People think money fixes everything.
It doesn't. It just makes the mess shinier.
I wake up with sunlight stabbing through floor-to-ceiling glass, my head pounding from last night's whiskey. Empty bottles line the counter, and someone's bra is draped over the arm of the couch. I don't remember her name. I don't care enough to try.
I roll out of bed and step barefoot across cold marble floors. The penthouse is silent, too silent, except for the low hum of the city outside. Cars, sirens, music—always moving. I like that part. The noise makes me feel less hollow.
I pour water into a glass, but it doesn't wash away the taste of liquor on my tongue. My phone buzzes. Texts pile up: friends wanting to go out tonight, girls sending selfies, my father's assistant reminding me about some board meeting I'll never attend. I toss the phone face down.
This is what my life looks like. Expensive, empty, and on display.
People at school whisper about me—about the cars I drive, the penthouse I live in, the parties I throw. They think I'm untouchable. They don't know the truth. They don't know that I can't stand being alone with my own thoughts for more than five minutes. That's why the lights are always on, why the music is always blasting, why I keep strangers around me.
Because silence isn't peace. Silence is a mirror. And I hate what it shows me.
I grab a cigarette from the pack on the counter, light it, and take a drag. Smoke curls up toward the ceiling, fading like everything else I touch. I should shower, but instead I walk to the balcony.
The city stretches beneath me—rooftops, neon signs, taxis weaving like ants. From here, I can see it all, but I'm not part of it. I'm above it. Isolated. Trapped in glass and steel that everyone else calls luxury.
I hear footsteps behind me. One of last night's girls stumbles out, wearing only a shirt that isn't hers. She giggles, asks if I'll call her. I lie and say yes. She knows I'm lying. It doesn't matter. She'll still wait for the call that won't come.
When she leaves, the silence returns. And it's worse.
I sink into the couch, light another cigarette, and try not to think about how fake everything feels. My friends? They're parasites. They come for the booze, the penthouse, the thrill of saying they partied with me. The women? Same thing. They don't want me—they want the life I can buy.
But I let them. I let them use me, because using me means I don't have to feel alone.
My father says I waste my life. That I should care about the family business—the vineyards, the distribution empire, the name that people toast with in every corner of the world. He wants me to care about legacy. I don't. I care about now and feeling good. And money is good for that.
Still, his voice is always in my head. Cold. Sharp. Disappointed. He doesn't ask how I am, doesn't care if I'm drowning. He just wants me to perform, to smile for cameras, to keep the image alive. I do it, because fighting him is pointless. He always wins.
I crush the cigarette in the ashtray and lean back. My chest feels tight, like something is pressing down on me. Sometimes I wonder if this is what dying feels like—not pain, but weight. A slow suffocation under glass ceilings and family expectations.
I grab my phone again. More texts. I ignore them all, except one from Ryan. He's been my friend since prep school, though "friend" might not be the right word. He's the kind of guy who likes to be close to power, and I've got it. He tells me there's a party tonight at some club downtown. Big crowd, good music, the kind of chaos I usually crave.
I hesitate. Lately, even the chaos feels empty. But staying here, trapped in my head, is worse. So I text back one word: fine.
The day crawls. I skip class again. What's the point? Professors pretend like the law is about justice, but it's really about who has the better lawyer. My family could buy every judge in the city if they wanted. I don't need a degree to know how power works.
By the time the sun sets, I've showered, changed, and slipped into the mask everyone expects. Designer shirt, tailored jacket, watch worth more than most people's cars. In the mirror, I look like the guy they think I am—confident, untouchable, the prince of this glass palace.
But that's all it is. A mask.
The club is already packed when I arrive. Lights flash, bass rattles the floor, bodies move in a blur of sweat and perfume. People shout my name, pull me toward VIP. Bottles pop, sparklers burn, cameras flash. This is what I'm known for—throwing money into the air like it means nothing. Because to me, it doesn't.
I smile, laugh, play the role. Girls lean close, whisper things they don't mean. My friends toast to nothing, their eyes sharp with envy. I drink until the edges blur.
But even in the noise, I feel it—the emptiness creeping in. Like no matter how loud the music gets, I can't drown out the silence inside me.
Ryan notices. He leans over, shouts in my ear. "Cheer up, man. You've got everything. Look around. This is yours."
I nod, but I don't believe him. He sees what everyone sees—the surface. He doesn't see the cracks.
Hours blur. I end up on the balcony outside the club, cigarette in hand, staring at the city lights. My head spins, but my thoughts are clear. I don't belong anywhere. Not here, not at home, not at school.
That's when I notice her.
Not one of the girls clawing for a free drink, not one of the fake friends. Someone else. Different. Standing just inside the doorway, watching the chaos with the same detached look I feel in my own chest.
I don't know her name yet.
But something about the way she doesn't try to belong makes me want to know.
The rest of the night is a blur again—more drinks, more laughs that aren't real. But her face stays with me. The way she stood still in the storm, like she was there but not part of it.
When I finally stumble back into my penthouse, shoes kicked off, jacket on the floor, I think about her instead of the empty bottles. And for the first time in a long time, the silence doesn't feel as heavy.
This is my life. A prince in a penthouse, surrounded by everything, and owned by nothing. People think I have it all. They don't see that I have nothing that matters.
But maybe—just maybe—that's about to change.