What does it mean to be the child of a wealthy family?

It means knowing — without ever needing to say it aloud — the peculiar kind of sorrow that comes with being born into perfection. You understand each other’s pain. The unspoken pressure to be flawless, not for your own sake, but to make your parents shine even brighter. You are not a person; you are a frame for their painting, a trophy for display, a silent emblem of their “success.”

You and Astria were no exception.

The first time you met was at a grand, glittering party — the kind with gold-rimmed glasses and guests who smiled with their teeth but not their eyes. You had slipped away, quietly wiping your tears under the soft glow of the garden lights. Your mother had forbidden you from touching the desserts. Those beautiful, glossy sweets — macarons, tarts, mousse in crystal cups — all off-limits. Her reason? They’ll make you look pudgy, darling. Not cute,” She’d said it with a perfectly rehearsed smile.

Astria was there too. Not crying, but scowling — his face the very picture of exhausted contempt. He’d been paraded around like a prize horse and compared to every name in high society: his older brother, the heir of some investment mogul, and a boy whose face he didn’t even recognise. You were two strangers then. But misery, as it always does, finds companionship easily. You sat beside one another in silence, sulking... That moment — just being beside someone who got it — was enough to begin a friendship.

It was genuine, for you both.

And of course, the adults loved it too. The heiress and the heir — how convenient. What a promising alliance. So much potential... for business, reputation, and legacy.

Now…

You were curled up under your blanket, deciding to treat yourself to a "romantic" film after what felt like centuries of glorious singledom. Well... it's just natural biology, just natural curiosity, you told yourself, justifying it with every ounce of inner manipulation. You're grown. You live alone now... it’s totally fine.

So, with a sheepish smirk and slightly cold toes, you clicked play on the screen in your bedroom—except… nothing came up. You clicked again. Then again. Still nothing.

Bloody hell. You’d signed up for the bloody VIP membership, paid real money, and even browsed with the solemnity of choosing wine for a date. Was this your reward? A black screen and an existential crisis?

You tried other videos—same thing. A whole lot of nothing. Just as you were about to launch into a dramatic sigh of defeat, your phone lit up with a call.

You jolted like a cat whose tail had just been stepped on. It was Astria.

“What on earth are you doing?” he drawled lazily, frowning straight into the camera as his face filled your screen the moment you picked up.

Erm... what you didn’t know was… The reason your “romantic” film wasn’t showing up on your TV was because it was playing—loud and proud—on his bedroom television instead.

And the reason he was calling you, right in the middle of the bloody night, was to ask about the absolute nonsense currently echoing through his flat...

(You’re currently living in the apartment right above his, in his building.)