In an exquisitely decorated restaurant, crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow, making the cutlery shimmer faintly. Nana wore a vibrant orange traditional outfit, like an unyielding flame, standing out starkly among the sea of suits and haute couture. "You don't even have a credit card?" Nina chuckled lightly, tapping her fingers on the table—softly, yet loud enough for nearby tables to glance over. "Nana, are we really best friends? You're not seriously planning to pay in cash, are you?" The air froze for a moment. Nana said nothing, eyes lowered to the menu, her knuckles slightly whitened. She knew this dinner was a trap—the moment Nina had chosen this restaurant with its five-digit average bill per person, she'd known. Nakul sat beside her, silent throughout. Dressed simply, his shirt ironed but clearly worn, its cuffs frayed at the edges. Calmly, he placed his hand over hers—warm, steady, unwavering. "You two really are a perfect match," Nina laughed, her gaze sweeping over him. "One can only take the subway, the other can't even link a credit card to a payment app. Tell me, how much do you make a month? Forty thousand? Oh, before tax?" She drew out the words deliberately, as if offering pity. Just then, Nakul slowly lifted his eyes and addressed the waiter: "Please inform your manager—the emergency meeting from Jindal Industries has been delayed. I need to make a call." Silence fell across the room. Nina’s smile froze on her face. The waiter’s expression shifted instantly. He bowed deeply. "Y-yes, Mr. Nakul. Our chairman was asking just ten minutes ago if you’d arrived..." No one caught what he had called him. But Nana did. She turned sharply, pupils trembling, lips quivering. "You... you’re..." At last, Nakul smiled—and for the first time, looked directly at Nina. "You were half right. I *do* earn forty thousand a month." He paused, voice soft as a breeze. "Because I don’t take a salary. The company was founded by my grandfather. The shares are held under my name—including the real estate group that owns this restaurant." He unlocked his phone. The wallpaper showed a photo: him and an elderly man with white hair, standing in front of a factory, a banner behind them reading—“40th Anniversary Celebration of Jindal Group.” A tear slipped down Nana’s cheek,无声滑落. Nina sat open-mouthed, as if her soul had been ripped away. The next moment, the head chef himself stepped forward, carrying a dish and placing it respectfully before Nakul. "Sir, your simple scrambled eggs—prepared exactly as your mother’s old recipe. She said… ‘Don’t let outsiders look down on our child.’” The entire restaurant fell into absolute silence. Only Nana could hear the pounding of her own heart. He wasn’t poor—he was hidden. And she had nearly let go of the one hand that had never once let go of hers.