I never intended to fall in love.
Honestly, I didn’t even believe in it—not in the messy, heart-shattering way people write about in novels or sing about on late-night radio. Love, commitment, the whole tangled concept of forever—those were ideas I kept stored high on a metaphorical shelf, boxed up and labeled “Maybe Later,” if not “Never.”
It wasn’t that I was broken or bitter. It was just… practical.
I was raised in a world where emotions were seen as liabilities and passion was a luxury few could afford—certainly not people like us. In our world, success came before sincerity, and image always trumped intimacy. The goal was to maintain the façade, to never let the mask slip, and most definitely, to never hand your heart to someone who could crush it.
So no, love was never part of the plan.
What was the plan? Spite.
Or, if you prefer a prettier word, rebellion.
I was the only child of a self-made billionaire—a man who rose from nothing to become everything. He built his empire with blood, sweat, and ruthless ambition, and he expected nothing less from his heir.
Yes, heir. That was me. The golden boy. The future.
From the moment I could walk, I was being molded into the perfect successor. I wore tailored suits before I could spell the word “business.” I shook hands with CEOs while my classmates were learning multiplication tables. I was fluent in boardroom etiquette by the time I was thirteen.
But beneath the polish and privilege, I had a fatal flaw: I liked to live.
And not the kind of living you see in motivational posters or self-help books. No, I craved chaos. Thrills. The taste of danger on my tongue. My life was a whirlwind of parties that blurred into sunrises, private jets fueled by whims, and adrenaline-fueled nights that took me across continents on a moment’s notice.
While my father held court in corner offices, I ruled the underground clubs of Berlin, the beaches of Bali, the balconies of penthouses I didn’t remember renting. My name was whispered in gossip columns and shouted in after-hours lounges. I was infamous and unapologetic.
My parents hated it. They called me reckless. Irresponsible. A stain on the legacy they had carefully constructed.
But still—they tolerated me. Why? Because they believed I was just going through a phase. They thought, in time, I’d snap out of it. Settle down. Get serious.
Be the man they raised me to be.
Then came the dinner that changed everything.
It was supposed to be routine. Another dull evening of polite conversation, overpriced wine, and veiled lectures disguised as compliments. The kind of dinner where everything sparkled except for the people. Where the food was gourmet, the smiles were plastic, and the tension could be cut with the same silver knives we dined with.
But that night… that night was different.
Because she was there.
She wasn’t part of our world. Not really. She didn’t speak the language of mergers and investments. She didn’t wear her wealth like armor or her smile like strategy. She was real—unapologetically, breathtakingly real. And in a room full of shadows pretending to be people, she was the sun.
I didn’t fall in love that night. Not yet.
But something shifted. A crack formed in the wall I’d spent my life building around myself.
Suddenly, love didn’t seem so distant. So absurd. Suddenly, it wasn’t about forever or fairy tales—it was about a moment. A glance. A connection that didn’t need a contract or a contingency plan.
It was terrifying.
It was irresistible.
And for the first time in my life, I realized I might not be in control of my own story anymore.