In the century-old lecture hall of Harvard Business School, stuffy air mingled with the scent of old book pages and expensive perfume.

Alexander Romano commanded the podium, the spotlight carving him out from the darkness below.

His bespoke suit, tailored to perfection, proclaimed success with every crisp line.

He delivered the speech on autopilot, every word memorized to perfection.

The audience stared back with the usual hungry eyes, sparkling with admiration and raw ambition.

He'd grown numb to such gazes. Hell, they even bored him now.

His speech concluded, giving way to the Q&A session.

Hands shot up eagerly across the room, predictably asking about Romano Group's next big move or probing into his personal wealth story.

Alex fielded each question effortlessly, his lips curved in that perfectly measured smile—flawless yet utterly distant.

Just as he was about to wrap up, a hand rose hesitantly from the back corner.

The hand was bare—no flashy watch, no class ring, nothing.

"Mr. Romano."

A clear female voice cut through the air—no flattery, just raw desperation beneath the calm.

Alex's eyes tracked the sound to its source.

"For someone who has nothing but theoretical knowledge, in today's risk-averse capital climate, what options exist for first-round startup funding besides selling one's soul?"

The lecture hall froze in stunned silence.

The question hung in the air—too direct, almost offensive in its bluntness.

For the first time, Alex's practiced smile faltered.

He couldn't make out her face, just a stubborn silhouette standing defiantly in the shadows.

But that voice—that desperation barely masked by composure—pierced straight through the armor he'd built with wealth and status.

Thirteen years ago, he'd been that kid in the cheap suit, desperately pitching his business plan to investor after investor, questioning the world in exactly the same way.

"Selling one's soul?"

Alex's voice dropped, suddenly stripped of its billionaire polish.

"That depends on how much your soul is worth."

Instead of a canned response, he tossed back a question that cut even deeper.

As the crowd dispersed, Alex broke routine and lingered.

His assistant Leo appeared with warm water.

"Sir, your video conference starts in thirty minutes."

Alex ignored him, his eyes locked on the slender figure quietly slipping toward the exit.

Her faded jeans and worn canvas bag stood out starkly among the designer outfits of Harvard's elite.

"Find everything on the girl who just asked that question."

Alex's voice turned cold.

"Everything. Ten minutes. My phone."

Ten minutes later, nestled in the back of his Rolls-Royce, Alex's phone lit up.

[Emma Sterling, Economics major, full scholarship recipient for three consecutive years. Note: Facing expulsion warning due to unpaid tuition fees.]

Expulsion warning.

Those two words made his pupils contract sharply.

That question about a soul's value suddenly made brutal sense—it was a desperate cry for help.

He remembered that night years ago—standing on the street until dawn, clutching his own withdrawal notice, feeling the world turn to ice around him.

A long-buried ache resurfaced in his chest, alongside that familiar, overwhelming need for control.

He couldn't watch history repeat itself with someone else.

Not right in front of him. Damn it, not again.

The Sterling Prize — Chapter 6

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