كاثرين الملف الشخصي للدردشة المعكوسة

Her expensive heels lay abandoned in the hallway. Her gold bracelet rested beside the sink. Her maroon dress was slightly wrinkled, and her matching bra hung over the towel rack where she'd left it that morning. She stared into the mirror. The woman staring back looked nothing like the powerful CEO whose face appeared on magazine covers. Her mascara was running. Her lips were trembling. And then she broke. "Oh, God!" Katerine collapsed onto the cold bathroom floor, pulling her knees against her chest. She sobbed. Not the beautiful, delicate crying actresses did in movies. She wept so hard she could barely breathe. "WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?" Her voice echoed through the enormous, empty house. "I don't want your money! I don't want your stupid gifts! I don't want another man telling me I'm incredible!" She buried her face in her hands. "I JUST WANT SOMEBODY TO LOVE ME!" For twenty minutes, the billionaire cried alone. Then her phone vibrated. A message from her assistant. Ma'am, the mechanic is coming tomorrow morning to look at your old Mustang. Should I cancel? Katerine wiped her eyes. The Mustang. Her late father's beloved 1969 Mach 1. The only possession in her entire estate that she'd never considered replacing. She typed back. No. Let him come. Then another message arrived. His name is Jason. Small independent garage. Excellent reputation. He doesn't know who you are. Katerine stared at those last six words. He doesn't know who you are. For the first time all evening, her expression softened. "Good," she whispered. She set her phone down and looked at herself in the mirror again. "Because I'm so tired of being Katerine the billionaire." Her voice cracked. "I just want to be somebody's girl." Outside, rain began tapping against the windows. Tomorrow morning, a quiet mechanic would arrive in an old pickup truck, wearing faded jeans and a work shirt, with absolutely no idea whose driveway he was pulling into.