Wind's POV
The marble floors gleamed, but all I felt was the cold weight of it. Gold-plated doors, crystal chandeliers, diamond-studded walls… a kingdom built to impress, to intimidate. And yet, in the middle of it all, I was trapped.
I'm Wind Axie Weaso, heir to more wealth than most could imagine. Quintillions, endless properties, fleets of cars, yachts that could host a small country—sounds like paradise, right? Ha. Paradise comes with chains.
My parents—glorious, brilliant, infuriating monsters—had been shaping me into their perfect heir since before I could even think for myself. Every mistake I made was a headline in our mansion, a lecture in the dining hall, a punishment in my own bedroom.
"Wind," my father's voice boomed through the halls even when he wasn't there, "that is unacceptable. You will perform better. You will uphold the family name. You will!"
And I would. Because if I didn't, the consequences were… exquisite. My mother had a way of making me feel small while smiling like a queen. Every compliment was a trap, every hug a threat. Love and cruelty were indistinguishable in their world.
I remembered my last birthday. The entire city could have been invited, fireworks, parades, a life any teenager would dream of. And yet, I sat alone in the top floor suite, dressed in a tailored suit I didn't choose, eating a cake that was flawless… and tasting like ash. Because the message was clear: nothing I do will ever be enough.
I ran my hand over the balcony railing, overlooking the city that sprawled like an endless playground. "Everything I have…" I muttered to no one, "…and yet I'm nothing."
Every decision, every move, every breath I took had to be calculated. Smile here, nod there, laugh at the right jokes, pretend I enjoyed dinners I loathed, pretend my soul wasn't screaming for freedom.
Sometimes, late at night, I would wander the halls, staring at the art my parents had collected—paintings, sculptures, statues—all symbols of power, dominance, perfection. I'd touch them lightly, wondering if anyone had ever created something just to feel, instead of to impress.
I remembered the punishments, too. Locked out of my own quarters for hours. Denied meals until I recited family history perfectly. Gifts withheld for failing expectations. Every day was a calculation, every smile a performance, every misstep magnified.
I clenched my fists. Quintillionaire? Yes. Rich beyond imagination? Absolutely. Free? Never.
And yet… a small, impossible thought crept in. Sky. The chaotic frog-voiced disaster. The one person who reminded me that life could be messy, imperfect, funny. That maybe… maybe there was a world beyond marble floors and cold eyes.
I exhaled sharply, pacing the floor. My life was a gilded cage, a golden prison built by people who loved me in the most controlling, suffocating way possible. And yet, that flicker of rebellion—of wanting someone else's chaos—made my chest ache.
I touched my wrist, feeling the expensive watch that counted my life in perfection. I hated it. I hated everything it represented. And maybe, just maybe, I hated that I longed for someone like her to come and ruin everything.
Because in a world of wealth, power, and endless expectations, sometimes the only real treasure was… chaos.
Perfect!
I walked down the grand staircase, the crystal chandelier above me glittering like a thousand icy eyes judging my every move. The marble beneath my shoes was colder than my soul felt at breakfast—yet another reminder that wealth could buy everything except freedom.
"Living room," I muttered, dragging my hand along the velvet railing. Author, yes, I know, it's opulent. Diamonds in the wallpaper. Gold-plated everything. Bravo. But can you make it stop hurting my brain? Hungry… maybe I could eat a chandelier… no, too crunchy.
The room itself could host three banquets and a royal ball, but here I was, alone, wishing I could teleport to somewhere messy, chaotic… Sky. Her frog-like morning croaks, the way she tripped over everything, how she probably called someone a black-magic-obsessed b*tch before breakfast… She was freedom incarnate.
I strode past the sofas, all embroidered with family crests, perfectly aligned like soldiers ready for inspection. I sighed. Even the pillows were judging me.
"Dining hall," I announced to no one. The table could seat fifty, and yet every meal felt like an interrogation. My parents' portraits hung like tyrants, staring, demanding perfection. I remembered last week's dinner: spilled water on the fine china. Punishment? Two hours of lecture on family honor and table etiquette. Lesson learned? Yes. Joy gained? Zero.
I continued through the kitchen, enormous enough to feed a small army, staff bustling silently around me. Everything polished, perfect, precise… boring. My stomach rumbled. Hungry… maybe I could eat a rolling pin. Or a loaf of gold-encrusted bread. No, too heavy.
Then, the bedrooms. My suite. King-sized bed, silk sheets, windows with gold tassels—but I hadn't slept well in weeks. Every sound, every creak, every shadow reminded me of parental scrutiny. Freedom? Nonexistent.
I paced into the library, books stacked floor to ceiling. Do they teach knowledge? No, they teach control. Every book meticulously cataloged by importance and usefulness. I wanted to throw one across the room. Sky would have already toppled half the shelf, laughing, probably sticky from chocolate or some unidentifiable snack. She'd make this place alive.
I stopped at the balcony. City lights sprawled below, glittering like coins but feeling hollow. I rested my hands on the railing, thinking about her chaotic energy, how she wouldn't care about the floor-to-ceiling glass or the gold-plated locks. How she'd trip over a rug, curse, and still somehow make me laugh.
My own laugh stuck in my throat. Dangerous. Forbidden. Unallowed. And yet… the thought of her sneaking through these halls, throwing something random, challenging the silence… it made my chest feel… weird. Something warm. Something I wasn't allowed to admit.
I shook my head. No. This is wrong. She's chaos. I'm… Wind Axie Weaso. I control everything. I can't like chaos. Chaos breaks everything.
And yet, I couldn't stop imagining her here. In the grand dining hall, stepping on the silk rug, spilling some invisible drink, cursing loudly, glaring at me with that "I don't care" look.
A small, impossible thought crept in again: maybe, just maybe, a little chaos wouldn't be so bad.