A VELOUR Original

"Thanks." Vivica took the white canvas backpack from Rowe's outstretched hands. She zipped the main compartment open and neatly tucked her scattered belongings inside, moving with a calm, unbothered efficiency.

Rowe watched her movements in silence, a profound wave of overwhelming pity washing over him. He had spent the previous night conducting an extensive background check on the girl standing before him, and the resulting dossier was nothing short of a tragedy. According to every official record, this girl had endured a brutal trajectory. She was raised in impoverished rural obscurity by an elderly woman who eventually passed away, leaving her alone. The wealthy Vance family had theoretically adopted her, yet they treated her like a ghost in their own home. They had cast her aside right from the beginning, refusing to provide her with a single penny for two full years, and then literally dumped her onto the streets right before the most critical examination of her life.

Rowe found it painful to imagine how a teenage girl could possibly juggle grueling high school academics while desperately working menial jobs just to feed herself. Now, she shared the same stranded fate as Poppy, finding herself at a hotel early in the morning. But the key difference between the two girls was staggering. Poppy had the immense wealth and protection of Damian Prescott falling back on her. Vivica had no one.

His gaze drifted downward to the frayed, slightly aged texture of her white backpack. The canvas was clean but clearly worn around the edges, hinting at years of heavy daily use. Rowe inwardly assumed it was a cheap counterfeit. He was well-versed in luxury goods due to his position, and he knew full well that the reclusive fashion titan VELOUR had never released a backpack to the public market.

Rowe stepped forward and gestured toward the elevator bank. "Miss Locke, Mr. Prescott will be driving Miss Mercer to the examination testing center. You should come with us."

Vivica stepped out into the bright hallway. "Sure. Thanks."

Poppy instantly perked up and cheerfully looped her chubby arm securely through Vivica's. "This is great! Who knew we would end up getting kicked out of our houses at the exact same time? We can be study buddies on the ride over!"

Vivica merely offered a faint smirk in response, letting the younger girl cling to her side.

The two girls had been deskmates for two years. Poppy was soft-hearted, slightly chubby, and perpetually ranked dead last in their academic class, making her a prime, easy target for campus bullies. That daily misery had defined Poppy's high school existence until Vivica came along. Vivica effortlessly shielded her from the relentless harassment, putting a permanent stop to the torment with her intimidating presence. To Poppy, Vivica was a literal lifesaver. On top of that, Vivica possessed such stunning natural beauty that she dethroned Poppy's arrogant older sister from her unofficial spot as Prom Queen on her very first day at the academy. Ever since that moment, Poppy had been her most devoted fangirl.

Poppy leaned in close as they walked out of the hotel lobby and headed toward the driveway. "My uncle has such a weird, terrifying temper. He scares me to death. I have no idea why he showed up yesterday, but thank god you are here to buffer things."

A commanding black Bentley sat idling smoothly in the morning light.

Rowe hurried forward and pulled the heavy rear door open. Seated within the luxurious vehicle was Damian Prescott. He was scrolling through a digital tablet, his long fingers swiping systematically across international financial reports. He wore an impeccably tailored charcoal suit without a tie, his collar slightly unbuttoned, radiating an aura of suffocating authority. The morning sunlight sliced through the tinted automotive glass, casting sharp, defined shadows across his chiseled jawline. A sleek platinum watch caught the light on his wrist, flashing a cold, expensive glint.

At the sound of the opening door, Damian lifted his chin. His intense, commanding gaze shifted toward the pavement.

Poppy scrambled backward in physical terror, instantly deserting her idol and darting straight for the front passenger seat. "Uncle Damian. I will sit in the front. I suffer from severe carsickness."

Vivica noticed the younger girl's frantic escape but said nothing. She gave Damian a brief, polite nod of acknowledgment and slid gracefully into the spacious rear seat beside him.

The heavy car door clicked shut, sealing them off from the bustling noises of the hotel driveway.

The interior of the Bentley was vast and silent, filled with the crisp, masculine scent of cedar wood layered heavily over expensive leather. The atmosphere was incredibly tense. Vivica placed her worn backpack onto her lap and reached out to crack her window open just a fraction. She crossed her long legs, resting her slender chin upon her palm, and gazed out into the moving city without a second glance at the powerful man beside her.

As the vehicle glided smoothly into the morning traffic, a cool breeze slipped through the narrow window gap. The wind caught a few stray strands of her dark hair, teasing the pale skin of her neck. Bathed in the golden sunlight, her profile radiated a pristine, untouchable grace. The natural light illuminated her smooth forehead, traced the elegant slope of her nose, and rested on her thin lips. She looked serene, distant, and perfectly sculpted.

Damian switched off his tablet. His screen went black as he let his hand drop to his side.

He stared at her. For a man legendary for his icy restraint and notoriously known for ignoring the presence of women, this was a striking anomaly. His intense gaze lingered upon her face in a rare, suspended moment of stillness. He did not look away, quietly captivated by the tranquil, icy aura she projected without even trying.

Up in the driver's seat, Rowe glanced at the rearview mirror to check the lane changes and caught the reflection of the back seat.

A cold sweat immediately broke out across Rowe's forehead. His grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles turned white. He had served the Boss for nearly a decade, managing his brutal corporate affairs around the globe, and he had never in his life witnessed the famously cold-hearted 'ice king' look at anyone with such focused, unblinking fascination.

Rowe felt a wave of internal panic crashing over him. 'Boss is twenty-six years old. Miss Locke is just a teenager, the exact same age as Poppy. Is he actually having thoughts about a high school student? This is a massive cradle robber situation.'

As the terrified thoughts raced through his mind, Damian's sharp, piercing eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror.

The silent warning was lethal.

Rowe snapped his eyes instantly back to the road, swallowing hard and forcing his undivided attention onto navigating the morning commute.

Damian's gaze drifted downward, pulling away from Vivica's face, and landed upon the worn white backpack resting quietly upon her lap. The durable fabric was yellowed slightly from years of washing, and the edges were frayed from heavy use. It was perfectly clean, but undeniably old. However, as Damian studied the precise structure of the bag, his narrow eyes locked onto a subtle, concealed detail. Hidden deep within the lower seam, woven with an intricate, flowing thread, was a specific signature emblem.

It was remarkably small, nearly invisible unless one possessed a trained eye.

Damian broke the heavy silence, his deep, resonant voice filling the cedar-scented cabin. "If I am not mistaken, is Miss Locke's bag an authentic creation by the master designer VELOUR?"

In the upper echelons of the high-fashion world, VELOUR was a legendary, shadowy genius. The elusive designer was globally famous for flawless craftsmanship, an impossibly critical eye, and a notoriously eccentric temper. VELOUR only released a handful of bespoke pieces into the world each year. These exclusive creations could not be purchased with immense wealth alone; securing a piece depended entirely on personal connections and whether the designer happened to be in an agreeable mood. Every known item was treated like fine art, locked away in climate-controlled vaults by billionaires.

Vivica did not bother to turn her head away from the passing scenery. She kept her chin resting casually on her palm.

"Mhm." She emitted a soft, indifferent affirmation to the cracked window.

Damian raised a curious eyebrow. A sharp, glaring discrepancy flashed through his mind. The penniless, rural outcast described in the extensive dossier Rowe had compiled overnight did not align with the relaxed girl sitting beside him. A destitute orphan cast out by the Vance family should not possess an item that elite socialites routinely bled millions trying to acquire.

Damian tapped his long, elegant fingers rhythmically against the expensive fabric of his trousers. "It is the first I have heard of VELOUR designing a backpack."

Vivica replied lightly, her tone breezy and unaffected. "It was crafted a long time ago as a one-off piece. There were no duplicates ever produced, which is why the world knows nothing about it."

A faint, knowing smile twitched at the corners of Damian's lips. He let his hand rest on his knee and allowed the conversation to drop, content with the fascinating mystery she presented.

However, that casual revelation hit the driver's seat like a thunderbolt.

Gripping the steering wheel with increasingly sweaty palms, Rowe was reeling in sheer disbelief. He knew his master intimately. Damian Prescott was practically a machine of precision; he never erred in matters of luxury authentication, business, or observation. If the Boss stated that the hidden woven emblem belonged to VELOUR, it was an absolute, undisputed fact.

Rowe's heart hammered against his ribs. The ragged, yellowing canvas bag he had stared at in the hallway—the item he had profoundly pitied as a tragic symbol of her impoverished struggle—was genuine. The cheap fake he had dismissed in his mind was actually an irreplaceable global masterpiece that obsessed collectors would kill to possess. And yet, this seemingly penniless rural outcast was casually tossing it around as an everyday school bag to haul her pencils and exam papers.