The world is a stage, and the script was written by a drunken playwright who is far too in love with me.
I stood on the balcony of my Park Avenue penthouse, overlooking the glittering pulse of New York beneath my feet. A chill night wind brushed against my face, yet there was no bite to it. Even the universe seemed to calibrate the temperature to ensure it remained comfortable against my skin. I, Althea Vance, am the woman who has everything yet possesses nothing. I am an anomaly a machine of success programmed to win, never granted the clearance to taste defeat.
"Althea, you're drifting again. This glass of 1787 Chateau Margaux will lose its soul if you let it evaporate like that."
I turned slowly. There, perched on a navy velvet sofa, was Margot Thorne. She looked like a predator draped in a suit from London's finest tailors. Her raven hair fell with a sickeningly perfect precision, and her amethyst eyes were always flickering, calculating the digits behind every breath I drew.
"Margot," I said, my voice flat, "I want to be bankrupt by tomorrow morning."
Margot laughed a sound like the crisp rustle of newly minted banknotes. "How droll. And I want to be destitute, but unfortunately, our fates don't permit such low-brow comedy."
"I'm serious." I stepped toward her, letting my silk gown sweep across the marble floor. "I want to do something catastrophic. I'm going to pull all my tech investments and sink them into a startup that manufactures tissue-paper umbrellas in perennially rainy London. I want to lose ten billion dollars overnight."
Margot merely sipped her wine, her expression unmoving. "Too late. I just received the report. That tissue-paper company was just bought out by a European environmental cult as a 'symbol of nature's fragility.' Their shares surged four hundred percent because of your 'visionary' move. You've just netted another two billion in profit, Althea."
I felt the familiar constriction in my chest. This luck was suffocating. It was like oxygen so pure it scorched the lungs. I wanted to fall; I wanted to hit the asphalt; I wanted to feel the sting of a failure that forces a human to learn wisdom. Yet, every time I leapt into the abyss, destiny spread out a plush mattress made of stacked cash.
The double doors of the penthouse burst open. A man stumbled in, breathless. His blonde hair was a disheveled nest, his shirt was rumpled, and he carried the scent of stale coffee and desperation.
"Julian," I greeted him, feeling a pang of envy at how delightfully wrecked he looked.
Julian Aris my private assistant and best friend since we were in diapers dropped a stack of documents onto the coffee table. He looked as though he had just wrestled a tornado and lost.
"Althea... you won't believe this," Julian groaned, wiping sweat from a forehead dulled by sleep deprivation. "My car was towed this morning because I forgot to pay the meter. Then, as I was running here, a crow dropped its business right on the contract you need to sign. And to top it off, I was trapped in the elevator for two hours."
I stared at him with ill-concealed admiration. "You are so lucky, Jules."
Julian looked up, his weary blue eyes blinking in disbelief. "Lucky? Althea, I nearly died of dehydration in that lift, and you're calling me lucky?"
"You felt something, Jules." I knelt before him, ignoring Margot's sharp gaze. "You felt frustration. You felt a genuine rage at the world. You have a story to tell. But me? I can't even get a single crow to foul my dress. They all fly away as if I'm some hallowed deity."
"You're insane," Julian whispered, massaging his temples. "You want me to teach you how to fail? Fine. Try not eating for two days because your money went to pay an absurd fine. Feel how your stomach knots."
"I tried that last month," I said ruefully. "But my private chef suddenly won an international culinary award for the 'fasting-diet' menu I accidentally instructed. I ended up being sent world-class meals for free as a token of gratitude."
Margot stood, smoothing her impeccable navy jacket. She placed a hand on my shoulder a gesture that felt more like a restraint than support. "Althea, stop trying to play the commoner. You are an asset. You are the sun that keeps people like Julian in orbit. If you fall, the entire system collapses. And I will not let that happen."
"You're not my friend, Margot," I whispered. "You're the warden of this golden palace."
Margot merely offered a thin smile the kind she used when winning a hostile takeover. "A warden who ensures you stay beautiful and obscenely rich is the kind of warden everyone in the world prays for, Althea. Julian, get tomorrow's schedule ready. We're launching a new perfume line based on Althea's 'aesthetic' tears."
Julian let out a long sigh, a sound heavy with the burdens of life. He looked at me with pity. "I'll try to make a mistake in the report later, Althea. But I'm sure even if I mistype a zero, the bank will just assume it's a 'special discount' from you."
I returned to the edge of the balcony after they left. In the distance, I saw the dark alleys wedged between skyscrapers. There, in the places untouched by these grand lights, perhaps there was a real life. A life where failure was a teacher, and suffering was proof of breath.
I tightened my grip on the cold iron railing. I swore that, one way or another, I would dismantle this throne. I would find the path to total ruin, even if I had to burn all of New York to feel it. I was tired of being destiny's darling. I wanted to be human.
That night, for the first time, I decided to leave the penthouse without security, without Margot, and without a platinum credit card in my pocket. I was going to find failure in the most unexpected place.
------
I stepped out of the lobby with a gait that felt foreign. Without Margot trailing behind me, her dominant scent of expensive perfume in tow, or Julian frantically grumbling over a fractured schedule, the New York air felt a little more... gritty. And strangely, I loved it. I had intentionally left my phone behind on the marble counter, allowing myself to be blind to coordinates and expectations.
My footsteps led me away from the opulence of Park Avenue toward the Lower East Side, where the flickering neon lights no longer bothered to sell luxury, but merely signaled the existence of a cramped bodega or a musty bar. In a narrow alleyway where the walls were cloaked in layers of overlapping graffiti, I saw him.
He was perched on an upturned wooden crate, surrounded by spray-paint cans and several canvases leaning against the red-brick walls. An ancient guitar lay discarded at his side. The man wore a faded denim jacket and a tattered red plaid scarf. He was sipping coffee from a dented paper cup, his calm eyes fixed on the colorful streaks before him as if they were the century's greatest masterpiece.
I stood there at the mouth of the alley, feeling like an interloper from another planet. My silk garments were too bright, too pristine an insult to their surroundings.
"You look like someone looking for a way home, or perhaps someone trying their hardest to get lost," the man's voice broke the silence of the alley. He didn't turn; his focus remained anchored to his canvas.
I was taken aback. Usually, people recognized me instantly, uttering my name with a reverent lilt or simply standing paralyzed by the "aura" of fortune Margot claimed I radiated. But this man didn't care.
"I'm trying to get lost," I replied, stepping closer. "And I want to know why you're painting in a place as filthy as this."
The man finally turned. He wore black-rimmed glasses that framed eyes with a spark of honesty unlike any I had ever encountered. He offered a thin smile one that held no ulterior motive to climb into my social circles.
"Filth is relative," he said nonchalantly. He rose to his feet and extended a hand stained with flecks of blue and yellow paint. "I'm Silas. And this place isn't filthy; it just has a lot of stories that failed to reach an ending. That's what makes it beautiful."
I stared at his soiled hand with hesitation before slowly taking it. For the first time in my life, my palm met the coarse texture of actual labor and tangible failure. "Althea," I whispered.
"Althea," he repeated, as if it were merely a name and not a multi-billion dollar trademark. "You have striking eyes, but unfortunately, they look terribly bored. You look like someone who has never once had to fight for what they wanted."
His words struck me deeper than any vitriol I had ever received from a business rival. This was the honesty I had been scavenging for.
"You're right," I said, my voice trembling slightly. "My life is a victory forced upon me by the universe. I want to feel something real, Silas. Something messy. Something that fails."
Silas let out a soft laugh, the sound bouncing off the narrow alley walls. "You want to fail? That is the most arrogant request I've ever heard from a woman draped in silk. But fine, if you want something real, take this."
He thrust an old brush toward me, its bristles starting to shed, along with a scrap of oil paint that was nearly dry.
"Try to paint what you're actually feeling right now. No rules, no instructions, and no help from anyone. And remember one thing, Althea: chances are, your painting will look hideous. And that will be the best thing to happen to you tonight."
I took the brush with trembling hands. Under Silas's indifferent yet piercing gaze, I approached the blank canvas. Here, amidst the scent of paint and urban decay, I felt for the very first time that I had the chance to make a mistake that was purely my own.
I gripped the brush as if it were a jagged blade capable of drawing blood. My fingers, accustomed only to the sleek glass of expensive devices or the flourish of signing billion-dollar contracts, felt rigid. I wanted to desecrate this. I imagined a hideous stroke, a discordant clash of colors an aesthetic disaster that would make Silas sneer in mockery. I wanted him to tell me I was talentless.
With a bated breath, I slammed the brush against the canvas.
I didn't think. I let my frustration with Margot, my envy of Julian's suffering, and my suffocating boredom with the gold that besieged me flow outward. I mixed deep, bruising blues with a visceral crimson, dragging wild lines that should have looked like a grotesque tangle of yarn. I let the paint drip, praying it would ruin whatever negative space remained.
For several minutes, I was submerged in a liberating madness. The alleyway fell silent, save for the sound of my ragged breathing and the coarse friction of the bristles.
"Enough," I whispered to myself. I dropped the brush into the dirt, letting it be soiled by the dust. I didn't dare look at the result. "Look at it, Silas. It's pure chaos. I'm sure it's revolting."
Silas didn't answer.
I turned toward him, expecting to see a look of disgust or at least a sarcastic laugh. But what I saw made my heart plummet. Silas stood paralyzed. The dented coffee cup had slipped from his hand, spilling black liquid onto the asphalt unnoticed. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, his mouth slightly agape as if he had just seen a ghost or God.
I forced myself to turn and face the canvas.
"No..." the word caught in my throat.
Before me stood no mess. The wild lines I had dragged at random had somehow converged into a human anatomy so flawless it looked as though it were rendered by a reincarnated Michelangelo. The drips I hoped would ruin the piece had instead created a dramatic chiaroscuro effect, lending a sublime emotional depth to the figure struggling within the frame. The colors I thought would clash had birthed a melancholic harmony capable of bringing the most cynical art critic to their knees.
It wasn't just a painting. It was a masterpiece with a soul.
"You..." Silas finally found his voice, husky and trembling. "You said you'd never painted in your life?"
"I swear, this is the first time I've ever held a brush," I replied, my voice thick with despair. "I tried to ruin it, Silas! I tried to make it as hideous as possible!"
Silas stepped toward the canvas, tracing its edge with a shaking finger. "Hideous? Althea, people spend thirty years mastering anatomy and perspective like this, and they still fail. But you... you did this in ten minutes while grumbling."
He looked at me with a gaze that was no longer pitying, but one of terror mingled with adoration. "The world is truly unjust. You aren't even permitted to create trash. Everything you touch turns to divinity. This isn't a talent, Althea... it's a curse."
I recoiled, tears beginning to well in my eyes. This pain was sharper than any rejection. I felt like an automaton locked in a prison of perfection. Even in my most honest, fragmented expression of the soul, destiny had edited it into something beautiful and high-value.
Suddenly, a slow clap drifted from the mouth of the alley.
"Magnificent. A truly brilliant artistic statement, Althea."
I froze. That voice. Margot Thorne stood there, framed by the dim glow of a streetlamp, with a pale-looking Julian behind her. Margot held her digital tablet, her face illuminated by the screen's glow.
"Margot? How did you—"
"The GPS in your diamond earrings, darling," Margot smiled triumphantly, stepping into the alley as if she were walking a red carpet. She ignored Silas and stared directly at the canvas. "I've already called a curator from the Met. I sent the photo. They're calling it the 'Rebirth of Modern Classicism.' The bidding has already hit five million dollars in the last five minutes."
"Stop it!" I screamed. "I don't want to sell it! I wanted this to be a failure!"
Margot merely let out a soft, chilling laugh. "Failure is a luxury you cannot afford, Althea. Julian, ensure this young artist is compensated for providing our diva with a makeshift 'studio'."
Julian looked at me with hollow, sympathetic eyes, yet he reached for his checkbook. "I'm sorry, Althea. I tried to make Margot's car stall so we'd be late, but the engine suddenly started performing better after I touched it. I've truly failed to protect you from your own success."
I looked at Silas, who was now watching me as if I were some alien creature he could never hope to reach. The brief warmth I had felt evaporated, replaced by a glass wall thicker than ever before.
I was trapped again. This gilded crown was growing heavier, and the universe still refused to let me fall.
------
I stood frozen in the heart of the alley, which now felt like a suffocating theater stage. Around me, Margot was a whirlwind of motion, barking into her phone to arrange the logistics for transporting the "sacred" canvas, while Julian stood with slumped shoulders—the picture of a man recently coerced into becoming an accomplice to a cosmic crime.
I didn't resist. I no longer screamed or attempted to shred the canvas. I simply stood there, letting the soiled brush slip from my unnaturally clean fingers. I looked at Silas. My eyes, which usually glinted with the coldness of gemstones, had dimmed, leaving only a deep, watery void. I searched his face with a silent plea not for wealth or adulation, but for him to see me as a human being slowly dying inside a gilded cage.
Silas, who had been staring at the painting in terror, finally shifted his gaze to me. He went still. The nonchalant smile that had graced his face earlier vanished completely. He saw the tears that didn't dare fall from my lashes, and he saw how my fingers trembled with a despair that had no outlet.
In that moment, amidst the clamor of Margot's ambition, Silas realized the truth.
"You weren't flaunting your talent," Silas whispered, his voice nearly drowned out by the honk of a luxury car beginning to nose its way into the alley. "You were trying to kill yourself through art, but the universe gave you immortality instead."
I could only manage a frail, ghost of a nod.
Silas stepped forward, briefly shielding me from Margot's view. He looked at me with a different intensity now no longer as a street artist cynical of the rich, but as a philosopher who had just stumbled upon a tragedy more horrific than poverty.
"Wait," Silas said, his voice ringing out, cutting through Margot's telephonic chatter.
Margot lowered her phone, one eyebrow arched in annoyance. "Yes, young man? Julian has your check ready. You can buy yourself a proper studio now, so stop obstructing the way."
Silas didn't even glance at the check. His eyes remained locked on mine. "The work isn't finished. This painting... it shouldn't be in a museum. It has no flaw. And without a flaw, it isn't the work of a human. It's just cosmic refuse masquerading as beauty."
He turned to Margot with a piercing glare. "You all see a miracle, but for her, this is a prison. You're celebrating the very chains that bind her."
Margot let out a short, metallic laugh. "Chains made of diamonds are still exquisite jewelry, Mr. Artist. Althea, into the car. We have a celebration to attend."
I looked at Silas for the last time that night. He didn't surrender; he reached for a can of black spray paint lying at his feet. Before Margot could intervene, he unleashed a thick, jagged black streak right across the face of the figure I had painted.
"There," Silas said calmly. "Now it has a flaw."
But the horrific magic happened again. The black paint Silas had sprayed began to bleed and drip in an impossibly artistic fashion, creating the effect of a "mysterious veil" that made the painting look a thousand times more profound and provocative. Margot practically shrieked with delight.
"Genius! A collaboration between the icon and the rebel street artist! The price just doubled!"
I watched Silas's shoulders slump. He understood now. He realized that in Althea Vance's world, even vandalism turned to gold. He looked at me with a gaze of pure horror wrapped in deep sympathy.
"I'm sorry, Althea," Silas whispered as Margot guided me toward the waiting limousine. "I didn't know 'luck' could be this cruel."
I climbed into the car, sliding in next to Julian, who immediately offered me a bottle of premium mineral water. As the door clicked shut and the soundproofing isolated us from the reality of that alley, I watched Silas through the tinted glass. He stood alone in the center of the dark lane—the only man who knew that I had just lost the war against my own destiny.
----
The Rolls-Royce limousine glided in a ghostly silence through the darkness of the Manhattan night, leaving Silas standing like a specter in that narrow alley. Inside the soundproofed cabin, permeated by the scent of bespoke leather, I leaned my head against the frigid glass window. Beside me, Margot was a flurry of motion, her face bathed in a clinical blue light as she calculated the profit projections for the "collaborative" piece. Julian, on the other hand, was listlessly nursing a finger he'd managed to jam in the car door, his face a mask of weary resignation.
I closed my eyes, and instantly, childhood memories I had tried to entomb began to surface like ghosts demanding justice.
Once, I had actually loved this luck. When I was seven, I imagined myself a princess graced by a guardian sprite. I remember a primary school math exam; I hadn't studied at all, opting instead to chase butterflies in the garden, and I filled out the answers at random. Yet, when the paper was returned, it bore a perfect score. My haphazard patterns had somehow formed a logical sequence so profound it had eluded even my teachers.
"You're a child prodigy, Althea!" they had beamed. Back then, I had smiled with pride.
But that smile began to tarnish over the years. The luck curdled from a blessing into a grotesque anomaly. At twelve, I desperately wanted to know the sting of falling off a bicycle. I pedaled as fast as I could toward a steep incline and let go of the handlebars. I craved the scraped knees, the sight of my own blood, and the catharsis of an honest sob.
But just before I struck the pavement, a truck hauling foam mattresses swerved into a wreck directly at the bottom of the hill. I landed on a literal bed of softness without a single scratch. The world hailed it as a miracle, while I lay atop that foam and wept from sheer frustration. I felt like I was playing a game where the cheat codes couldn't be toggled off.
By my teens, the void had crystallized. Every competition I entered ended in a landslide victory, even when I actively sought to sabotage myself. I once submitted a blank essay for a national literary prize, only to discover the judges had interpreted the void as a "poetic protest against the limitations of language" and awarded me the grand trophy.
It was then I realized: I had never grown. Human beings grow through friction, through the drying of wounds, and through the bitter lessons of error. Without failure, I was nothing more than a showpiece on the highest shelf beautiful to behold, but possessed of no history beneath the surface.
"Althea? Are you crying?" Julian's voice shattered my reverie. He offered me a silk handkerchief, his expression heavy with a deep, vicarious guilt.
I dabbed the corners of my eyes, feeling the warmth of the tears the only thing in my life that felt authentic. "Julian, do you remember when we tried to build that treehouse and you fell and broke your leg?"
Julian winced, instinctively touching his right shin. "Of course. It was the most excruciating pain I've ever known. I cried for three hours."
"I envy you," I whispered, causing Margot to pause her typing. "I envy you because you have that scar. You have proof that you once fought against gravity. But me? I'm not even permitted to touch the earth."
Margot snapped her tablet shut with a sharp click. "Enough with the melancholy, Althea. Scars and failures are for those who lack vision. You were engineered to be the benchmark of perfection. The world needs someone who cannot fail so they have something to worship."
I looked at Margot, then at Julian. The disparity between the three of us was a cruel satire. Margot was the architect of my perfection, Julian was the casualty of my luck, and I was the captive of both.
The car eased to a halt before the opulent lobby of my penthouse. The security detail opened the door with an exaggerated reverence. I stepped out, returning to my throne made of sickening gold. But inside my mind, Silas's voice continued to echo. He was the first person who hadn't praised me after seeing my masterpiece. He was the first who had pitied me for my success.
I had to find him again. If the universe refused to break me, then perhaps I needed help from someone whose very life was a testament to honest ruin.
To be continued