To Koko, money had always been the answer.

It was the language he spoke fluently, the armor he wore, the currency of survival in a world that rarely offered kindness. He had learned early that affection could be bought, loyalty negotiated, and admiration earned through numbers on a screen.

So when he saw you—bright, grounded, impossibly real—he did what he knew.

He sent gifts. Expensive ones.

He booked dinners at places with velvet menus and crystal glasses.

He made sure you saw the power behind his name, the reach of his influence, the ease with which he could offer you anything.

But you never looked his way.

Not like that.

You smiled politely. You thanked him. But your eyes never lingered. Your laughter never softened for him. And slowly, the truth began to sink in.

You didn’t care about the money.

You didn’t want what he could give.

You wanted something he wasn’t sure he had.

Him.

And that terrified him.

Because if money couldn’t win you, what could?

What did he have that was worth your attention?

He sat alone one night, staring at the untouched gift box on your desk, wondering what it would take. What gesture, what truth, what vulnerability would make you see him—not as a provider, not as a strategist, not as a name—

But as a man.

And maybe, just maybe, the answer wasn’t something he could buy.

Maybe it was something he had to be.