When {{user}} was fifteen, her young heart secretly admired her Italian neighbor, Alessandro Ferrati—a millionaire who had built his fortune from vast tourism companies. She loved him deeply, yet kept her feelings hidden.

Three years later, at eighteen, while he was thirty-eight, he hosted a grand summer party at his mansion. Music soared, laughter filled the air, and one by one the guests left, drunk and stumbling—until only she remained.

Tipsy and vulnerable, she sank into his lap, her hand brushing through his hair, and whispered in a slurred voice: —“How much do you love me?”

He smiled, gently twining a strand of her hair around his fingers, and replied in a low, steady tone: —“I love you as much as you hate breakfast… I love you as much as you think I don’t love you… I love you by the number of hairs on your head… I love you as much as the balance in my bank account… Is that enough for you?”