My shirt stuck to my back, my knees ached from another ten-hour shift, but damn if I wasn't grinning like a fool.
The road hummed beneath my bike tires, and the world blurred into streaks of orange streetlight.
A plastic bag dangled from my handlebar, bumping against my leg every few seconds — my sister's new phone inside, wrapped like it was treasure.
Which, honestly, it kind of was.
"Lila's gonna lose her mind," I said to no one, laughing into the wind.
My voice got swallowed by the noise of passing cars, but I didn't care.
I could already see her face — the way her eyes lit up like sparklers when she got excited. Worth every overtime hour.
I took a turn past the market street, the smell of roasted corn and fuel mixing in the air.
Vendors were packing up, music fading, people heading home. Me too — almost there.
Another night survived, another dream paid in small change.
At the red light, I slowed, wiping sweat off my forehead with my wrist.
My eyes caught on a billboard — one of those massive, glossy ones that made the whole street glow.
Alexander Hale.
Perfect jawline. Perfect smile.
The kind of man who looked like he never had to wait for the bus or worry about rent.
The caption said "The Heart of Silver — Now Showing."
I stared a second longer than I meant to, then snorted. "Must be nice… living in all that perfect light."
The light turned green.
I pushed off, the wind catching my shirt, my grin fading just enough to let the night back in.
Still, somewhere deep inside, under the sweat and exhaustion, something small — something stupid — sparked to life.
Like maybe, just maybe, my world was about to tilt.
Alexander POV
The house was quiet again.
Too quiet for a place that had everything.
Dinner sat untouched on the long glass table — still warm, still perfect, like everything else in his life that looked good from the outside.
Alexander dropped his phone on the couch, exhaling through his nose.
Another message from Mr. Kim blinked on the screen.
Reminder: Award Gala. White suit. 8 p.m. sharp.
He leaned back, staring up at the ceiling lights. "Yeah, I got it, Kim. You've only told me six times," he muttered, voice rough with fatigue.
He'd spent years building this — the perfect house, perfect image, perfect silence.
And yet tonight it all felt heavier than usual, like the air itself knew how staged it was.
He walked toward the bedroom, passing framed magazine covers — all versions of himself smiling just right.
The real Alexander was nowhere in those frames.
The suit hung waiting for him near the mirror: white, crisp, blinding. A color meant for angels or liars.
He brushed a thumb along the fabric. "Why white, Kim?" he said softly, half to himself. "You trying to make me look pure now?"
The words echoed off the marble. No answer. Of course not.
He sighed and tugged at the collar of his T-shirt, glancing at his reflection.
Same eyes, same tired lines forming at the corners.
The kind of face that cameras adored and mirrors questioned.
His phone buzzed again — another reminder.
He ignored it this time.
Instead, he crossed to the window, looking out over the city lights. People down there — messy, loud, free — rushing home, laughing, living.
For a second, he wondered what it would be like to trade places with one of them.
Someone whose life didn't come with a schedule, a PR plan, a manager breathing down his neck.
Then he caught himself and laughed — low, self-mocking. "Get it together, Alex. Big night tomorrow."
But even as he turned away from the window, the loneliness lingered like a shadow he couldn't quite shake.