The music, money and melancholy.
It starts at the ending and ends with another.
A very different novel about the lives of the rich. The sacrifices and the hardships. The sinful endeavours of two of the most renowned musical artists.
( It takes place...
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Song for the chapter: i'll die anyway. ~ By: girl in red
I think back to when, Life was good, I was content. But it's been so many years, I can't remember how it feels. I reach for me, but I'm not there. It's so lonely but who cares, It's fine, it's okay. I'll die anyway.
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It was a typical rich people's party.
Red carpet and glamour. Booze and liquor. Pretentious ladies and not-so-gentlemen.
By the rich, for the rich, about the rich.
That's all the Annual International Music Celebration had to offer, held every year at the New Year. Indeed, a musical elite festival like no other.
Everyone renowned in the music industry was invited. Old artists who laid the foundation. Middle aged who made a lasting positive impact on the current population. And young adults who were either good at music or good at acting to be good at music.
It was literally every famous artist. From producers to songwriters. And from singers to rappers.
And this time, the celebration was hosted by the man that was in his late twenties. A man true to his profession, owning one of the largest Production House on Earth.
The one that was the most reputed, most loved. And he was the Founder and CEO of it.
Moving down the stairs of his own palace-like possession that he termed his 'weekend home', the man earned a smile by all that were present.
More were to come.
Reminding himself to greet all the guests, he wanted to get started with the mundane work early in the evening.
The young man looking dapper in black, stopping abruptly mid-stair. Taking in his planning of months that was now put to show.
The once creme white walls of his house were now shining champagne because of the large and majestic chandelier that hung at the high ceiling.
The window panes that opened up to a big backyard garden were now looking like a view to heaven. The dim white lights on the green grass, the reason for its aesthetic.
The floor that shone just as equally as the ceiling. The heels that made a bewitchingly satisfying noise and the glasses that clinked, here and there. It was not his ideal way to spend the New Year.
Heck, it was a waste of time and money.
Because then there were people. The people that were so perfect, it hurt. It hurt to know the reality behind it, it hurt to be reminded of the dark side of being rich. Most of the population thought we had it easy. But it wasn't, really. It was hard for him to pretend.
