Chapter 722 No Wealthy Family Wants a Girl Like You 1
When old lovers meet, the air can turn to stone.
Elliot's gaze was dark and unreadable. Molly's delicate face had drained of all color. She stared at him, the man who had once been her whole world, her mind echoing with fragments of a sweeter time.
"Elliot, if only you had money."
"If I had money, that would be fine too."
"Elliot, if I had enough, I would fund you to start the biggest tech company in the city. Then you wouldn't have to mourn the loss of your career on the court. I would be the silent owner, and you would be the CEO."
"Elliot, I'm always dreaming. But money… it's so hard to earn."
A winter cabin. Two young bodies wrapped in a wool blanket, clinging to each other as if the outside world could not touch them.
Molly rested her head on his strong shoulder, whispering words he could not hear for the sorrow in them.
She knew that after tonight, she would leave—take a million dollars to train overseas, chase stardom, and make enough to give Elliot his company. Maybe then she would have the courage to tell him the truth: that the reason he could no longer play was because of her.
Molly had been afraid of poverty her whole life.
She had been born in the slums. Her father gambled away everything, her mother had countless lovers, and the money from those affairs always ended up on the betting tables. She had grown up in filth, watching the worst of human nature play out before her eyes.
At fourteen, her parents turned their knives on each other. Both died that night.
After that, she lived with her grandmother. To survive, she ran with a gang of rough girls, learned to smoke and fight, came home with bruises but always carrying a box of food with meat inside for her grandmother.
She never dropped out of school—her tuition was waived—but she drifted through those years without learning much. She was beautiful, and she dreamed of becoming a star. With fame came endless money, and with money, maybe her grandmother's failing eyesight could be saved.
At sixteen, her grandmother lost her sight.
Elliot was the only beautiful thing Molly had ever known. She had never believed that someone from her world could ever cross paths with someone from his — let alone that he could have been her salvation. All she had wanted was that million: to train, to earn, to make herself worth something again.
But Elliot had seen her. Seen the rot beneath the surface, the original sin she could never wash away.
He looked at her as if she were nothing more than refuse.
And maybe, deep down, she was
Elliot left. Molly never found him again—until one night she saw a news segment about the Windsor Group. That was when she learned Elliot was the heir to the Windsor family, worth over six hundred billion dollars.
That night, Molly drank herself into oblivion and cried in the rain until her voice was gone.
She knew then—they could never be.
Still, when she began to earn, she opened a private account labeled "Money for Elliot's company."
Two years later, she had saved over twenty million dollars, every cent scraped together by denying herself.
Her grandmother's eyes were never healed.
Molly believed she was cursed by poverty. She was always losing because of money, and once lost, some things could never be bought back.
Elliot's gaze now was fixed and unyielding.
Her agent, Celine, misread the look. She thought Elliot was interested in Molly in the way powerful men often were in her industry. Celine had seen it all before. Elliot was young, handsome—maybe Molly would even welcome it.
Celine was known for being ruthless in the business. She leaned in and suggested, "Mr. Windsor, we can take our time discussing Molly's endorsement deal. How about I book a private room at the club tonight? You can have a drink while we talk."
Elliot didn't indulge in such games, but as a Windsor, he knew the business world's unspoken rules. With anyone else, he might have ignored it. But this was Molly. To him, it was shameless.
He turned to her, his voice deliberately mocking. "What, is there another kind of show?"
Molly's body trembled.
Celine finally sensed something was wrong. She glanced between them.
The young billionaire's eyes were filled with nothing but contempt and derision. The air turned heavy.
Celine, ever the professional, quickly changed the subject.
But Elliot didn't bother with courtesy. He opened his laptop and said flatly, "Molly doesn't fit M&E Technology's brand. Clio, see them out."
His secretary, Clio Webb, had already guessed the truth. Elliot and Molly had history, and it had ended badly. Now they were enemies.
Clio was seasoned enough to know that when there was no love, there was no hate worth holding onto. She showed them out politely.
When she returned, Elliot was still staring at his screen. "No need to explain," he said coolly. "She's just someone who doesn't matter."
Clio nodded. "Understood, Mr. Windsor. Though I have to say, Ms. Lavien is beautiful and popular. But in this industry, if you refuse to play the game, survival is hard."
"Her eyes were red in the elevator," Clio added. "Celine told her to pull herself together for the fans. She was pretty harsh about it."
"This business," Clio sighed, "is brutal."
Elliot said nothing, his gaze locked on the screen.
Clio slipped out, the heavy door closing with a soft click. Elliot looked toward it, lost in thought.
By evening, a fine rain had begun to fall.
Elliot went downstairs, slid into the back of his black Cullinan. He lit a cigarette, smoked half, and crushed it out. He hadn't smoked before Molly. But once, he'd seen her do it, and tried one himself. The burn in his lungs had been unpleasant, but he'd grown addicted to the sensation. Now, he smoked two or three a day.
The luxury car rolled down Maple Avenue. Outside a university, a crowd had gathered—some kind of film shoot. A rising actress was there.
At first, Elliot didn't pay attention. But as he passed the set, his eyes flicked over—and froze on Molly.
She was filming a rain scene.
Artificial downpour hammered the street. Molly stood alone in the storm, her face streaked with tears, her voice breaking as she screamed her repentance at the sky. Her knees hit the gravel, skin splitting, blood mixing with the water.
The director wasn't satisfied. Again.
Over and over, she knelt in the rain.
Her knees were raw and bleeding.
Her face was a blur of water and salt.
Through the windshield, Elliot watched her shiver but hold herself upright, her jaw clenched against the cold.
Rain drummed on the roof. He switched on the wipers. The black blades swept back and forth, smearing his view. He stayed there until the light turned green, then pressed the accelerator and drove away without a glance back.
Behind him, Molly saw the car.
She stared at the departing Cullinan, her face wet with rain and confusion. She knew exactly how far apart they were now.
He was the heir to the Windsor Group, CEO of M&E Technology, worth hundreds of billions.
She was just a small actress.
They were worlds apart. And her past—her stains—could never be washed away.
Lost in thought, she didn't notice the director screaming at her. "Do you want to keep us here all night? If you could act, we wouldn't have to keep reshooting!"
Celine hurried over, knowing the truth: the director wanted Molly in his bed, and she'd refused, so he was punishing her. Sometimes, Celine thought Molly was a fool for not playing along.
Still, Celine suspected Molly was saving herself for someone.
As she wiped Molly's face, Celine said casually, "In this business, you have to adapt. You want more money, better roles? Who else would take you on if not me? You're always causing trouble."
Molly murmured, "Sorry for the trouble, Celine."
Celine waved it off. "Think about it. That man might be good, but he's out of our reach. No rich family is going to marry a girl like you."
Molly kept her head down.
Near midnight, she finally wrapped for the day. The driver dropped her off outside her building.
She knew her grandmother would be asleep.
Instead of going up, she sat on the edge of the flowerbed, pulled a pack of cigarettes from her bag, and lit one with trembling fingers.
Her knees were bandaged, but she didn't care about the scars. All she wanted was to make enough money—fifty million—and then leave the industry. Pay Elliot back. Take her grandmother to the countryside. Maybe marry a decent man. Maybe stay alone forever.
Who could say?
Her delicate face caught the faint glow of the streetlamp. She exhaled slowly, smoke curling into the night. Only in these moments could she remember she was Molly. Only then could she afford to think about the past.
Her fingers wouldn't stop shaking.
Four years later, she still lived on regret, still replayed Elliot's last look in her mind. Without those memories, she would lose her mind.
The city was quiet. In the shadows, a black Cullinan sat parked.
Elliot watched from inside, his eyes fixed on the woman who had once been his. He saw the bruises, the trembling hands, the glint of tears.
He thought, 'She's acting again. Isn't this the life she wanted? Who is she crying for now? She brought this on herself.'
His hands tightened on the wheel. Without expression, he pressed down on the accelerator. The car rolled past her.
Molly heard the engine and looked up sharply.
The black car slid by, Elliot in the driver's seat—a man she had once betrayed.
"Elliot!"
Her voice cracked in the darkness.
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