The hug ended, slowly. My mother—Kaelen's mother—pulled back, red-eyed but composed. She immediately started dabbing her eyes with a tissue that probably cost more than Eli's entire week's earnings. I stood there, feeling the ridiculous warmth radiating from my own chest, a warmth that had absolutely no business being there. It was terrifying, this random emotional access. I was supposed to be a machine, a strategist, not a sponge for other people's generational trauma.
But that's exactly why the tears came. Seeing her break down, seeing the raw, unscripted pain of a life lived badly, shattered the elegant, sterile façade of my own past. Her breakdown over a simple scar ripped the bandage off the gaping wound that was my childhood.
BACKSTORY..
I was Marcus Sterling, the golden boy. But the truth is, perfection wasn't my superpower; it was my prison.
The Sterling Executive Board
My parents weren't really parents. They were executives, CEOs in their own right, and they treated my life like a high-stakes, long-term merger. I wasn't a son; I was the primary asset of the Sterling Brand. Their love wasn't a given; it was a quarterly bonus, earned only when my metrics—GPA, athletic performance, social standing—were flawless.
My father was the silent partner in this arrangement. His absence was a louder statement than any drunken, shouting fit Kaelen's dad might have thrown. He was perpetually on a plane, perpetually in a meeting, perpetually "working for our future." I learned quickly that the most precious thing in the Sterling household wasn't the art or the stocks; it was my father's time. And his time was only for things that made money or secured prestige.It made me frustrated.
If I brought home a test score that wasn't a 98 or above, he wouldn't yell. He would just give this quiet, disappointed sigh—a sound that burrowed deep into my gut and stayed there. It was the sound of investment failure. You didn't get scolded; you got managed.
My mother was the executive in charge of "taking care" of me. Her 'love' was a rigorous curriculum. She didn't hug me; she scheduled my enrichment. She didn't praise effort; she demanded results. I was never allowed to be messy, loud, or, God forbid, average.
"Behave properly, Marcus. Mannerly. You are the only son of the Sterling family," was the constant, ringing mantra of my youth. Every movement, every word, every gesture was scrutinized. She taught me how to sit, how to walk, how to conduct a handshake—not for warmth, but for corporate dominance. She was teaching me how to be a flawless representative of the family fortune. The one who would carry their will.
The food policy was the cruelest. It wasn't about health; it was about image. She would constantly monitor my plate, snatching away my favorite, comforting junk foods with that cold, severe gaze. "It would make you fat, Marcus. A fatty child would not suit our family. We have to stay healthy and fit for our business."
The implication was clear: if I wasn't lean, disciplined, and perfect, I was a failure of the Sterling line. I would be unsuitable to inherit the empire. The pressure was immense, crushing, and it started before I even lost my first baby tooth. I was a child who was forced to be an adult from day one. I was never allowed a moment of genuine, carefree adolescence. Every decision was measured against the Sterling stock portfolio. It was all so damn calculated.
We lived in a perfectly manicured bubble. The irony of being trapped in Kaelen's lonely, opulent mansion wasn't lost on me now, because my old home was the same—just cleaner.
My strongest, most painful memories are framed by the window of the black town car. We were always being driven somewhere—to my private tutoring, to my accelerated sports training, to a mandatory networking event. And through that tinted glass, I would watch the normal families. The families whose names weren't brands.
I'd see a dad letting his son ride on his shoulders. I'd see a mom letting her kid eat a drippy, bright blue ice cream cone. I'd see them laughing, messy, real. They did things like go to the local amusement park or eat dinner at a noisy, cheap chain restaurant. Simple, tangible things that signaled unconditional acceptance.
That deep, raw ache in my gut wasn't jealousy over money—I had more money than them all. It was jealousy over the connection. I desperately wanted to trade my personalized, climate-controlled town car for a scraped knee and a shared laugh with a father who wasn't on the phone.
But there was no trading. There was no real world for Marcus Sterling. There was only the image of the real world, framed by glass. My childhood wasn't about love; it was about performance art. I was the star of my own perfect, lonely show.
The social isolation was the final push. I went to school, trying to connect with my classmates, eager to share a story or join their group. I didn't know how to talk about messy things, so I talked about what I knew—my accomplishments, my travel.
They hated it. They didn't see a kid looking for friends; they saw a threat.
"He's just gonna show off," they'd whisper, not quite loud enough for me to challenge, but loud enough for me to hear. "He's a rich guy. He probably thinks he's better than us. We don't want that kind of person in our friend group."
The rejection hurt more than my mother's disapproval. Her contempt was constant, but theirs was a conscious, collective decision to lock me out. The walls were already up at home, but when they went up at school, too, I was completely isolated.
I would go back to my massive, sterile room—the one with the ridiculous panoramic view of the city—and just cry. I'd cry into my expensive sheets, silently, because if I made too much noise, my mother would inevitably hear. And if she heard, I wouldn't get comfort; I'd get a stern lecture on "emotional control" and how "messy emotions are unacceptable for a Sterling."
That was the night I made the final, devastating choice. I wiped my face, looked out over the glittering city I owned, and decided: Fine. If I can't be loved, I will be respected. If they think I'm better than them, I'll become better than them.
I stopped trying to join them. I stopped crying. I started focusing 100% of my energy on achievement. The arrogance, the cold ambition, the contempt for mediocrity—it was all a shell. It was a weapon I forged from my own loneliness. I convinced myself that I had everything—money, intelligence, fame—and because I had everything, I didn't need anybody.
I used my luxurious life as proof. Who needs a father who is here when you have a private jet? Who needs a friend group when you're the star everyone envies? I built the perfect, unbreakable persona, and it worked. Until the universe decided to swap my perfect body for a doughy nobody, and then swap that for a hated bully.