The night always started with the hum of the city outside my window. Engines growling on wet streets. Music leaking from passing cars. Sirens cutting through the background like they owned the place. I liked that sound. It told me I was still alive, even when I didn't feel much of anything.
Inside the penthouse, everything looked perfect. Floor-to-ceiling glass, polished wood, bottles lined up like soldiers waiting to be picked off one by one. The place smelled like expensive cologne and cigarette smoke, even though this particular one wasn't mine. It belonged to whoever crashed here last, and in my world, people always crashed somewhere.
I was sprawled on the leather couch, one arm over the backrest, drink in my hand. Half of the city's lights were reflected in the glass wall in front of me, like I had bought the skyline just to look at it. Truth was, I didn't care. All that shine didn't mean shit when the inside was hollow.
"Jamie, you ready?"
It was Lucas, one of my so-called friends. He was buttoning his shirt wrong, top two undone so everyone could see his tattoo. He thought he looked dangerous. He looked like a kid playing gangster.
"Give me a second," I said, swallowing the rest of the whiskey. It burned the way I liked—fast, rough, and gone too soon.
Nights like this always followed the same script: penthouse pregame, black cars waiting downstairs, endless clubs, strangers, and money wasted so I wouldn't have to think. If I slowed down, I'd start to hear my own head again. Couldn't have that.
We piled into the elevator. The mirror walls showed me what I already knew: I looked good but tired. Too many nights without sleep, too many drinks that promised more than they gave. My hair was slicked back, suit jacket thrown over a t-shirt like I couldn't decide if I cared or not. That was the trick—you had to look like you didn't care.
The car was waiting. A black Mercedes, windows tinted darker than the truth. The driver didn't say a word. He never did. Money kept him quiet.
The first stop was a club downtown. Neon letters spelled out a name that didn't matter. Inside, the bass rattled bones and spilled drinks. Girls in short dresses leaned against the bar, waiting to be noticed. Guys like me acted like kings because someone told us we were.
I loved it. I'm living it.
Lucas shouted something about ordering shots, but I was already moving through the crowd. The music throbbed like a heartbeat. Lights strobed across faces that blurred together. Everyone was smiling too hard, laughing too loud, pretending they were free.
A girl grabbed my arm. I didn't know her. Didn't care. She pressed close, whispered something I couldn't hear over the bass. I nodded anyway, let her lips brush my ear. It didn't matter what she said. None of it mattered.
We kissed. It tasted like vodka and cherry lip gloss. I pulled away fast. I could never stay long.
Another drink. Another smile. Another laugh that wasn't real.
By two in the morning, I was drunk enough to forget why I came. The club was packed, people dancing like tomorrow didn't exist. I stood by the balcony upstairs, looking down at the mess of bodies. I felt nothing. Just the same emptiness dressed up in flashing lights.
Lucas came stumbling over, his shirt even more undone, his eyes glassy.
"Bro, you look dead. Come on, lighten up."
I raised my glass. "I'm light enough."
He laughed, not hearing the truth in it.
Somewhere below, a fight broke out. Two guys shoving each other until security swarmed in. The crowd cheered like it was part of the entertainment. That's what this city did—it turned even pain into a show.
By three, I wanted out. I pushed through the crowd, ignoring the hands that tried to pull me back in. The car was still waiting outside, engine running like it knew I'd give up early.
Back at the penthouse, the silence hit harder than the music. I dropped my jacket on the floor, collapsed on the couch, and stared at the ceiling. My phone buzzed with messages—girls I barely remembered, people asking where the party was tomorrow, my father's assistant reminding me about some dinner I was supposed to care about. I ignored them all.
The glass walls looked out over the city, but I wasn't seeing it anymore. I was seeing him—my father. His voice in my head, telling me to stop wasting the family name, to clean myself up, to act like the heir I was supposed to be. He never asked why I was broken in the first place. Never asked if I even wanted any of this.
I hated him for that. But I hated myself more for playing right into his hand. Drinking, wasting, throwing nights away—proving him right without meaning to.
I poured another drink. My hand shook just a little.
I thought about calling someone. Anyone. But I didn't. Because I knew nobody really wanted to listen. They wanted the version of me that smiled in photos and spent money like it grew on trees. They didn't want the truth.
The truth was simple: I was lost. And I was too proud to admit it.
I sat there until dawn crept through the glass. The city was still moving, still alive. I was too. Barely.
The next night, I went out again. Different club, same chaos. This one was louder, hotter, darker. I let the music hit harder, let strangers press closer. Shots lined up like soldiers on the bar, and I downed them without thinking.
Somewhere between midnight and one, a girl with dark eyes asked me if I was happy.
I laughed in her face. Who the hell asks that in a place like this?
She smiled, like she already knew the answer. Then she walked away.
I hated her for asking. I hated myself for not knowing.
By four, I was drunk again, leaning against the wall outside while the city breathed heavy around me. Neon signs flickered, taxis honked, people shouted across the street. It was all noise, all static, and I was drowning in it.
Lucas stumbled out, arm around some girl. He waved at me like we hadn't been doing this same routine for months.
"Tomorrow night, same thing," he slurred.
"Yeah," I said. But I didn't mean it.
I didn't know what I meant anymore.
Here's the thing no one tells you: luxury feels like a prison when you didn't build it yourself. Every night was the same. Every face blurred into the next. Every drink burned but never lasted. I thought I was untouchable, but deep down I knew I was breaking apart.
And somewhere in that mess of flashing lights and empty bottles, something was coming for me.
Something I couldn't drink away or sleep off.
Something that would change everything.
I didn't know her name yet. Didn't know her face. But she was out there. Waiting.
And when we finally collided, nothing about my nights—or my life—would ever be the same again.