourself."

His hand froze midair, and a flicker of surprise flashed through his eyes.

He suddenly slammed his foot on