Roland Merritt kept a canary, and everyone in the capital's elite circle waited to see her become a laughingstock.
A nobody extra, just a plaything the young heir had picked up on a whim—no one took it seriously.
Stella Griffith didn't take it seriously either. She did her job obediently, satisfied all his needs, never caused him trouble.
Yet he hired her the best acting coaches, poached top-tier agents for her, laid the finest opportunities at her feet.
From bit-part extra to supporting actress, from lead to Best Actress nominee.
Every step up was on the ladder he provided.
The industry called her scheming, accused her of sleeping her way to the top.
She just smiled—a canary who performed well deserved what she got.
Until that day, when his white moonlight finally softened.
The woman rumored to be treasured in his heart stood before him with red-rimmed eyes and said: "Let's get back together."
Stella Griffith watched this scene and felt an inexplicable ache in her chest.
That night she packed her bags and left a note: *The canary has flown. Go find your white moonlight.*
Coming home at midnight to find empty rooms, the man known for his calm restraint—lost his mind.
He finally cornered her at an awards celebration.
Beneath the flashing lights, freshly crowned Best Actress looked stunningly beautiful.
When reporters asked if she had a boyfriend—she was about to say no—
She looked up and saw him approaching with red-rimmed eyes.
He spoke each word deliberately: "Yes. Me."
The place exploded.
The mysterious patron behind the Best Actress was actually the capital's crown prince?
"Mr. Merritt—we heard you were marrying your white moonlight. Was Director Griffith actually your mistress?"
"There was never any white moonlight."
He looked at her and confessed:
"From beginning to end—only you."
