The city glittered far below like spilled stars spilled across a velvet cloth, shimmering and alive with motion. From the fifty-third floor of the Albrecht Tower, Elias Albrecht's view stretched across a sprawling metropolis—a living, breathing organism pulsating with life, wealth, and secrets.
The veins of the financial district ran like arteries, glowing with neon and movement; the harbor's blinking pulse echoed like a heartbeat, a rhythmic syncopation of ships and cranes and distant sirens. The softer bruises of the poorer neighborhoods pressed at the edges of the city's glow, their shadows lurking beneath the bright veneer of prosperity. Cars streamed endlessly through the arteries of the city, headlights threading in luminous strands across the concrete sprawl.
Up here, everything looked manageable.
Contained. Safe.
A kingdom in miniature.
But Elias Albrecht knew better.
Knew how thin that order ran. How quickly the polished surface cracked.
He pressed a palm to the cold glass, feeling the faint vibration of life miles beneath him. His fingertips tracing the surface as if to anchor himself to something real amid the illusion of control. His reflection stared back—tall, sharp, impeccably dressed in a tailored black suit that seemed to hide the emptiness behind his eyes. Tall, yes. Handsome, undeniably. But somehow, beneath the polished veneer, he felt hollow—an echo of himself, someone he barely recognized anymore.
That hollow, restless ache sitting behind the well-cut image.
To everyone else, he had it all.
Youth. Wealth. Legacy. Power.
To himself, he looked like a monument — impressive from a distance, crumbling up close.
Empty.
The penthouse behind him was a sanctuary of sterility. Immaculate, pristine, designed to impress rather than to live in. Minimalist furniture—sleek lines and neutral tones—spaced with clinical precision. A Persian rug, expensive enough to buy a small apartment, covered the marble floor. Art on the walls—abstracts and modern pieces—were selected by his assistant, who insisted they "projected cultured restraint," though Elias often wondered if they also projected a kind of emptiness.
A glass dining table gleamed under cold lighting, set for no one. Bookshelves lined the walls, heavy with titles he would never read but that looked good when guests visited. Imported marble floors led to a sprawling kitchen too pristine to ever be used. Cut-crystal tumblers sat on the sideboard, aligned in militant rows. A bowl of fruit sat on the counter — polished apples, imported figs — untouched, decorative, and dying slowly in silence.
The housekeeper that always came twice a week to keep everything spotless had come earlier, meticulously arranging everything, fluffing pillows, adjusting curtains, aligning vases—everything perfect, everything in its place. Yet, no matter how flawless the surface, the silence in the room was deafening. It was a kingdom, yes. But a kingdom built on surface and appearance, not on warmth or belonging.
The refrigerator always held the same items: a few bottles of imported water, some token containers of organic salads, a bottle of aged whiskey meant more for display than drinking.
Everything perfect. Everything soulless.
Elias turned away from the window, his footsteps muffled by the expensive rug.
He picked up a glass of scotch sitting untouched on the side table that he poured earlier and tilted it in the dim light. Amber liquid fractured the city's reflection into broken shards across the crystal. He stared at it, noting how the drink seemed to hold the glow of a sunset—beautiful, alluring, but ultimately empty. Like most things in his life—perfect on the surface, meaningless beneath.
Perfect. Shining. Hollow.
The silence pressed against him.
A heavy, living thing.
He didn't bother turning on music. Noise wouldn't fix what gnawed at him from the inside out.
The buzz of his phone cracked the stillness. A vibration across the marble side table. Elias glanced at it with little interest.
Another appointment? Another reminder? Another pointless meeting?
No, It was from her mother, reminding him about the dinner tonight—the family gathering he'd been dreading for days. Always the same: polite, obligatory, a reminder of the life he was supposed to want.
A text from his mother:
Dinner tonight. Don't be late, sweetheart. Your father is expecting you.
Dinner at the main house. The summons was clear. And the expectation beneath it was even clearer.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, setting the glass down with a little more force than necessary. He ran a hand through his hair, a habitual gesture of frustration, and let out a breath—not a sigh, not exactly. Something heavier. A slow suffocation that settled into his chest, pressing downward like a stone.
Facing his father, Richard Albrecht always felt less like speaking to a man and more like standing trial. No matter how successful Elias was, no matter how hard he fought to forge something of his own, his father always managed to make him feel like a boy again — clumsy, insufficient, unfinished.
As if he were some draft version of a person Richard had never fully signed off on.
It wasn't hate. Hate would have been cleaner.
It was something messier — a tangle of pride, disappointment, resentment, and longing.
Elias hated that he still wanted his father's approval, even when he despised the price of it.
He turned from the window and wandered back into the room, the soft hum of the climate system filling the silence like a muted heartbeat. He moved through the penthouse, restless now.
The television flickered soundlessly on the wall — muted headlines scrolling across a sleek black screen:
"Albrecht Conglomerate Reports Record Profits…"
"Elias Albrecht Declines Comment on New Tech Venture…"
"Heir Apparent: The Rise and Retreat of a Reluctant Prince…"
He snatched the remote and clicked it off. The silence that followed was deafening.
Worse than noise.
Because in the silence, there was nothing to distract from the gnawing truth. He had everything he was supposed to want. And it wasn't enough.
He passed a sleek console table near the entrance, cluttered with unopened mail.
Gala invitations.
Exclusive event offers.
Handwritten notes from acquaintances who smiled too widely and clutched too hard when they shook his hand.
All of it — requests wrapped as flattery, demands cloaked in friendship.
He didn't even bother sorting it anymore. Just another pile of performances he didn't have the energy to attend.
A jet rumbled overhead, the sound muted by glass and distance. He watched it cross the night sky.
Another important man chasing another important deal. Another empty victory.
When he was younger, he had imagined success would feel like a sunrise — warm, brilliant, dazzling. He used to believe there was something thrilling about power—the rush of boardrooms, the roar of helicopters, the distant promise of private islands. The kind of life that promised freedom, control, dominance. He had achieved it all—climbed the ladder, amassed wealth, surrounded himself with luxury. And yet, none of it mattered.
It was all just... surface.
Instead, it felt like standing in a museum full of polished bones.
He closed his eyes.
And for a moment, he imagined walking away.
Leaving the tower. Leaving the company. Leaving the weight of expectation crumbling in his wake.
But he knew he wouldn't. He was trapped in a golden cage he had helped build.
And worst of all — part of him couldn't even remember when he had stopped wanting to escape.
The phone buzzed again.
Another reminder that he couldn't run from tonight. Another reminder that duty always came before desire.
Dinner at the estate.
Facing the architect of his life.
Facing the man who had given him everything except the one thing he needed most — the permission to be something else.
Someone else.
He grabbed his jacket from the back of the leather sofa.
Straightened his cuffs. Squared his shoulders.
Put the mask back on — polished, professional, untouchable.
And walked out the door. Into the night. Into the performance. Into the slow, grinding machinery of expectation that would not let him go.
Not yet.
****
Hours later — The Albrecht Main Estate
The Albrecht estate loomed against the bruised evening sky like something out of a forgotten legend.
A giga-mansion sprawled across manicured acres, framed by mirror-still lakes and rows of fountains that glittered under subtle, artful lighting.
Artistic. Classic. Monumental.
The kind of place built not to welcome, but to intimidate.
A shrine to a dynasty that had no intention of ending.
Elias eased his car into the circular drive, the tires crunching on imported gravel. He killed the engine and stepped out into the crisp night air, the faint scent of cut grass and old money brushing past him like an accusation.
He adjusted the lapels of his jacket. Straightened his cuffs.
As if it mattered. As if dressing perfectly would somehow make tonight easier.
It never did.
The butler opened the grand oak doors before Elias could knock. Silent as ever. Efficient as always.
"Mr. Elias," the man said with a polite nod, stepping aside.
Elias nodded back but said nothing.
No point.
Some traditions were so old they had calcified into habit.