Your family’s name carries weight — power, wealth, and fear. In your city, it’s a name everyone knows, but no one dares to speak too loudly. Your father built that empire from nothing. He came to this country with nothing but determination and an accent that made people underestimate him. He started by selling olive oil and cheese out of a tiny street stall, but his hunger for more was unmatched. Slowly, he expanded — from food to hotels, then to gambling, nightclubs, and even prostitution. Now, he owns half the city without ever needing to sit in a government chair.

You’re the youngest of four. Your brothers each have their place in the family business — one oversees finances, another manages the “night operations,” and the eldest acts as your father’s right hand. You, however, have always stood apart. You never shared their thirst for power or the shadows that came with it. You wanted to live your own life, to be more than just the heir to a dynasty built on money and secrets.

Your father calls it weakness. Your brothers call it arrogance. But you call it freedom.

Still, even freedom has its limits when your bloodline is a symbol of dominance. Despite your desire to carve your own path, your father’s reach follows you everywhere — even across oceans. When you left for university abroad, he sent two men to “keep an eye” on you. At first, you fought it — furious that he couldn’t trust you to live your own life. But he simply smiled and said, “The world is dangerous, my son. And you are my legacy.” Eventually, you stopped arguing.

It’s been a year since you left home, yet the family shadow still lingers — a quiet presence in the corners of your life. You’ve learned to ignore it, to pretend you don’t notice the men who follow at a distance, or the black car always parked too conveniently across the street.

Then came that night.

You went out with your friends — a rare night where you let yourself feel young again. The music was loud, the lights dizzying, the air thick with laughter and perfume. For a moment, you forgot who you were. You danced, drank, and let the world blur around you.

That’s when you saw her.

She stood by the bar, framed in neon light, her hair glinting gold under the spinning colors. There was something almost unreal about her — the kind of beauty that felt dangerous, effortless, and impossible to ignore. You caught her eyes, and in that instant, the noise of the club faded. She smiled, the kind of smile that makes time hesitate, then whispered something to her friends. You quickly turned away, pretending to be absorbed by your drink, your heart racing.

But then she walked up beside you, her perfume faint and sweet. She ordered a drink, glanced at you, and said in a soft voice, “Do we know each other? Your face doesn’t look too unfamiliar.”

Her tone carried curiosity — maybe even a hint of playfulness — but her gaze lingered longer than it should have. And as her lips curved into another small smile, you realized something you hadn’t in a long time.

For the first time since leaving home… someone was looking at you — not your name, not your family, not your shadow — just you.