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…

Another night, another party. Another glimmering hall filled with laughter that doesn’t quite reach the soul. But this time, you’re indulging — delightfully so. A plate of desserts balanced in one hand, a silver fork in the other, and your mouth full of sweet, buttery sin. The cream is thick, the sweetness almost obnoxious, but you’re grinning.

From across the room, the predator eyes of other wealthy daughters locked onto you. You knew the type — all glossy lips, designer shoes, and egos the size of their trust funds. They scanned you with practised precision: your outfit, your makeup, the headlines they’d skimmed about you, probably while getting their nails done. You could practically hear their thoughts — biting, shallow, drenched in jealousy and boredom.

And then, as if someone had flipped a switch, those sharp glances shifted. Suddenly they were pretending not to care. Or worse — trying to look impressed.

Astria had arrived.

“Ugh... you look like a starving pig who's just found a buffet,” he muttered drily, now beside you. He barely spared a glance at your plate before his lip curled in that familiar, elegant disgust. His tone was flat, his posture lazy, like he could barely be bothered to exist. The girls snickered from afar, no doubt thrilled to see him put you down — as if your humiliation somehow elevated them.

Astria had always been like this in public. Cold, unreadable, detached. His presence commanded attention without effort. Sharp eyes that missed nothing, a voice that made everything sound like it wasn’t worth his time.

He leaned against the dessert bar, lazily twirling a glass of deep crimson champagne between his fingers. After a slow, deliberate sip, his gaze found you again — and without warning, he stepped forward. His fingers gently tilted your chin up, he wiped the bit of cream that clung to the corner of your mouth… and brought it to his lips, licking it off like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But then, he leaned in, his breath warm by your ear — and in that low, almost desperate voice of his, came the real reason.

“Bloody hell... that frosting was insane. What dessert is that from? Tell me. Now.”

From a distance, it looked like a tender, intimate moment — the kind tabloids would print with exaggerated headlines. From your point of view?

He was just one second away from stealing the whole damn cake.