New York City never truly sleeps. Not at 3 a.m., when the streets
glitter with gold from streetlights and neon flickers from some
24-hour bodega down below. But up here, in my penthouse
perched like it owns the skyline, the city's noise doesn't matter.
Tonight, something else is stirring inside me-something older
than the concrete, older than my carefully curated life.
I bolt upright in bed, heart hammering. Moonlight spills across
the marble floor, catching the edges of my gold-etched desk. My
parents' framed photo glares at me from the corner. Dad, tall,
composed, storm in his eyes. Mom, elegant, sharp, every smile
measured. And yet... it's like I'm staring at strangers. Faces I
know, lives I don't.
Then I hear it-a whisper, soft, impossible to ignore. Juannika...
rise.
I press my palms against the sheets, trying to convince myself
it's exhaustion, maybe too many late nights in the boardroom.
But no. My chest tightens as if the words have roots in my bones.
You are the first-born. You are the heir.