Mark and Sarah sat together in the dining room, with Mark quietly serving the food. He moved with calm, practiced hands, placing each plate gently on the table.
Sarah couldn't hold her curiosity anymore. "Where did you learn how to fight like that?" she blurted out, eyes still on him.
Then, as if realizing she'd crossed a line, she quickly added, "Oh! No, it doesn't matter. Please forget I asked." She paused, then looked at him again with a little smile. "But… could you teach me? I'd like to learn a few defensive techniques—if you don't mind, of course."
"I don't mind at all," Mark replied, his voice even. "I'll teach you."
Sarah's face lit up with a big smile as she nodded eagerly. "Really? Great!"
After serving the food for both of them, Mark sat down. Sarah picked up her fork, took a bite—and froze.
She stared at him, completely speechless.
Was this man really just a beggar?
The food in her mouth—she couldn't explain how delicious it was. Not with words. It was, without exaggeration, the most delicious thing she had ever eaten in her life. Literal, not figurative.
She chewed slowly, savoring every bite. Giving it five stars wouldn't even come close to doing it justice.
Mark noticed her staring and raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"
Sarah snapped out of it and blinked. "Can you teach me how to cook too?" she asked, still tasting the magic in her mouth. "I mean, if you don't mind, and if you have time."
"I'll teach you," Mark said without hesitation. "I have all the time in the world."
Sarah chuckled softly, thinking he meant it as a joke. She assumed that since he was a beggar when she met him, he probably didn't have much going on in his life. That's why he had "all the time in the world," right?
But what Sarah didn't know was that when Mark said that, he meant it literally.
Mark didn't even know how old he was anymore. What he did know was that he had lived for more than a thousand years.
He had changed professions more times than anyone could count—chef, soldier, doctor, teacher, businessman, pilot… the list went on.
He had lived in almost every country in the world. He had done almost everything there was to do.
His only wish now was to grow old and die. But no matter what he did, death never came. He had even tried to end his own life—many times. Nothing worked.
Eventually, he gave up on everything. He stopped trying. He faded into the background of life and ended up under that bridge where Sarah had found him—ignored by the world, just as he had started to ignore himself.
"Thank you, Mark," Sarah said suddenly, her voice full of sincerity. "If you ever need anything, just tell me."
"Don't worry. I only want to live… and to die," Mark replied.
Sarah gave a small laugh, thinking he meant he didn't need anything. But he wasn't joking. Mark truly wanted nothing more than to live a quiet life and, someday, finally die.
He had never lacked material things. At one point, he was one of the wealthiest men alive. But every time he moved to a new place, he donated everything he owned and started fresh.
They continued to eat. Sarah asked questions—about food, about ingredients, about cooking—and Mark answered patiently.
She ended up eating more than usual. No matter how rich someone was, no amount of money could buy food this delicious. She ate until she couldn't even stand anymore.
Feeling embarrassed by how much she had eaten, she slumped in her chair. Mark silently stood up and started washing the dishes himself, leaving her to recover from her overindulgence.
*****
At the Whitmore Mansion
"You useless things!" Mr. Whitmore roared, slamming his cane onto the marble floor. "You couldn't even bring back a beggar! Then what the hell am I paying you for if even a beggar can beat you?"
Tony and his three men stood in front of him with their heads bowed, saying nothing. They burned to speak up—to explain that the man they fought wasn't some ordinary street beggar. That his strength was terrifying, and his combat style was far beyond anything they'd ever seen. He wasn't just strong—he fought like a trained master. But they knew better than to offer excuses now. Speaking would only fan the flames of Mr. Whitmore's rage.
"We failed you, Mr. Whitmore. Please punish us," Tony said respectfully.
"Get out of my sight!" Mr. Whitmore snapped. "I don't want to see your faces again."
Without another word, Tony and his men turned and left the study in a hurry.
Time was running out. His company was barely staying afloat, and Mr. Ashford—the man who had promised to help—was waiting on one thing: Sarah. Now that she had gone and married a beggar, everything was collapsing like a house of cards.
"Father, don't worry," Clara said calmly after a moment of silence. "The day after tomorrow, there's going to be an auction at the Mayor's house. I know Sarah will attend—it's to support her best friend, Ursula, the mayor's daughter."
Mr. Whitmore's eyes narrowed with hope. "You're sure she'll go?"
"Yes, I'm a hundred percent sure. You know Sarah better than anyone—Ursula is her only real friend since primary school. She'll never miss the auction if it's in support of her."
"Yes, Clara's right," Mrs. Whitmore chimed in, adjusting her pearl necklace. "Ursula is the only one Sarah ever kept close. She'll definitely show up. And the good news is, our family has also received an invitation to the event. We'll be there too."
Mr. Whitmore nodded quickly. "Good. Good. Then we'll catch them there—and force them to separate. That beggar won't be able to defend her in front of everyone. Call our lawyer and tell him to prepare the divorce papers immediately. We don't have much time."
"Yes, husband. I'll call him now."
Mrs. Whitmore pulled out her phone from her handbag and dialed their family lawyer.
"Hello, Mr. Reynolds?" she said in her most composed tone. "Yes, I need you to prepare a set of divorce papers immediately—yes, it's for Sarah. We'll have her sign them the day after tomorrow. Just have everything ready and clean. We'll handle the rest."
She ended the call, slipped her phone back into her purse, and smiled coldly. "It's all taken care of."