The summer sun seemed to cling to the horizon as if it refused to leave. It was almost six in the evening when its last golden rays bathed the tree-lined streets of Riverside Hills, dyeing the facades of the mansions and the pavement of the exclusive development an orange-red.
Adrian Foster, fresh from a quick shower after his live stream, stopped in front of his dressing room's full-length mirror. He ran his hand through his still-damp hair and smiled cheekily.
"Handsome," he muttered to himself, with a tone of narcissism that didn't seem exaggerated.
He had every reason to say so. His well-defined features and the athletic build he'd built through years of exercise made his reflection look more like a magazine model than a gamer who spent hours in front of a monitor. He wore tailored sportswear: a tight T-shirt and shorts that highlighted his muscles and showed off his defined abs.
As the sun set, life in Riverside Hills began to stir. In contrast to the midday silence, the neighbors—businessmen, actors, and financial magnates—took advantage of the evening to stroll with their pedigree dogs or chat in the immaculate gardens.
Adrián, however, preferred something different: running alone. It was almost a ritual.
"Mr. Foster's out for another jog," a security guard commented as he watched him pass, with a knowing smile.
Adrián raised his hand in greeting, without slowing down. Most of the neighborhood's residents had impossible schedules, waiting drivers, or business dinners. He, on the other hand, enjoyed the freedom that few envied and that everyone, deep down, desired.
The guards looked at him with a certain admiration. It was hard to believe that this twenty-three-year-old owned a multimillion-dollar mansion in Riverside Hills.
"Born in Rome, kid," one of the guards said to the wide-eyed rookie. "Some people are born with everything, others have to earn it."
Adrian didn't hear the comment because he had already put on his headphones and let the electronic music set the rhythm of his steps. His destination wasn't the community's private gym or the exclusive club's athletics track. No. He was running to the riverbank.Hudson River.
The riverside promenade was packed with tourists and locals. Couples were taking sunset selfies, influencers were recording TikTok videos, families were strolling with ice cream in hand, and athletes were jogging in groups. Adrián, in contrast, was walking alone, standing out from the crowd not only for his physique but also for the carefree energy he emanated.
She felt the cool breeze from the river ruffle her hair and the humid air cling to her skin. For a moment, she felt exactly how she wanted to: young, strong, and free.
Running had become his way of escaping his routine. He could spend hours in front of his computer, streaming on Twitch and playing games, but here, among strangers, he breathed in the city's vitality. There was something about the hustle and bustle of New York that reminded him that, even though he had more money than he could spend, he was still a twenty-three-year-old kid.
After nearly an hour of jogging, he finished with his shirt soaked and his body burning from the exertion. He decided to reward himself with something cold.
He entered a7-Elevennearby and stared at the ice cream cooler.
"Let's see… Ben & Jerry's, Häagen-Dazs…" he muttered as he opened the freezer door.
He had a double chocolate Häagen-Dazs and, on a whim, an almond Magnum. He didn't give it much thought; he could indulge himself without flinching. Still, as he swiped his card, he couldn't help but comment under his breath:
—Thirty dollars for ice cream… what a steal.
He walked out of the store with the two ice cream bars in hand, laughing to himself. "I'm rich, so what? If I want to eat expensive ice cream every day, I'll do it."
As he walked down the brightly lit avenue, savoring his ice cream and watching the stopped-at-hell rush-hour traffic, he felt content. The luxury cars stuck on Fifth Avenue seemed like a perfect metaphor: people who worked their tails off to have what he had effortlessly… and yet they were still trapped.
Minutes later, he arrived at the lobby of aluxury restaurant in ManhattanIt wasn't unusual to see him come in like this, in workout clothes, sweaty, and with a relaxed expression, while the other customers were wearing designer suits and evening gowns.
A waitress rushed over to greet him. Her eyes lit up as she recognized him.
—Good evening, Mr. Foster. Your table by the window is ready.
Adrian nodded with a light smile and took a seat.
He ordered an American-style stew accompanied by an ice-cold Coca-Cola. The waitress insisted on serving him personally, too eager to please him, but he politely dismissed her.
He thought, amused, as he watched her reluctantly retreat:
"You're looking at me like you're about to fall in love. No, darling. My pretty face and bank account aren't for you. I'm reserving that card for someone special."
The stew arrived steaming hot. Adrian took the Coke, took a long, icy gulp, and sighed with pleasure. Eating something so heavy in the middle of summer seemed like madness, but with the air conditioning and the spicy taste in his mouth, it felt like a small ritual of hedonism.
He didn't care about the looks from the other customers. They looked at him strangely for eating alone, in sportswear, and with a satisfied smile on his face. He knew what they didn't: true wealth is being able to live exactly the way you want, without explanations.
He finished his meal calmly and leaned back in his chair, looking out the window at the Manhattan skyline at night.
"Tomorrow will be another good day," he muttered to himself.