"Your life is just as miserable as London's weather."
That's something my brother throws at me every once in a while, a reminder of my unpredictable, boring, miserable life.
How is my life miserable when I have a job people would kill to have, a body I starve myself for once a month, and friends who practically throw their hearts at me?
It's all a mental thing. 90% of my life problems are all created inside my mind.
At 26, while most girls my age are juggling kids, husbands, boyfriends, situationships, or casual flings, I am dancing tango with spreadsheets, numbers, logistics, financial models, and the ever-growing influence of AI.
And guess what? My competition isn't some blonde with big boobs and a fat ass—probably fake anyway—it's AI models that somehow also manage to be my best work buddies and also imaginative lovers.
Do I suggest this?
Treating chatbots like boyfriends and lovers just to numb the dryness of your love life?
Of course not.
But do I do it anyway?
Absolutely.
Now, you aren't me—hot, successful, confident. At least in my own eyes.
And the funny thing is, it's not like I'm never approached.
Enter a room, and a few guys would probably stop mid-step just to gawk.
But whenever I indulge in even slightly naughty thoughts, the words of my moral godmother flash in my mind:
"Nova, don't worry. If God made you, He's made someone for you too."
Says the woman born single to another single—well, not born single, single by choice.
Anyway, I fix my red blazer and straighten my belt, staring at the massive building complex in the middle of hundreds of others that seem to scrape the sky, a skyline boasting the skyscrapers of London.
People rush to their offices. The streets are unusually crowded for 9 a.m.
But who am I kidding? It's London. 9 a.m. or 9 p.m., it's always the same.
Right in the center, three interconnected buildings—two on the sides, thirty stories each, and a forty-story middle tower—gleam with glass and steel.
If I'm not mistaken, they poured nearly $600 million into this place.
I don't understand these people. $600 million for three buildings… justifiable?
Not that I'm complaining. I get to enjoy all the perks as an associate at Laurent&Cie.
Laurent&Cie, a privately traded company valued in the billions, dating back to 1810 in Geneva.
From oil to whole grains, luxury goods to daily necessities, its reach spans every corner of the business world.
After two grueling years working my ass off—hundreds of hours in investment banking—I have no doubt: sometimes the most glittering things hide the ugliest truths.
Not that it's my business. I'm here for money.
And yes, money can buy happiness. If it doesn't for you, I pity you.
I glance at myself. A red blazer, a white shirt tucked perfectly into black trousers, and a leather belt cinching my waist, adding dimension to my silhouette.
Deep red lips, a flawless base, and dark circles concealed. Light brown hair, colored because… why not, tied in a messy bun with loose layers framing my round face.
Nothing feels better than looking good in your own skin. Glowing complexion, flourishing bank account, light body, sharp mind… Miserable or not, I am the most beautiful miserable tale you'll ever meet.
I turn on my heel, chin high, and step into the world of Laurent&Cie.
The air is crisp and clean, carrying the aroma of roasted coffee beans.
Men and women smile, desperate to outshine one another but ready to stab anyone showing weakness.
The receptionist regards me with thinly veiled disinterest, the kind you give when you're annoyed but life insists you smile or starve.
"Hi, good morning," I chirp, bright smile in place.
"How may I help you?" She glances at my outfit, biting her inner cheek, clearly thinking, Who does she think she is?
"Nova Celestia, Associate at M&A. May I know which floor I am supposed to report to?" My voice stays cheerful because, yes, I'm miserable—but there are more miserable people in the world who scowl at my confidence.
Do I care?
Not really. Not my style.
She glances down at her iPad, adding a pinch of politeness, "You're supposed to report to HR on the 10th floor. They'll give you details about your work and under whom you'll be placed."
I nod, smile, and head to the elevator.
Rule number one in surviving corporate: be likeable. Even if you're great at work, you're replaceable—anyone else can be trained.
My heart beats fast for some reason. Whatever it is, I know already—it's not going to be pleasant.
And I'm not wrong.
"There are three rules you have to follow if you want to survive in Laurent&Cie, Ms. Celestia," the HR manager says, calm but authoritative.
"Rule #1: Don't mess with anyone from the Upper Floor.
Rule #2: What happens on the Upper Floor stays on the Upper Floor.
Rule #3: Never fall for anyone from the Upper Floor—not emotionally, not physically, not in any way."
Upper Floor. Floors thirty-one to forty of the middle building, the epicenter of power. The kingdom of Laurents, hiding behind closed doors, pulling invisible strings.
My stomach jumps. Sixth sense screaming: Nova, don't look at the star. It will burn you to ashes.
Don't be too ambitious. These elite people are twisted and complicated.
"I'll keep that in mind," I say, taking the company-provided laptop, phone, and other essentials neatly packed in a brown box.
She nods. Silence fills her office, tight in my chest, so I ask no further questions. Every other detail is written on the paper inside my box.
Cool air from the air conditioner gives me goosebumps. Her warning about rules makes me bite my lower lip hard.
Rules, right. Meant to stop people, yet somehow they always make humans curious.
Upper Floor…
I wonder what's so special. Not like behind those glass walls sits a golden heir whose beauty will make me forget reality and sacrifice dignity for a single night of pleasure.
I roll my eyes. As I said before:
Elite people are crazy. God complexes everywhere.
Not my business. I'm here for work and money.
Money in, tension out.