For years, people told me my wife was a gold digger.
They said she only liked me because of my money, that she was using me, playing
the long game. But I never cared. Honestly, I was glad she liked me because of
my money—because that meant she saw me. She saw who I was, where I came from,
and what I had, and still chose me. My name is Thomas Astor, and my wife,
Lilian Smith, is the only woman I've ever met who didn't pretend around me.
When we met, Lilian was just eighteen—young,
beautiful, and full of life. She was the kind of girl who turned heads without
trying. I was already known on campus. I'd just started university and had been
elected freshman representative for our year. I was also the class rep for my
department. I wasn't the best-looking guy in school, but I was popular. My
looks, my confidence, my family's name—all of it worked in my favor. With the
Astor name behind me, good grades, natural charm, and a strong showing in sports,
I had become the unofficial "class beau."
I was studying finance. My goal had always been
clear—graduate top of my class, then take over the family business. Everything
in my life was planned, expected, and prepared. Lilian, on the other hand, came
from a middle-class background. Her father was an engineer, her mother a
university professor. She was an only child, raised with love and freedom. Her
parents never pressured her about school or career choices. They let her do
what she wanted, and she never tried to outdo anyone. She wasn't competitive by
nature. Still, she was smart—sharp, creative, and curious.
Academically, she was consistent—always in the top
ten, never the top three. Not because she wasn't capable, but because she
didn't care about being number one. She focused on living her life, not just
running a race. All that changed a little after she met me.
We officially met at the university's fresher's
party. It was a big event—music, dancing, speeches, performances. I gave a
speech that night as the freshman representative. Lilian performed a dance on
behalf of the Arts Department. She wasn't just any performer—she was introduced
as "the most beautiful girl in the department," and by the end of the night,
most people agreed she might be the most beautiful girl in the entire school.
We had heard about each other before that night but
never crossed paths. I had made headlines after scoring the highest mark in
that year's national exam. Being the son of the Astor family only amplified my
visibility—my face was everywhere, and my achievement was heavily publicized.
It was rare for someone from a wealthy background to also be the top scorer, so
the media latched onto my story fast.
Lilian, surprisingly, had her own kind of fame. She
was the fifth-highest scorer in the country, and yet she chose to major in
drama. That choice shocked a lot of people. With her academic performance and
family background, people expected her to pursue law, medicine, or something
more "serious." But she had other plans. She didn't want to become an actress
or model or performer, even though she easily could have. Her dream was to be a
writer—an author. That decision baffled a lot of people. They thought she was
wasting her potential. Her dream, to many, seemed foolish.
But there was something else that made Lilian stand
out—her charm and confidence in the face of public opinion. After the national
exams, a few top scorers were interviewed by the media. She was one of them.
Her predicted score had been high, but her actual result was twenty marks above
that. It impressed everyone. She handled the media attention well—calm, poised,
and unbothered. She gave off the vibe of someone who didn't owe anyone an
explanation.
That interview gave her a boost in popularity,
almost matching mine. For weeks after, people debated about her: "Why would
someone so smart choose something like drama?" "Is she secretly trying to
become a celebrity?" "Does she really want to be an author, or is that just a
phase?" But Lilian never cared. She kept doing what she loved.
So, when we finally saw each other at the fresher's
party, it felt like something inevitable. Our lives had already been circling
each other's names. I remember standing off to the side after my speech and
watching her dance. She wasn't trying to impress anyone. Her movements weren't
overly choreographed. She was just… real. In a room full of people trying to be
seen, she didn't need to try at all.
Later that night, we spoke for the first time.
Nothing about the conversation felt forced. She was curious about finance. I
asked her about drama and writing. We teased each other a little, talked about
the pressure of public expectations, and laughed about how everyone already
seemed to have an opinion about our lives. From that moment, I was hooked. Not
just because she was beautiful—which she absolutely was—but because she had
something I rarely saw in people my age: self-awareness without ego.
People think the rich only fall in love with beauty,
or that the poor only chase comfort. But what I saw in Lilian was something
different. She didn't care who I was—at least, not in the way others did. She
didn't want anything from me. She didn't need saving. She had her own path, her
own story, and her own strange, stubborn belief that she could live a quiet,
creative life without needing to prove anything to anyone.
Looking back, that was the beginning of everything.
Before love, before the drama, before the gossip and the doubts—we were just
two people, brought together by reputation, curiosity, and something that no
one else could really define.
I never blamed people for thinking what they thought
about her. That's just human nature. But I knew the truth from the very start:
Lilian wasn't chasing gold. She had her own shine. And I was lucky to be the
one she chose to share it with.