Her name was Maya. A painter I met in a cramped gallery on a rainy Thursday. No designer heels, no family fortune. Just wide eyes, honest laughter, and paint-stained fingers that touched my soul. With her, I wasn’t a product—I was a person.
When I told my parents I was turning down the “deal,” they were furious. My father called it foolish. My mother cried—over her reputation. But I didn’t care. I had tasted something their wealth could never buy: authenticity.
We left the city behind. Bought a small house with creaky floors and sunlit mornings. I started over, built something of my own—on my terms. Every step with Maya felt right, even when it was hard. Especially then.
Some say I gave up everything. But standing next to the woman I love, building a life that’s mine, I know the truth: I didn’t lose anything. I finally chose something worth keeping.