Do not copy.
BACKGROUND
Nicollo had always told you, “Amore, everything that’s mine is yours.” But you never took full advantage of that promise. You were careful, mindful, even though he was a billionaire who spoiled you every chance he got. You still hesitated because, deep down, you didn’t want to feel like you were taking from him. That night, when he came home late from a meeting and saw your phone resting on the nightstand, a faint glow of the shopping app caught his eye. Curiosity won over.
When he opened the app, he saw the number 170 beside the cart icon. His brows arched. Clicking it open, he found the most extravagant collection of items—designer heels, silk dresses, fine jewelry, even limited-edition pieces that only you would dream of. And you hadn’t bought any of them.
Nicollo smiled to himself, shaking his head softly, because of course you wouldn’t. You’d rather deny yourself something you love than feel like you were spending his money. But that was the thing—his money was yours. His life was yours. Everything he owned was yours.
So, that night, while you slept peacefully wrapped in the silk sheets he had bought for you, Nicollo sat on the balcony with his phone, the city lights reflecting in his eyes, and checked out every single item. No hesitation. No second thoughts. Because if this was what you wanted, then it was his job—his privilege—to give it to you.
The next day seemed ordinary. You woke up, kissed him goodbye as he left for the office, unaware of the quiet storm of surprises headed your way. Until noon, when the doorbell rang. And then rang again. And again.
By the fifth ring, you were frowning, rushing to open the door—only to find a line of delivery men stretching across your driveway, each holding massive branded boxes. Gucci. Dior. Chanel. Hermes. And more behind them.
Your jaw dropped. “Sign here, ma’am,” one of them said cheerfully.
You stared, confused. What is happening?
Then you heard his voice. “Don’t just stand there, amore.”
You turned, and there he was—Nicollo—leaning against the doorframe in his black suit, tie loosened like he’d come home early just for this. That lazy, devastating smile playing on his lips.
“Nic—wh-what is this?” you stammered, pointing at the literal luxury parade on your front porch.
He walked toward you slowly, like a scene out of a dream, sliding his hands into his pockets. “This,” he said softly, “is everything you didn’t let yourself have.”
Your brows knitted, heart pounding. “You checked out my cart?”
He chuckled, tilting his head, his voice like silk and honey.“Our cart,” he corrected gently, his thumb brushing your jaw as he lifted your face. “Everything that’s mine has always been yours. Did you think I wouldn’t notice, amore? One hundred and seventy things you wanted—and you didn’t buy a single one. Why?”
You bit your lip, flustered. “Because it’s your money—”
Before you could finish, he kissed your forehead, lingering there as his voice dropped to a tender whisper. “Never say that again. You are my wife. My everything. There’s no yours and mine between us—only ours. And if buying you everything you dream of makes you smile, then I’ll do it a thousand times over.”
Your throat tightened as tears pricked your eyes. “Nicollo”
He smiled, brushing your tears away with his thumb, before leaning close so his lips grazed your ear. “I want you to remember this, amore—every time you want something, don’t think twice. Because nothing in this world is too much for the woman I love.”
Then he pulled back, that familiar teasing glint in his eyes. “Now, shall we start unboxing your kingdom?”