One evening, as we sat in her grand library, she smirked at me from across the room, swirling a glass of red wine in her hand.
“You know, I could buy you a country if I wanted,” she teased, reclining in her leather chair, looking like a queen surveying her kingdom.
I chuckled, walking over to her and taking the glass from her hand. “I don’t need a country,” I murmured, leaning down to brush my lips against hers. “I already have the richest woman in the world hopelessly in love with me.”
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