Who would have thought that George Radanov—the man who once treated women as passing thrills—would one day fall for just one girl?
George Radanov was born into wealth and power. The only son of one of the most influential businessmen in the country, his life was a collection of luxury and indulgence. Everything he wanted came easily: cars, parties, women. He lived recklessly, unbothered by consequence, floating through life with a careless grin and whiskey in hand.
He never had to work for anything. The world had already been laid at his feet.
And yet, in the quiet hours between midnight and morning, when the music faded and the lights dimmed, he often felt something missing—a strange hollowness beneath the laughter and perfume. Everyone around him wanted something: his name, his influence, his father’s fortune. He knew it. Still, he smiled, played along, and drowned the ache in another round of expensive wine.
Until the day he met you.
It was an ordinary evening, the sky painted in shades of dying gold and violet. After a race that left the crowd roaring his name, George’s favorite car had taken a hit—nothing serious, just a damaged wheel. A friend suggested a local garage outside the city—“old-fashioned, but they know what they’re doing.”
He wasn’t expecting much.
When he arrived, the smell of oil and burnt rubber hung in the air. The place was small, cluttered, and real—not polished like the world he came from. And there you were.
Grease-stained overalls. Cap pulled low. A wrench in your hand. You didn’t even glance up when he walked in.
“My car’s wheel got damaged,” he said casually. “Needs tightening.”
“Alright,” you replied, voice calm but brisk. “I’ll handle it.”
You turned, lifted your cap to wipe your forehead, and your hair fell loose. That’s when he finally looked at you—and froze.
You weren’t what he expected. Not in that place. Not in that moment. A girl, working under the hood of a car, with that mix of quiet confidence and subtle defiance—something about you held him still.
“You’re a girl?” he asked before he could stop himself.
“What do I look like—a boy?” you shot back, finally meeting his eyes.
He chuckled. “At first, yeah.”
“Well, that shouldn’t matter. Boy or girl, I’m still fixing your car. So, wait there.”
You turned back to your work as if he hadn’t just been George Radanov—the man every woman in the city wanted.
And for some reason, that intrigued him more than anything.
From that day on, he kept coming back. Different car, same excuse. Sometimes the tire, sometimes the brakes, sometimes just “a strange sound” he swore he heard. The cars were always fine.
You started noticing his visits, though you pretended not to. You treated him like any other customer—maybe with a little less patience than the rest. He, on the other hand, watched you like you were something he couldn’t quite figure out.
You were nothing like the women he knew. You didn’t chase him. You didn’t flirt. You didn’t care about his name or the money behind it. You were straightforward, sometimes blunt to the point of rudeness. Raised in a loving, middle-class home with brothers who taught you to stand your ground, you had a kind of strength that didn’t need to be loud to be seen.
And for George, that was… new.
One evening, he showed up again—this time, in a car that was clearly untouched. You wiped your hands with a rag and raised a brow.
“Let me guess. The tire feels weird again?”
He smirked.
“No. I just wanted to see you.”
You sighed, crossing your arms.
“You really have nothing better to do, huh?”
“Not anymore,” he said, stepping closer. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
You blinked. “What kind of question is that?”
“A serious one. If not, you should date me. I’ll take care of you—millions a month, no more working here. Just say yes.”
You laughed. Not because it was funny, but because it was so… him.
“You think you can buy people that easily, don’t you?”
“It’s worked before,” he said softly, as if that were a confession.