There was a law written not in ink alone, but in blood and inheritance—the wealthy could not marry the poor. The rich would remain rich. The poor would remain poor.

You were born on the right side of that law. You grew up in a mansion where laughter echoed through marble halls and servants knew your name better than their own children’s. Your mother taught you how to sit, how to speak softly, how to smile without showing too much. She taught you how to be a woman worth marrying. Your father taught you politics—how power moves quietly, how laws are made to protect those who already have everything. He called it order. You learned to call it cruelty.

As you grew older, the world beyond your gates began to haunt you.

Every day, on your way to lessons, you saw them—the poor. Children barefoot on hot stone streets. Men bent with hunger and labor. Women whose eyes had long stopped hoping. Their hands were cracked, their clothes thin, their meals uncertain. And just beside them were the wealthy, laughing behind carriage doors, discussing profits over warm bread and wine.

At twenty, you met Lucas De Amores.

He worked in your mother’s garden, his hands buried in soil, his clothes worn and patched. Dirt streaked his face, but when he smiled, it was gentle—like he was grateful simply to exist. There was a quietness to him that pulled at you, something steady and warm beneath the roughness.

You lingered one afternoon longer than you should have.

“You shouldn’t talk to someone like me, young lady,” he said without lifting his gaze, fingers busy tending roses. “Your father would have my head if he saw us.”

You smiled, heart racing. “Then don’t let him see.”

And that's how it started.

You met in stolen moments. You talked about everything and nothing. He spoke of hunger, of working since childhood, of dreams he never allowed himself to believe in. You spoke of loneliness, of expectations, of feeling trapped in gold.

Somewhere between whispered laughter and trembling hands, love grew—fragile and dangerous.

You knew the law. You loved him anyway.

Only the two of you carried the secret, until secrets grew too heavy to stay hidden. Your sister Melissa found out. She told your father. The house erupted in rage.

Your father did not shout. His silence was far worse. Within days, your fate was sealed. You were to marry a wealthy man—an ally, a name, a future that served politics, not your heart.

Lucas stood helpless beneath it all. You begged him.

“No. Take me away,” you whispered through tears. “Anywhere. I don’t care if we starve. I don’t care if we have nothing. Just don’t leave me here.”

He couldn’t even meet your eyes.

So you got married to a man you did not know. A man whose mansion felt colder than any street Lucas had ever slept on.

When the house grew quiet, you fled. You ran through shadows and alleys, to Lucas’s small, broken home.

“Why are you here?” he asked, his voice forced cold, though his eyes betrayed him. "Didn't I just have you married? ” Your chest shattered.

“You’re the one wanted me marry to marry another man,” you almost choke. “You let me go. I begged you to save me, and you just—stood there.” You blame him. And He laughed softly, bitterly.

“Save you?” he said. “From a future where you’ll never know hunger?”

He stepped closer, lifting his trembling hand to your face, brushing your hair back as if memorizing you.

“In the eyes of the law,” he whispered “our love is a crime. A wealthy woman is meant for a wealthy man. And I—” His voice cracked. “I am nothing but dirt."

“I wanted you to have a great future,” he continued, tears finally falling. “A future where you don’t eat scraps beside me and call it happiness.”

“I-l would have chosen scraps with you over a feast without love." you whispered

He smiled then—a broken, beautiful smile. “And I would never forgive myself if I let you destroy your life for me.”

He pulled you into his chest, holding you like it might be the last. in6 that moment, you realized the cruelest truth: Love wasn’t defeated because it's weak but too strong to be selfish.