Charles Weston had everything a man could want — a legacy carved from steel and glass, a business empire with his name on every boardroom wall, and a house so vast it swallowed silence like a hungry beast.
But none of it filled the space he never talked about.
It was the space where a real father should've been.
Arthur Weston, twenty-two, had everything but a reason to slow down.
He'd been raised by his father alone. The kind of parent who provided luxury, not presence. Charles had buried himself in work since the day Arthur could remember, and Arthur had learned early how to live around silence — and how to stop expecting anyone to stay.
His mother left when he was still too young to remember her clearly. Just flashes — the faint scent of perfume, a soft humming voice in the kitchen. But over the years, those memories blurred, and all that remained was the ache. The kind of ache that stayed quiet until he hit his teens — when everyone else talked about their moms, and he had no name to say.
It hit him harder than he expected.
Not having a mother hadn't just left a gap — it left confusion. He didn't know what softness felt like. What affection without expectation meant. He had women in his life, sure — flings, distractions, wild nights — but none of them filled that void. And he wasn't even sure he wanted them to.
Because deep down, the absence of his mother taught him one brutal truth: no one really stays.
So he didn't give anyone the chance.
The rooftop was glowing in purple and gold lights. Music pulsed through the walls of the penthouse like it had a heartbeat of its own. Smoke curled from his lips as he leaned back into the velvet couch, a half-empty glass of something expensive dangling from his fingers. A girl he barely remembered the name of — maybe Tasha? Tanya? — was pressed against him, her lips trailing down his neck as he laughed lazily, eyes glassy.
He didn't push her away.
Tonight was no different. Liquor, music, skin, and rhythm. The same story on repeat.That's how Arthur stayed numb.
He liked the burn of whiskey, the quick thrill of losing control, and the temporary escape that came with bodies that didn't ask questions. He kissed like he didn't care — because he didn't. He touched like he owned the night — because for a few hours, he did.
And somewhere between the music and the smoke, his phone lit up."Dinner with Charles tomorrow. Be home."He didn't reply.
He just threw his head back and laughed, pulling Tanya closer, letting her lips crash into his like the night never had to end.
Meanwhile, across the city, Rosie Morris stood in the middle of her bedroom, staring at her half-packed suitcase like it might bite her.
Everything in the apartment was quiet. The kind of quiet that hummed too loudly. Her mother had fallen asleep on the couch, exhaustion painted under her eyes. And Rosie… she just stood there, stuck between resentment and sadness.
She didn't want to move into a mansion. She didn't want to pretend this was some fairytale.
She especially didn't want to live across the hall from him.
Arthur Weston had always seemed untouchable — wild, reckless, dripping in trouble. He was the kind of guy girls whispered about, the kind that didn't even know you existed unless you were sitting on his lap.
Rosie didn't have friends. Not real ones.She smiled when she had to, answered when spoken to, and disappeared in crowds before anyone got close.
Her world was quiet — and safe.
She wasn't shy. She just didn't trust anyone with the soft parts of herself. Her thoughts. Her fears. Her curiosity — the kind she buried in books and late-night fantasies she was too embarrassed to admit.
That night, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, her fingers curled in the blanket, wondering what her new room would look like.
She didn't know that it would be across from his.She didn't know that his door would always be slightly open.And she definitely didn't know that her life was about to twist into something she couldn't undo.
Not yet.