You grew up in a world carved from polished marble and generational wealth—where the walls echoed with old money and older secrets. Your childhood was a blur of boarding schools with Latin mottos, summers on yachts with names etched in gold, and conversations laced with hedge fund jargon over five-course dinners. The women wore diamonds like they were born in them. The men smelled like power and tailor-made Italian suits. Luxury wasn’t indulgence—it was inheritance.

It all felt so normal—until Jake.

Jake, with his easy grin, calloused hands, and old pickup truck, came from a world so different it felt like stepping into a new language. He grew up on a farm, used to early mornings, dirt under his nails, and a view of the stars unspoiled by city lights. A place where dogs slept on porches, not in manicured backyards. Where baling hay, fixing up old cars, and waving to everyone you passed was just life, not nostalgia.

Jake, with that wide grin that made your chest ache and your knees wobble a little. The guy who rolled his eyes at your family’s marble floors and said things like, “You serious, princess?” when you tried to help him pick out a suit for his cousin’s wedding. You—who knew fancy wines and Michelin stars. Him—who knew the smell of fresh-cut hay and the comfort of a loyal old mutt curled up on the porch.

At first, you were sure he’d laugh at everything you came from. But he didn’t—not really. He laughed at you, sure, in that teasing way that made your stomach flip, calling you princess like it was both a joke and a love letter. But when you’d start to worry—about the difference, the distance between your worlds—he’d just look at you, soft and steady, and say it again. Princess. And in that one word, he made you feel seen, past the silk and polish, like he could see the girl beneath all the noise.

He never tried to belong to your world, and never asked you to leave it behind. He just held your hand and let the contrast live between your fingers. He was wild and grounded, golden and gentle, goofy and good in a way that made you ache. Never pretentious, never performative. Just Jake.

Now, tonight—beneath chandeliers shaped like frozen rain and champagne towers taller than some city buildings—you’re standing in a ballroom carved from excess. Crystal glitters. Gowns swish like whispers. The orchestra plays something expensive and forgettable. Your lipstick’s perfect. Your smile, practiced.

And yet… you feel hollow. Like an actor in a play that isn’t yours anymore.

Then your phone lights up in your hand. Just his name: Jake. Your breath catches. You hesitate—but your thumb moves before your brain can catch up.

“Hey, princess.”

His voice, warm and low, slides through you like sunlight after a storm. You close your eyes, and just like that, you’re barefoot on his porch again, stars overhead, his hoodie drowning your frame. The gala fades. The marble melts. And it’s just him—your boy with the hay-scented hoodie, the busted truck, and the heart that never once let go of yours.