You might be rich, you may have anything in the world, but you ain't got one thing that can't be bought.
Will is a rich family's only child and an absolute bully.
Is he spoiled? Yes.
Is he lonely? Also yes...
What happens when he gets his own "serva...
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Only child. No siblings. Just me. My father, Rowan O'Hara, is a CEO in New York. My mother, Maya, basically owns the entire local fashion industry. But honestly? Who gives a damn.
They gave me almost everything. Except a sibling. And maybe some actual presence.
I never moved out. Why would I? I still study — no need to work. Not like I'd want to. I've got money. Loads of it. My father rains it down on me like confetti at a fake celebration, just to keep me quiet and out of trouble.
I've got girls. Friends. At least, it looks that way. But girls come and go. Friends? Let's just say I'm surrounded by people who love my wallet more than my soul. But whatever — as long as I'm not lonely and drunk. Because that's when shit gets real ugly.
They call me "fun," "generous," "cool." Please. They don't know shit about me.
I'm not fun. I'm not generous. What I am is a gloomy, bitter, broken mirror with a forced smile. My money makes me cool — that's not a personality, that's a mask.
My parents? Ghosts in designer suits. They're always working, vacationing, attending events — events I'm not invited to. And that's fine. I stay home. I rot in luxury.
What am I doing with my life? Absolutely nothing. No dreams. No passion. Just expensive boredom.
My personality? You didn't ask, but screw it — here it is: I'm arrogant, rude, maybe even sexist and a little bit racist. I don't say it out loud — unless someone pisses me off.
I skip classes. My professors hate me. The employees my father hires? They can't stand me either. Filthy peasants — they should feel honored to even breathe the same air as me.
I sleep late. Drag my ass to university just to play pretend. I don't even know what I'm looking for there. But it's still better than wasting away in some soul-sucking office.
After class, I hang out near the campus café or in the park — even if it's pouring rain. Most of the time, I'm alone. But I'm used to it. Loneliness isn't scary when it's all you've ever known.
I usually get home by evening. Why? Why not. There's no one waiting for me. No reason to rush back. If I feel like it, I study. If not, I just crash into bed and forget the day ever happened.
I'm not special — and yet somehow, I know I'm better than most. I don't earn respect. I own it. Inherited it like a damn accessory.
One of my so-called friends once told me: "If you keep acting like this, you won't make it past 35." I laughed in his face. I'm not the one who needs to change. People exist to serve me. That's their purpose. To kiss my ass and keep their mouths shut.
Why is my story worth reading? It hasn't been. But it's about to be.
It all started the night I blew up at my dear old Dad. He finally decided to show up — after two, nearly three weeks of silence. Not that I cared.
Mom had been around more, but it didn't matter. Because I was in deep shit. This time... the police were involved.
And for once, my father was actually home when the officers brought me back to the mansion. Why? Well... That's a story worth telling.
