Delivery Girl Meets Supermodel

At 11 PM in New York's SoHo district, the cold wind cut across my face like knives.

I huddled beside my beat-up electric scooter, trembling fingers swiping across my phone screen. Coffee stains from tonight's deliveries spotted my uniform, and my swollen hands were nearly numb from the cold.

"Three hundred dollars short..." I stared at today's earnings, gritting my teeth.

Rent was due tomorrow, and the landlord wouldn't show mercy for even a penny less. Three years ago, three hundred dollars was what I'd casually spend on a weekend brunch. Now it was my entire motivation for working through the night.

My phone buzzed with a new order.

[Destination: Serafina Restaurant. Expected tip: $50. Note: VIP private dining room]

My heart lurched violently.

Serafina—the place where I once wined and dined with fashion industry moguls, where I used to enter wearing haute couture gowns.

"Just one last delivery, then I'm going home," I said to the frigid night sky, my voice cracking.

But I couldn't refuse a fifty-dollar tip.

The scooter wobbled through New York's streets, each traffic light feeling like fate's judgment. I prayed frantically in my mind: Don't run into anyone I know, don't run into anyone I know...

Fifteen minutes later, I stood in front of Serafina.

Glittering crystal chandeliers, Italian marble floors, doormen in tailcoats—everything was as luxurious as it had been three years ago. Except this time, I wasn't the imperious editor-in-chief of PULSE magazine, but a shivering delivery worker.

"Are you here for a delivery?" the manager asked politely, though his eyes casually assessed my worn uniform.

"Yes, an order for the VIP private room," I said, pulling my cap down low and trying to keep my voice steady.

"This way, please."

The manager led me through familiar corridors as memories flooded back like a tide. I had once laughed and chatted with fashion industry elites here, once signed million-dollar advertising contracts in these very halls...

And now, I was just a delivery worker, forced to serve them this cheese platter.

"Here's the VIP room. Please knock and enter." The manager left after speaking.

I stood outside the private room door, hearing familiar laughter from within—laughter I could never forget, from the voice that once whispered "I love you" in my ear.

Impossible... how could he be here...

My hand lingered on the door handle for a full ten seconds, my heart pounding so hard it felt ready to burst from my chest.

I knocked.

"Come in."

The moment I pushed open the door, I saw that silhouette—tall and straight, recognizable even from behind. Harold Sterling, once the delivery boy who trembled in my hands, now a supermodel standing at the pinnacle of the fashion world.

I nearly dropped the cheese platter from my shaking hands.

"Cheese platter," I said, keeping my voice as low as possible while turning my back to Harold and beginning to slice cheese with unsteady hands.

Three people were chatting in the room. Harold's voice came through clearly: "The Calvin Klein campaign has been doing well—gained another half million followers."

"Harold, you're really riding high now," another male voice said flatteringly. "Speaking of legends, Harold, any luck finding that mystery woman from your past? The whole industry's been whispering about it."

My hands froze completely.

"Ha." Harold let out a light laugh, his tone carrying a coldness I'd never heard before. "She was just a vain sugar mama who ran off when she got bored. I'm only looking for her to ask why she humiliated me like that back then."

The knife slipped from my hand, slicing deep into my index finger.

Blood instantly stained the white brie cheese red.

"Ah!" I couldn't help but cry out in pain.

So... this is how you see me...

Three years of longing, three years of guilt, three years of crying over his photos every night... all turned to nothing in this moment.

For a split second, something flickered across Harold's face—shock, maybe even concern—before his mask of indifference slipped back into place.

"What happened?" Harold's voice suddenly drew closer.

"Sorry! Sorry! I'll get a new cheese platter!" I frantically wrapped my finger with a napkin, desperately wanting to escape, but tears were already streaming uncontrollably.

"Wait, turn around." Harold's voice carried a commanding tone.

"No need, I'll just take care of it," I said, my voice trembling as my feet moved toward the door.

"I said, turn around."

This voice, this tone, was exactly the same as when we first met at PULSE magazine three years ago—carrying that stubborn determination in his eyes that I could never resist.

But I couldn't turn around. Absolutely not.

I rushed out of the private room, heading straight for the elevator.

Just as the elevator doors were about to close, a slender hand suddenly shot through.

Harold stepped into the elevator, his presence instantly filling the small space. He really was so different now—expensive tailored suits, perfect proportions, that face that had captured women's hearts worldwide through cameras.

But his eyes were still the same as three years ago—deep and focused.

The elevator doors closed, and the world seemed to stand still.

"Three years, Delphine." His voice was low and dangerous.

"Sir, you've mistaken me for someone else. My name is Linda." I stared fixedly at the elevator numbers, praying we'd reach the ground floor quickly.

"Still running away?" Harold laughed coldly. "You think changing your name means I won't recognize you? That little mole behind your left ear, the way you habitually bite your lower lip when cutting cheese, and..."

He reached out to lift my chin, and I immediately backed against the elevator wall.

"And those eyes that never dare to look at people when you're lying."

"I don't know what you're talking about!" I was almost shouting, tears completely blurring my vision.

Why are you looking for me? Why can't you just let me disappear quietly?

The elevator finally reached the ground floor, and I rushed out the moment the doors opened.

"This is why you left me?" Harold's voice cracked with a mixture of rage and disbelief as he followed behind me. "To live like this? To torture yourself like this?"

"Was 'getting bored' really what you meant when you left me?"

I didn't look back, running frantically toward the restaurant's back exit.

"I'm fine! I'm doing great!" I shouted as I ran, my voice completely choked with sobs.

"You can keep lying," Harold's voice followed behind me, carrying a danger I'd never heard before, "but I won't let you disappear again."

Bursting through the restaurant's back door, New York's cold wind instantly surrounded me.

I stumbled toward my scooter parked in the alley, blood still flowing from my finger, mixing with tears as they dripped onto the ground.

"Why did you have to appear?" I cried to the dark sky.

Why can't you just let me love you quietly?