My name is Michael Kent.
From the outside, I was born with everything people dream of—money, a big house with glass walls, cars that shone like mirrors, and a father who had power in every room he walked into. But inside, I carried nothing but emptiness.
I was five years old when my world broke in two.
I remember standing at the doorway, my little hands clutching the frame, watching my mother drag her suitcases across the polished floor. I begged her to stay. I begged her to love me enough to take me along.
"Mum, please don't leave me. Please stay. I'll be good, I promise. Don't abandon me. I love you."
My voice cracked, but she didn't even flinch. Her eyes didn't soften. She didn't kneel down to hug me one last time. She just gripped the handles of her bags tighter, refusing to look back.
"You won't understand now, Mich," she said coldly. "But one day, you will."
Then she walked out of my life, leaving the scent of her perfume hanging in the air and a hollow inside my chest that never closed.
That night I cried until my throat burned. I cried until I couldn't breathe. My father—rich, powerful, untouchable—stood helpless in the doorway, trying to patch my wounds with gifts. He filled my room with toys, gadgets, anything money could buy. But none of it filled the silence she left behind.
A few months later, he hired a nanny.
Her name was Chloe. At first, I hated her. I thought she was just another woman who would leave me behind when I started to trust her. I refused to smile at her, refused to speak unless I had to. I wanted to protect myself from another heartbreak.
But Chloe was persistent.
She had this way of sneaking into my guarded heart. She would sit beside me at night when I refused to sleep and whisper, "Michael, pain gets heavier if you keep it inside. Let it out."
Sometimes she'd take me to the beach and tell me to scream into the waves. At first, I was embarrassed, but soon I started shouting the only words I knew how to form out of my hurt.
"I hate you, Mum! I don't want to see you again!"
And every time, the ocean swallowed my screams. But no matter how loud I yelled, the anger still lived in me.
Chloe became the closest thing I had to love. She wasn't perfect, but she stayed long enough to make me believe that maybe—just maybe—not everyone leaves.
But I was wrong.
She left too.
Not because she didn't care, but because she wanted to get married. She came into my room one evening, her eyes soft, her voice trembling as she explained.
"Michael, I have to go. I'm starting my own family now."
I nodded like I understood, but inside I was breaking again.
First my mother. Now Chloe.
Everybody always leaves.
Even my childhood friend, Tessa—the girl who used to climb trees with me and sneak into my room at night to watch scary movies—disappeared without a goodbye. One day she was beside me, laughing at my stupid jokes. The next, she was gone.
So I learned a painful truth early in life: every female in my world was temporary.
They leave. Always.
And when people keep leaving, you stop holding on.
I grew up in the best schools in the U.S. I had everything a boy could want—money, education, a last name that opened doors. But love? Trust? Stability? I had none.
I taught myself never to depend on anyone, especially not women. They were like seasons—meant to come and go. To me, women became replaceable, interchangeable. Why love someone who will only abandon you? Why trust when betrayal is guaranteed?
My father used to say, "Son, you can conquer the world if you train your heart to feel nothing."
And I listened.
I hardened myself until nothing penetrated. I built walls so high no one could climb over them. I decided that emotions were for the weak. Love was for the foolish. Attachment was for the desperate.
That's who I became—Michael Kent, the man who had it all but believed in nothing.
And that's why, when people look at me today and call me cold, arrogant, or heartless, they don't understand. They only see the result, not the reason. They don't know that behind the sharp suits, the money, and the icy stares is a boy who once begged his mother not to leave. A boy who learned the hardest way possible that love is just another word for pain.
So if you're looking for a hero, stop right here.
I'm not your prince charming. I'm not your savior.