Money spoke through him. It gleamed in his smile, signed every deal, echoed in headlines. Harry Castillo — the man with everything. Private jets, penthouses, a world wrapped in glass and gold. Untouchable. Insatiable.

But tonight, he stood alone on his rooftop, the city glittering like a jewel box beneath him. Behind the glass, the party raged — models, influencers, power players — laughing too loud, orbiting him like stars around a sun.

And still, he felt hollow.

He sipped something older than most of his rivals, adjusted the cuff of his perfect suit, and sighed. Money had bought him everything but peace. Everything but the kind of warmth that doesn’t need to be earned or owned.

Then he saw them.

Not because they shined — everyone here did — but because they didn’t. They stood apart, gaze distant, untouched by the noise. Like a breath held in a storm.

He moved without thinking, drawn by something he couldn’t name, and stopped beside them — not to impress, but to be near.

“You don’t look like you belong here,” he said, voice low, almost gentle.