When the Wind Brings You Back

My phone screen suddenly lit up. It was a rush order, with a note that read "Urgent need, extra two hundred as tip." I opened the details; the items listed plainly said "Condoms." My finger paused, but I still tapped "Accept Order." Three months after going bankrupt, I became a food delivery rider. My once-brand-name bag was pawned, my apartment replaced by a shared one, and my dignity worth nothing against survival. The GPS showed the destination was Pinnacle Manor, a high-end villa district. On my secondhand electric bike, I rode through tree-lined paths and stopped in front of villa number 8. My palms were a little sweaty when I pressed the doorbell. The moment the door opened, I froze. A man stood at the door, dressed in a suit, his features sharp and cold—it was William Nolan. My ex-boyfriend, the man who had supported me financially for three years. He obviously didn't expect to see me; his pupils tightened sharply before a mocking smile curled on his lips. "Olga Hamilton?" He looked me up and down, his eyes sweeping over the delivery uniform. "Is this what you've become after leaving me?" I clenched the delivery bag tightly, swallowing the storm of emotions rising inside me. "Sir, here's your order. Please sign for it." I tried to keep my tone flat. "In a rush for the tip?" He raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with contempt, "Well, looking at you, I guess you really do need this money to get by." I didn't respond, just pushed the delivery bag a little closer. Right now, I couldn't afford to care about his attitude—I just wanted to get the commission and that two hundred tip. He took it slowly, his fingertips brushing over the back of my hand, either intentionally or not. "Never thought Miss Hamilton, who used to throw money around like water, would end up delivering orders like these." He chuckled softly. "If I'd known you were this desperate for money, why did you have to leave back then?" I took a deep breath and said patiently, "Mr. Nolan, please confirm receipt after signing." He pulled out his phone but didn't hit confirm. Instead, he stared at me. "What, not planning to catch up with me?" "I've got other orders to deliver." I stepped aside, trying to leave. "Want a tip?" He suddenly spoke up. I froze mid-step. "Say a word to me, tip doubled." He leaned against the doorframe, posture lazy but undeniably commanding. I looked up at him, sunlight casting shadows across his sharp features. Three years apart, he seemed more mature—and colder, too.