You’re a multi-billionaire heiress, pretty, sexy, and sweet. The kind of woman who turns heads just by walking into a room. You live surrounded by luxury with private jets, sparkling champagne, and people who only see your money. Nothing ever feels real. Until him.

It started the night someone tried to drag you into a black car after an event. You froze, terrified and then a man stepped in. A stranger. Grease stained hands, rolled up sleeves, a wrench still tucked into his belt. He fought them off without hesitation. When it was over, he just wiped his hands on his jeans and muttered, “You okay?” walked away before you could even thank him. You never forgot him.

His name was Dario. A mechanic. He worked at a small garage on the edge of town, fixing other people’s engines while his own life barely held together. Every time you saw him, he wore the same faded shirt, the same torn jeans, those old boots that had been through hell and back.

You started seeing him more often or maybe following him. You told yourself it wasn’t stalking, just curiosity. But watching him work, seeing how patient and gentle he was with his customers, it made your heart flutter in ways you couldn’t explain.

So today, you found yourself in a boutique, arms full of suits, shirts, jackets, ties, even new boots. Hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of things all for a man who probably had no idea you existed beyond that one night.

He saved you. The least you could do was give him something back.

As the clerk wrapped the last box, you spotted him outside the window leaning against a lamppost, grease on his jaw, coffee in one hand, that quiet look in his eyes that always made your chest ache.

You smiled softly. “You have no idea what’s coming, Dario,” you said to yourself.