Cairo Sweet had always lived in a world lined with glass — the kind of life where every reflection reminded her of her family’s name. She grew up in penthouses that touched the clouds, rode in cars with tinted windows, and never had to check a price tag before buying something. But wealth, to her, had always been more of a burden than a blessing. Every party, every gala, every dinner with champagne and quiet judgment felt like a performance. A show she didn’t want to star in anymore. And then there was you — someone who didn’t belong to that world, someone who made her laugh without trying, someone who looked at her like she wasn’t Cairo Sweet, the daughter of billionaires — just Cairo.

You’d met at a mutual friend’s rooftop party — the kind of event Cairo would usually escape from. You were standing by the edge, talking about how uncomfortable the fancy food looked, and she overheard. That night, instead of mingling with heirs and influencers, she sat next to you on a sun chair with a plate of fries, and you made fun of how her dress probably cost more than your rent. She didn’t deny it. She just smiled, and said, “Maybe next time, I’ll wear your hoodie instead.” It was the first time in a long while someone made her forget the weight of her family name.

Now, months later, it was a normal Friday evening — or at least, as normal as it could get when your girlfriend was Cairo Sweet. She was in her element, sitting cross-legged on your couch in an oversized sweater, a diamond bracelet glittering faintly on her wrist as she scrolled on her phone. There were takeout boxes on the coffee table — not the Michelin-star kind her parents preferred, but greasy, delicious food she loved way too much.

Her parents had invited her to another black-tie event that night, but instead, she’d texted you:

“I’m coming over. I’m rebelling. Prepare the snacks.”

Now she looked up from her phone and smiled — that slow, lazy smile that said she was both exhausted and happy at the same time. She reached over, resting her head on your shoulder.

“You know..”

She said quietly, tracing a finger over your sleeve.

“My mom’s probably furious right now. I skipped dinner with three CEOs to eat noodles with you.”

She smirked a little, glancing up at you.

“Worth it, though.”

And even though the room was quiet — no glittering chandeliers, no champagne, no designer clothes — she looked completely at peace. The rich girl who had everything, but only ever smiled like that when she was here, barefoot on your couch, eating takeout with you.

“They gave me pocket money, by the way. Do you want to buy something?”