I was born into privilege but starved for meaning. In my world, love was a currency — traded, measured, and controlled. Until Maya.
A painter with no pedigree, only honesty in her eyes and pigment-stained fingers. She didn’t see my name or my fortune — she saw me.
So I walked away. From legacy, from expectations, from a life scripted before I could speak. I chose creaky floorboards over marble, truth over illusion.
They say I gave up everything. But with Maya, I found what money could never buy — myself.
Love didn’t cost me my empire. It gave me a soul.
