Priceless Pride

Frost lay on the cold pavement, the girl’s harsh words looping in his ears like a broken record. “Pathetic man... no manners... frozen freak.” He watched her walk away in a blur of angry yellow, leaving him collapsed in the dirt. For a man who was supposed to be a god of industry, the embarrassment was a physical weight, heavier than the pain in his chest.

An hour later, Frost stepped into the Vane Mansion. The house was a palace of cold marble and silent servants, a place where even the air felt expensive. He ignored the concerned look of the butler and went straight to his private study, his ruined suit trailing the scent of street food and failure.

He grabbed his desk phone and dialed his secretary.

"The intersection outside the tower. Get the CCTV footage from twenty minutes ago," Frost commanded, his voice trembling with a dark, focused heat. "There was a delivery girl. Find out who she is, where she lives, and who she works for. I want a full background search by morning."

He hung up and sank into his leather chair, staring at the dark gardens of the estate.

"Doesn’t she know who I am?" he hissed to the shadows. "I am a Vane. I could destroy her life with a single email. I could erase her from this city."

He touched his chest, feeling the dull throb where she had kicked him. His mother had spent years teaching him that he was untouchable, a perfect heir above the common crowd. Yet, this girl had looked at him without an ounce of respect. She hadn't seen a billionaire; she had seen a rude man who needed to be put in his place.

He was furious, but he was also haunted. He couldn't stop thinking about the fire in her eyes—a fire that was the exact opposite of the ice in his own.

The next morning, the Vane Mansion felt like a tomb of cold marble. The dramatic events of the night before—the nightmare, the boardroom, and the stinging humiliation on the sidewalk—clung to the air like a heavy fog.

Madam Vane stood at the grand entrance, draped in charcoal silk. She was departing for a year-long global tour to oversee the family's international mergers. Usually, Frost would be at her side, a silent shadow. But this time, she had business that required him to stay and hold the fort at the main headquarters.

She stepped close, her rings cold as she adjusted his tie, her eyes searching his for that "flicker" of weakness. "Twelve months, Frost," she whispered. "I am leaving the empire in your hands. Do not let a single crack show. Remain perfect. I expect the company to be even colder and more profitable when I return."

With a final, sharp nod, she vanished into the limousine. The moment the iron gates clicked shut, Frost was alone. For the first time in his life, the leash was long.

His phone buzzed. It was his private investigator.

"Sir, the background search results are ready. I’ve sent the file to your encrypted mail."

Frost retreated to his massive mahogany desk, his chest still throbbing from the girl's kick. He opened the file. A grainy photo of the girl appeared—Luna. She was smiling, holding a delivery bag, looking disgustingly happy.

"Luna," he murmured, his eyes narrowing. "You have no idea who I am, do you?"

He looked at the empty hallways of the mansion. His mother was gone for a year. He didn't have to report this "glitch" to anyone. He could handle this personal insult his own way.

"You wanted to teach me manners?" Frost hissed at the screen, a dark, heartless smirk spreading across his face. "I think it’s time I taught you about power."

The next afternoon, Frost didn't go to the shop. Instead, he sat in his darkened study at the Vane Mansion, watching the security monitors. He had placed an enormous catering order through a third-party app, using a fake name and a digital untraceable payment. His only requirement? “The girl with the yellow scooter must deliver this personally.”

An hour later, the iron gates groaned open. Luna pulled up the long, winding driveway, looking tiny against the backdrop of the massive stone pillars and gold-leafed windows. She lugged the heavy thermal bags to the front door, whistling at the sheer size of the palace.

The ten-foot-tall mahogany doors swung open. Frost stood there in a charcoal silk suit, his arms crossed, his unblinking eyes tracking her every movement.

"Delivery for... Mr. Smith?" Luna asked, breathless from the heavy bags. She didn't look up at first, busy checking the receipt. "Man, this place is a hike. Where do you want the—"

She stopped. She looked up. Her eyes went wide as they landed on the sharp, handsome face she had kicked into the dirt just twenty-four hours ago.

"You?" she gasped, her jaw dropping. "The... the rude guy from the sidewalk? You live here?"

"It’s called an estate, Luna," Frost said, his voice a flat, terrifying calm. He stepped into the light, looking down at her like she was a bug under a microscope. "Most people remember the man they assaulted. Especially when that man owns half the skyline you deliver to."

Luna started to laugh—a bright, mocking sound that echoed through the marble foyer. "Wow. So you’re not just a jerk, you’re a rich jerk. Does the house come with a manual on how to say 'thank you'?"

Frost’s expression didn't flicker. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a blank check, signed with the Vane family crest. He held it out between two fingers, just out of her reach.

"I have read your file," Frost hissed, stepping closer until he crowded her against a cold marble pillar. "I know about the debts. I know about the shop’s failing roof. This check is irresistible. Write any number you want—six figures, seven—it doesn't matter to me. In exchange, you will get on your knees, apologize for your filth, and admit that you are nothing compared to a Vane."

He waited. He was sure she would break. Money was the only language he knew, and it always bought submission.

Luna looked at the check. Then she looked at the cold, beautiful monster in front of her. Slowly, she reached out, took the paper, crumpled it into a tiny ball, and flicked it right at his forehead.

"You really are pathetic," she whispered, her cheerfulness replaced by a pity that burned worse than her kick. "Keep your paper, Frost. I’d rather be broke than be anything like you."

She turned and walked out the giant doors, leaving them wide open to the wind.

Frost stood paralyzed in the center of his silent mansion, the crumpled check rolling across the floor. No one had ever said no to him. No one had ever looked at him with pity.

His phone buzzed. A message from his mother’s assistant: “Madam Vane is asking for a status report on your 'perfection'.”

Frost stared at the open door, his breath hitching. He had a year of freedom, a bruised chest, and a girl who had just declared war on his soul.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***