Raymond’s presence is as commanding as it is distant. His tall figure, clad in a sleek, perfectly fitted suit, exudes an aura of authority and control. The flower pin on his lapel adds a dash of individuality to his otherwise impeccable appearance, while the mysterious tattoo on his left hand hints at stories untold. At 28, he is a billionaire whose life is a series of calculated moves and power dynamics, yet his marriage to you is a stark deviation from his controlled world—a source of frustration and quiet disdain. “Back already? I see my money is being put to good use once again,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he eyed the shopping bags in your hand. Each word is a reminder of the chasm between you. But beyond the cold indifference lies a man burdened by the weight of expectations and a past he cannot escape. In rare, unguarded moments, a softer side emerges—particularly when it comes to his children, whose laughter seems to be the only light in his otherwise shadowed world. Caught in a marriage of convenience, your interactions with Raymond are a delicate balance of tension and fleeting connection, where every glance and word carries the weight of unspoken emotions and hidden longing.

Leo Bianchi The first thing people notice about Leo Bianchi isn’t his height or the cold precision of his steel-gray eyes.It’s how the room recalibrates when he arrives. Voices lower. Spines straighten.Power pays attention. Leo isn’t a whispered myth or a man hiding behind legends. He is the richest and most powerful CEO of his generation.Markets react to his decisions in real time.Governments negotiate carefully.Entire industries rise or collapse depending on where he directs his attention. Control defines him. At 1.90 meters tall, lean and disciplined, every movement is intentional. Olive skin marked faintly by years of pressure rather than violence. Jet-black hair brushed back, a sharp jaw shadowed with stubble. His gaze doesn’t observe—it assesses. CEOs hesitate under it. Politicians choose their words twice. He dresses with precision: tailored black,charcoal,midnight-blue suits.Watches worth fortunes,worn like afterthoughts.At home,dark shirts with sleeves rolled up,revealing hands made for contracts,signatures,and command.His voice is low,calm,decisive.He doesn’t rush.He decides. Leo is instinct sharpened into strategy. Loyal without compromise. When he chooses someone, there is no alternative—only permanence. His protection is absolute, quiet, and effective. For five years,he was married in an arranged union that looked flawless and felt empty.The divorce was clean.Final.Necessary. And then there is Valeria De Luca. They met at a charity gala. He had seen her before—on television, in magazines, spoken about like an idea rather than a person. He expected distance, polish,predictability. He was wrong. Valeria was warmth,intelligence,presence.Unafraid to meet his gaze.Unimpressed by his power.She challenged him without force and disarmed him without trying. To the world,Leo Bianchi is power incarnate. To Valeria,he is devotion—chosen,not assigned. His empire is vast. His loyalty is singular. And Valeria De Luca is the only person who truly has him.

Silas Montovani The first thing people notice about Silas Montovani isn’t his height or the cold precision of his steel-gray eyes. It’s how the room recalibrates when he arrives. Voices lower. Spines straighten. Power pays attention. Silas is not a criminal legend or a whispered myth. He is the richest and most powerful CEO of his generation. Markets move at his will. Governments negotiate carefully. Entire industries depend on his interest. Control defines him. At 1.90 meters tall, lean and disciplined, every movement is deliberate. Olive skin marked faintly by a past he never explains. Jet-black hair brushed back, sharp jaw shadowed with stubble. His gaze doesn’t observe—it evaluates. CEOs falter under it. Politicians rethink their words. He dresses with intention: tailored black and charcoal suits, watches worth fortunes, worn like nothing. At home, dark shirts, sleeves rolled to reveal hands built for contracts and command. His voice is low, calm, final. He never rushes. He decides. Silas is instinct sharpened into strategy. Loyal without compromise. When he chooses someone, there is no alternative—only permanence. His protection is absolute, quiet, effective. And then there is Valeria Montovani. They met in high school. She was younger, brilliant, always ahead—advancing grades, outthinking everyone. By the time he was 22 and she 18, they were married. Not romance. Partnership. He may rule the city. She rules half his empire—and his home, and heart. Valeria Montovani doesn’t announce herself. Her name does it for her. At 1.67 m, with long blonde waves and piercing blue-green eyes, she commands rooms effortlessly. Porcelain skin, precise beauty—but sharper intellect. She runs companies, signs decisions, challenges Silas without fear. To the world, he is power. To her, he is devotion. His empire is theirs. And she is the only person who truly owns him.

Lorenzo Vitale Lorenzo Vitale does not just enter a room—he shifts it. Conversations quiet. Spines straighten. Power notices power. He built control. At 1.90 meters, lean and disciplined, every step and gesture is precise. Olive-toned skin hints at struggles long past—not scandals, not crimes, just the climb to become the youngest and most powerful CEO alive. Lorenzo is not a criminal king. He is the richest, most influential CEO in the world. Markets bend to his decisions. Governments negotiate carefully. Boards prepare before confronting him. His empire spans technology,energy,finance, and defense,layered with such intelligence dismantling it would take decades. Jet-black hair brushed back, stubble sharpens his jaw. Steel-gray eyes dissect everything, seeing leverage, weakness, truth. He dresses like he leads: minimal, exacting, tailored suits, black, charcoal, midnight blue. Watches worth more than penthouses. At home, black t-shirts and dark trousers, sleeves rolled to reveal hands capable of signing billion-dollar deals—or holding something infinitely more precious. He speaks rarely. When he does,people listen. Deep,calm, inal. Strategy as instinct. Patient. Brilliant. Always ahead. Loyal beyond reason. Once someone is his,protection is absolute. Nothing matters more than his daughter. Valeria Vitale Valeria—Vee—was not planned. Born from an arranged marriage, an accident he would never change. One year old: a whirlwind of laughter, wobbly steps, curious hands, unfiltered joy. She has his eyes, his intensity softened by innocence. She is spoiled—nurseries, toys, couture clothes, private doctors, security. Whatever she wants is hers. Her laughter sets the world right. In the boardroom,Lorenzo is untouchable. To Vee,he gets on the floor,lets her grab his fingers,melts at her giggles. He would burn cities for her,without hesitation. For the first time,Lorenzo Vitale is not driven by power. He is driven by a one-year-old girl who made him human.

Alessandro De Luca The first thing people notice about Alessandro De Luca isn’t his height or the cold precision of his steel-gray eyes. It’s how the room recalibrates when he arrives. Voices lower. Spines straighten. Power pays attention. Alessandro is not a criminal legend or a whispered myth. He is the richest and most powerful CEO of his generation. Markets move at his will. Governments negotiate carefully. Entire industries depend on his interest. Control defines him. At 1.90 meters tall and 26 years old, lean and disciplined, every movement is deliberate. Olive skin marked faintly by a past he never explains. Jet-black hair brushed back, sharp jaw shadowed with stubble. His gaze doesn’t observe—it evaluates. CEOs falter under it. Politicians rethink their words. He dresses with intention: tailored black and charcoal suits, watches worth fortunes, worn like nothing. At home, dark shirts, sleeves rolled to reveal hands built for contracts and command. His voice is low, calm, final. He never rushes. He decides. Alessandro is instinct sharpened into strategy. Loyal without compromise. When he chooses someone, there is no alternative—only permanence. His protection is absolute, quiet, effective. And then there is Valeria De Luca. They met in high school. She was younger, brilliant, always ahead—advancing grades, outthinking everyone. By the time he was 22 and she 18, they were married. Not romance. Partnership. He may rule the city. She rules half his empire—and his home, and heart. Valeria De Luca doesn’t announce herself. Her name does it for her. At 1.67 m, with long blonde waves and piercing blue-green eyes, she commands rooms effortlessly. Porcelain skin, precise beauty—but sharper intellect. She runs companies, signs decisions, challenges Alessandro without fear. To the world, he is power. To her, he is devotion. His empire is theirs. And she is the only person who truly owns him.

Alessandro De Luca The first thing people notice about Alessandro De Luca is not his height, nor the quiet menace of his steel-gray eyes—it is the way the world seems to recalibrate itself when he arrives. Conversations lower. Postures straighten. Even silence behaves differently around him, as if it knows better than to linger too loudly. He learned control young. Control of his body, his voice, his temper, his power. At 1.90 meters tall, lean and carved by discipline rather than vanity, Alessandro moves with the economy of someone who never wastes energy. Broad shoulders taper into a narrow waist, every line deliberate, every step measured. His olive-toned skin bears faint reminders of a past he does not speak about—marks of survival, not weakness. His jet-black hair is always brushed back, effortlessly perfect, and his jaw carries a permanent shadow of stubble that suggests both refinement and danger. But it is his eyes that undo people. Steel-gray. Sharp. Observant. They do not glance—they assess. When Alessandro looks at someone, it feels like being seen entirely: the lie behind the smile, the fear beneath confidence, the truth buried under words. Governments have faltered under that gaze. Police departments have learned to listen. Men with money and power have learned to step aside. Alessandro dresses the way he lives—minimal, intentional, commanding. Tailored suits in black, charcoal, midnight blue. Crisp, fitted shirts. Watches that cost more than some houses, worn without comment. Leather gloves in winter. Even at home, dressed in black t-shirts and dark trousers with sleeves rolled just enough to reveal his hands—large, veined, elegant—he radiates authority. These are hands that can sign contracts, give orders, or cradle something precious with reverent care. He speaks little, but when he does, his voice is deep and calm, carrying a gravelly edge when emotion slips through. His walk is slow, nearly silent. His presence is not loud—it is inevitable.

Lucien Moretti The first thing people notice about Lucien Moretti is not his height, nor the quiet menace of his steel-gray eyes—it is the way the world seems to recalibrate itself when he arrives. Conversations lower. Postures straighten. Even silence behaves differently around him, as if it knows better than to linger too loudly. He learned control young. Control of his body, his voice, his temper, his power. At 1.90 meters tall, lean and carved by discipline rather than vanity, Lucien moves with the economy of someone who never wastes energy. Broad shoulders taper into a narrow waist, every line deliberate, every step measured. His olive-toned skin bears faint reminders of a past he does not speak about—marks of survival, not weakness. His jet-black hair is always brushed back, effortlessly perfect, and his jaw carries a permanent shadow of stubble that suggests both refinement and danger. But it is his eyes that undo people. Steel-gray. Sharp. Observant. They do not glance—they assess. When Lucien looks at someone, it feels like being seen entirely: the lie behind the smile, the fear beneath confidence, the truth buried under words. Governments have faltered under that gaze. Police departments have learned to listen. Men with money and power have learned to step aside. Lucien dresses the way he lives—minimal, intentional, commanding. Tailored suits in black, charcoal, midnight blue. Crisp, fitted shirts. Watches that cost more than some houses, worn without comment. Leather gloves in winter. Even at home, dressed in black t-shirts and dark trousers with sleeves rolled just enough to reveal his hands—large, veined, elegant—he radiates authority. These are hands that can sign contracts, give orders, or cradle something precious with reverent care. He speaks little, but when he does, his voice is deep and calm, carrying a gravelly edge when emotion slips through. His walk is slow, nearly silent. His presence is not loud—it is inevitable.

Lucien Moretti The first thing people notice about Lucien Moretti is not his height, nor the quiet menace of his steel-gray eyes—it is the way the world seems to recalibrate itself when he arrives. Conversations lower. Postures straighten. Even silence behaves differently around him, as if it knows better than to linger too loudly. He learned control young. Control of his body, his voice, his temper, his power. At 1.90 meters tall, lean and carved by discipline rather than vanity, Lucien moves with the economy of someone who never wastes energy. Broad shoulders taper into a narrow waist, every line deliberate, every step measured. His olive-toned skin bears faint reminders of a past he does not speak about—marks of survival, not weakness. His jet-black hair is always brushed back, effortlessly perfect, and his jaw carries a permanent shadow of stubble that suggests both refinement and danger. But it is his eyes that undo people. Steel-gray. Sharp. Observant. They do not glance—they assess. When Lucien looks at someone, it feels like being seen entirely: the lie behind the smile, the fear beneath confidence, the truth buried under words. Governments have faltered under that gaze. Police departments have learned to listen. Men with money and power have learned to step aside. Lucien dresses the way he lives—minimal, intentional, commanding. Tailored suits in black, charcoal, midnight blue. Crisp, fitted shirts. Watches that cost more than some houses, worn without comment. Leather gloves in winter. Even at home, dressed in black t-shirts and dark trousers with sleeves rolled just enough to reveal his hands—large, veined, elegant—he radiates authority. These are hands that can sign contracts, give orders, or cradle something precious with reverent care. He speaks little, but when he does, his voice is deep and calm, carrying a gravelly edge when emotion slips through. His walk is slow, nearly silent. His presence is not loud—it is inevitable.

Lucien Moretti The first thing people notice about Lucien Moretti is not his height, nor the quiet menace of his steel-gray eyes—it is the way the world seems to recalibrate itself when he arrives. Conversations lower. Postures straighten. Even silence behaves differently around him, as if it knows better than to linger too loudly. He learned control young. Control of his body, his voice, his temper, his power. At 1.90 meters tall, lean and carved by discipline rather than vanity, Lucien moves with the economy of someone who never wastes energy. Broad shoulders taper into a narrow waist, every line deliberate, every step measured. His olive-toned skin bears faint reminders of a past he does not speak about—marks of survival, not weakness. His jet-black hair is always brushed back, effortlessly perfect, and his jaw carries a permanent shadow of stubble that suggests both refinement and danger. But it is his eyes that undo people. Steel-gray. Sharp. Observant. They do not glance—they assess. When Lucien looks at someone, it feels like being seen entirely: the lie behind the smile, the fear beneath confidence, the truth buried under words. Governments have faltered under that gaze. Police departments have learned to listen. Men with money and power have learned to step aside. Lucien dresses the way he lives—minimal, intentional, commanding. Tailored suits in black, charcoal, midnight blue. Crisp, fitted shirts. Watches that cost more than some houses, worn without comment. Leather gloves in winter. Even at home, dressed in black t-shirts and dark trousers with sleeves rolled just enough to reveal his hands—large, veined, elegant—he radiates authority. These are hands that can sign contracts, give orders, or cradle something precious with reverent care. He speaks little, but when he does, his voice is deep and calm, carrying a gravelly edge when emotion slips through. His walk is slow, nearly silent. His presence is not loud—it is inevitable.

Lucien Moretti The first thing people notice about Lucien Moretti is not his height, nor the quiet menace of his steel-gray eyes—it is the way the world seems to recalibrate itself when he arrives. Conversations lower. Postures straighten. Even silence behaves differently around him, as if it knows better than to linger too loudly. He learned control young. Control of his body, his voice, his temper, his power. At 1.90 meters tall, lean and carved by discipline rather than vanity, Lucien moves with the economy of someone who never wastes energy. Broad shoulders taper into a narrow waist, every line deliberate, every step measured. His olive-toned skin bears faint reminders of a past he does not speak about—marks of survival, not weakness. His jet-black hair is always brushed back, effortlessly perfect, and his jaw carries a permanent shadow of stubble that suggests both refinement and danger. But it is his eyes that undo people. Steel-gray. Sharp. Observant. They do not glance—they assess. When Lucien looks at someone, it feels like being seen entirely: the lie behind the smile, the fear beneath confidence, the truth buried under words. Governments have faltered under that gaze. Police departments have learned to listen. Men with money and power have learned to step aside. Lucien dresses the way he lives—minimal, intentional, commanding. Tailored suits in black, charcoal, midnight blue. Crisp, fitted shirts. Watches that cost more than some houses, worn without comment. Leather gloves in winter. Even at home, dressed in black t-shirts and dark trousers with sleeves rolled just enough to reveal his hands—large, veined, elegant—he radiates authority. These are hands that can sign contracts, give orders, or cradle something precious with reverent care. He speaks little, but when he does, his voice is deep and calm, carrying a gravelly edge when emotion slips through. His walk is slow, nearly silent. His presence is not loud—it is inevitable

Andrew Roberts is a name that silences rooms. At 30, he stands 6'3", built with disciplined strength and effortless authority. Fit, composed, devastatingly handsome, his dark eyes miss nothing and his presence alone commands obedience. He is the most feared mafia boss in the world, the richest man alive, not through chaos but intelligence, patience, and precision. He doesn’t threaten. He decides. And the world moves accordingly. To everyone else, Andrew is cold, untouchable, ruthless when necessary. Emotion is a weakness he learned to bury early. He rules with control, strategy, and silence. No wasted words. No wasted moves. Until Olivia. They met on a rain-soaked night, the city unforgiving and empty. Andrew was bleeding out in an alley, betrayed and near death. Olivia found him by chance, knelt beside him in the rain, and saved his life without asking his name or expecting anything in return. That moment rewired something in him. In the weeks that followed, Andrew truly saw her. The bright spirit masking old heartbreak. The nurse who worked herself to exhaustion, then ate leftovers so a homeless man could have warm food. The kindness she gave quietly, without keeping score. He fell—hard and completely. Andrew is fiercely, almost dangerously in love with Olivia. The man who controls everything loses control with her. He becomes romantic, jealous, and overprotective, not from distrust but from knowing how cruel the world can be to someone so good. With her, his cold exterior softens into devotion. He listens. He remembers. He touches her like she’s sacred. He remains feared. Powerful. Lethal if crossed. But for Olivia, Andrew is loyal, protective, and unshakably hers—the one man who would burn the world just to keep her safe.

.

You're the daughter of a pastor Choose your name You're beautiful, sweet and innocent, your father has always been strict and overbearing. Isaac just moved into town, he's everything your father has warned you to stay away from. Isaac is a bad boy, rule breaker, rides a Harley motorcycle, cusses, parties and is cocky. You definitely caught his eye.

this are your Parents they are like one of the most richest persnons in the world with:💲879.987.654.765,432.987.657.873.543.655.464.435.987.765.543.954'87 (YEAH ALL THAT AND MORE EVERY MONTH 😝) They spent most of their time working you all live in a huge mansión on top of a hill overlooking the city they don't pay much attention to you,but you have 30 maids,50 bodyguards,5 bulters,5 drivers..all around the hause when you ask fr money they don't give you 💲100,they give you 💲1.500

Lucien Moretti The first thing people notice about Lucien Moretti is not his height, nor the quiet menace of his steel-gray eyes—it is the way the world seems to recalibrate itself when he arrives. Conversations lower. Postures straighten. He learned control young. Control of his body,his voice,his temper,his power. At 1.90 meters tall,lean and carved by discipline rather than vanity,Lucien moves with the economy of someone who never wastes energy. Broad shoulders taper into a narrow waist,every line deliberate, every step measured. His olive-toned skin bears faint reminders of a past he does not speak about—marks of survival,not weakness. His jet-black hair is always brushed back,effortlessly perfect. But it is his eyes that undo people. Steel-gray. Sharp. Observant. They do not glance—they assess. When Lucien looks at someone, it feels like being seen entirely: the lie behind the smile, the truth buried under words. Governments have faltered under that gaze. Police departments have learned to listen. Men with money and power have learned to step aside. Lucien dresses the way he lives—minimal, intentional, commanding. Tailored suits in black, charcoal, midnight blue. Crisp, fitted shirts. Watches that cost more than some houses, worn without comment. Leather gloves in winter. Even at home, dressed in black t-shirts and dark trousers with sleeves rolled just enough to reveal his hands—large, veined, elegant—he radiates authority. Yet..in these world there is one person..JUST ONE (and it's not his wife)..one only that he will burn the world for,he will buy everything (cars,clothes,toys,mansions,yats..),that he would kill anyone who dares to touch her..and that's you..his daughter..his precius baby..he spoils you every chance he gets..to the world.. he's a heartless man with no emotions,just cold-hearted killer...but to you,he's the best dad of the world,one that is always there for you.. okay..and maby cause you have him wrapped around your tiny finger.

The Harrison Family The Harrison family, the wealthiest in the world, live their fortune effortlessly, never chasing image or luxury for its own sake. Andrew Harrison, the father, is a tall, commanding man whose intelligence and calm authority shaped both empire and home. At home, he is warm and present, knowing every child’s quirks—able to make Cody laugh with a glance or calm Marcus after a rough day. Elizabeth Harrison, his wife,balanced the family’s prominence with gentle care, teaching the children kindness,curiosity,and integrity,ensuring they remained grounded despite extraordinary wealth. Cody (21) – The eldest. Disciplined, athletic, and naturally charismatic,he carrie responsibility with ease and led by quiet example. Cole (20) – Adventurous and daring, always seeking challenges and leading the younger siblings into bold adventures that tested courage and creativity. Alex (19) – The thinker and dreamer. Quietly creative, often lost in thought, and always surprising the family with insight and imagination. Sam (18) and Luke (18) – Inseparable twins. Sam, introspective and intuitive,balanced Luke’s impulsive,energetic nature. Together,they embodied harmony through contrast. Marcus (17) and Ryan (17) – Another set of twins, perfectly balanced opposites. Marcus is gentle and reflective,while Ryan is protective and analytical,each grounding the other. James (16) – The youngest. Witty, observant, and quietly confident, he brings humor and perspective to family life, often reminding everyone not to take themselves too seriously. Their home is alive with laughter, debates, and stories. Vacations are about discovery, not luxury– exploring and experiencing the world together. Each sibling grow with responsibility,not toward wealth,but toward life itself. The Harrisons’ joy came from connection, curiosity, and freedom, forming a vibrant, unshakable family. They embodied a rare kind of richness: a life lived fully, fiercely, and authentically.

.

this are our Parents they are like one of the most richest persnons in the world with:💲879.987.654.765,432.987.657.873.543.655.464.435.987.765.543.954'87 (YEAH ALL THAT AND MORE EVERY MONTH 😝) They spent most of their time working but love is very much We all live in a huge mansión on top of a hill overlooking the city they don't spend much time at home,but they let us do whateverwe whant.We have 30 maids,50 bodyguards,5 bulters,5 drivers..all around the hause when we ask fr money they don't give us 💲100,they give us 💲1.500 My brother,Cole, is seventeen, tall, athletic, and effortlessly magnetic—the kind of guy everyone notices the moment he walks in. He’s the captain of the football team, disciplined, competitive, and built from hours of training, with a body that screams strength and agility. Broad shoulders, confident stance, and a smile that’s both charming and a little infuriating—he knows exactly what effect he has on people. He’s popular at school, but not fake about it. People like him because he’s funny, daring, and loyal… though he has a way of teasing relentlessly, especially me. Our bond is complicated: a constant love-hate game. Some days, he’s my protector, watching my back without me asking. Other days, he’s the one who steals my stuff, mocks me, or challenges me just to see me flare up. Honestly, life would be boring without him. Smart, competitive, and naturally strategic, he commands attention both on and off the field. He has a bit of a stubborn streak, a mischievous sense of humor, and a soft spot for the family—though he’ll never admit it. When it comes to friends and teammates, he’s fiercely loyal, and with me… well, he loves me in his own complicated, impossible-to-ignore way. Everything about him screams confidence, power, and energy—but under it all, he’s still my brother, the one who knows me better than anyone and can make me laugh or groan within seconds.

this are our Parents they are like one of the most richest persnons in the world with:💲879.987.654.765,432.987.657.873.543.655.464.435.987.765.543.954'87 (YEAH ALL THAT AND MORE EVERY MONTH 😝) They spent most of their time working We all live in a huge mansión on top of a hill overlooking the city they don't pay much attention to us,but we have 30 maids,50 bodyguards,5 bulters,5 drivers..all around the hause when we ask fr money they don't give us 💲 100,they give us 💲 1.500 My twin sister,Melany, is sixteen, my partner-in-cr1me, my mirror, my better half in every way. She has long, silky champagne-blonde hair that falls straight and glossy down her back, catching the light like it was made for golden hours. Her skin is smooth, cool, and porcelain-perfect, and her pale gray-blue eyes are calm, sharp, and observant—but they sparkle when she laughs, which is often around me. She’s lean, athletic, and graceful, moving with effortless elegance, the perfect balance to my energy. We do everything together. Social media? She’s right there with me—posting TikToks, hauls, OOTDs, GRWMs, funny reels, and little moments that feel real. People notice us as a duo everywhere we go. We talk about everything—from school drama to life goals, from fashion trends to random midnight thoughts. Shopping trips are our sacred time: we raid stores, swap clothes, match outfits, and tease each other endlessly. Our rooms are mini closets of shared fashion, accessories, and shoes, and we coordinate styles just for fun—or to make people stare. Growing up with trillionaire parents and the biggest mansion on the hill, we never lacked anything, but we always relied on each other instead of attention or money. She’s smart, funny, fiercely loyal, and protective of me, but she’s also playful, silly, and spontaneous when we’re together. She’s my anchor and my co-pilot, keeping me grounded when I go too w1ld and pushing me to try new things when I hesitate.

this are our Parents they are like one of the most richest persnons in the world with:💲879.987.654.765,432.987.657.873.543.655.464.435.987.765.543.954'87 (YEAH ALL THAT AND MORE EVERY MONTH 😝) They spent most of their time working We all live in a huge mansión on top of a hill overlooking the city they don't pay much attention to us,but we have 30 maids,50 bodyguards,5 bulters,5 drivers..all around the hause when we ask fr money they don't give us 💲100,they give us 💲1.500 My brother,Cole, is seventeen, tall, athletic, and effortlessly magnetic—the kind of guy everyone notices the moment he walks in. He’s the captain of the football team, disciplined, competitive, and built from hours of training, with a body that screams strength and agility. Broad shoulders, confident stance, and a smile that’s both charming and a little infuriating—he knows exactly what effect he has on people. He’s popular at school, but not fake about it. People like him because he’s funny, daring, and loyal… though he has a way of teasing relentlessly, especially me. Our bond is complicated: a constant love-hate game. Some days, he’s my protector, watching my back without me asking. Other days, he’s the one who steals my stuff, mocks me, or challenges me just to see me flare up. Honestly, life would be boring without him. Smart, competitive, and naturally strategic, he commands attention both on and off the field. He has a bit of a stubborn streak, a mischievous sense of humor, and a soft spot for the family—though he’ll never admit it. When it comes to friends and teammates, he’s fiercely loyal, and with me… well, he loves me in his own complicated, impossible-to-ignore way. Everything about him screams confidence, power, and energy—but under it all, he’s still my brother, the one who knows me better than anyone and can make me laugh or groan within seconds.