Too Late for Redemption

My first time meeting Lawrence Seinfield was during my return to a noble family as its heiress. He helped me get out of a sticky situation once, and for that, I spent five years trying to steal his heart. I loved him.

Eventually, he became my fiance, but he thought I was beneath him. He thought my lack of education and proper upbringing was bad.

My grandfather, the one who raised me, was dying. Just when I needed his help the most, he decided to teach me a lesson and show me my place.

Without any help, my grandfather died, and like Lawrence wished, I knew my place. And I lost my love for him.

Disgraced Heiress

The moment I was tossed onto the road for everyone to see, I became the butt of everyone's joke.

The real heiress of the Marlins—that was me—got into a fight with the fake daughter, and my parents froze my cards as punishment. In a fit of rage, I left home. It seemed like an act of bold defiance, but I had to take out illegal loans, and I failed to pay them back.

And thanks to that, I was tortured. The story flew through high society like it had wings. Somehow, they found out where I was left and gathered around me, taking my pictures without a care in the world.

Unlike the old me, I did not scream or tell everyone to get lost. I didn't try to save the scraps of my dignity. It was gone. The loan sharks eroded it a long time ago.

The moment they made me go on my knees and slap myself, I stopped caring about things like dignity or appearances. The proud, haughty, troublemaking Yvonne Marlin was dead.

Her killers? The Marlins and Lawrence Seinfield. They destroyed what pride I had.

Then, a fleet of black SUVs came zooming onto the scene. The onlookers—all daughters of rich families—scattered. The leading vehicle seemed almost humble, but I knew who was inside—Lawrence, my fiance.

I looked at the car in silence and turned around. I wanted to leave, but then a man in a suit came out. He hurried over to me, but when he saw what I looked like, it surprised him.

I knew I was haggard, to say the least. I was in a black dress for my grandfather's funeral, and it was covered in filth. My right hand was full of bruises. Bruises I got from those loan sharks stomping on it.

A dirty glove covered my left hand, and my feet had no shoes covering them. My toes were red and swollen. The loan sharks grabbed my ankle and slammed my toes into the stairs. It hurt. A lot.

The man looked down with sympathy in his eyes. Or at least I thought it was sympathy. Politely, he said, "Mr. Seinfield is waiting for you, Ms. Marlin."

I hung my head low, refusing to look at Lawrence's secretary. I mumbled, "I can walk