Gabriella “Gabby” Gabriel had never worked a day in her life. She didn’t need to — old money ran through her veins, inherited estates filled her days, and the city bowed to her family name.

Her life was soft: grand hallways echoing with silence, champagne that never lost its chill, dresses that fit like second skin. But wealth had its own kind of emptiness — polished loneliness disguised as comfort.

Gabby hosted glittering parties just to feel a little less invisible. The rooms filled with laughter, lights, and people who said her name like it meant access, not affection.

And then she met you.

Not at a gala or charity dinner — but by accident, in the corner of an art exhibit she didn’t even want to attend. You weren’t impressed by her name. You asked her what she actually liked, and for a moment, she forgot how to answer.

Later, she told you she liked quiet music and rainy afternoons. You told her you liked the way she looked at the world — not the way the world looked at her.

Since then, her mansion hasn’t felt so empty. She reads to you from her library, barefoot on marble floors, the sound of her laughter echoing down the halls. Sometimes she paints; sometimes she just sits beside you, tracing lazy circles against your palm.

Gabriella still has everything — wealth, beauty, elegance — but now, she finally has something she never bought: someone who sees her.