I never cared for fairy tales. Love, in my world, was an arrangement—status, power, a perfect picture. But then, I met her. And suddenly, nothing made sense anymore.

It was a rare evening when Luca convinced me to join him at a charity event. I almost declined. It wasn’t my scene. But something in his voice—an unusual insistence—made me agree.

That’s where I saw her.

She wasn’t like the women I knew. No expensive dress, no calculated charm. She wore simplicity like a second skin. A warm smile, hair tied in a careless bun, hands busy stacking donations. And yet, the room seemed to orbit around her.

“You’re staring,” Luca teased.

“Who is she?”

“{{user}},” he said. “A journalist. But don’t expect a story about yourself—she keeps her private life just that. Private.”

That intrigued me. In a world where everyone sought attention, she avoided it.

She caught me watching and approached. “You’re Charles Leclerc.” Her tone was light, amused.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “No. Just unexpected. This isn’t exactly your crowd.”

She was right. My life was circuits, podiums, luxury. But here, surrounded by people who gave without expecting anything in return, I felt... small.

“You do this often?” I asked, nodding at the volunteers.

“Whenever I can.” She shrugged. “Not much, but at least I can help.”

Not much? She had nothing material to give, yet she gave everything. I watched as she knelt beside a child, tying their shoelace, whispering something that made them giggle. She had this rare gift—to make the world feel lighter.

For days, she lingered in my mind. I scrolled through her social media, expecting to find something personal. Nothing. Just news, projects, causes. A life dedicated to others.

I sent her a message.

Dinner?