The sleek black car slipped through the city's morning traffic like a shadow—silent, controlled, precise. Inside, sixteen-year-old Caelan Levine sat motionless, his posture straight, his gaze distant as the tinted windows filtered sunlight into silver streaks across his face.
He was handsome, almost disarmingly so. Soft, pale skin and delicately carved features made him look more like a painting than a real boy. His dark, tousled hair framed a sharp jawline, the messy strands falling just above deep-set eyes—dark, intense, unreadable. The kind of eyes that made people stare, yet hesitate to meet them for long.
On the outside, he was the picture of elegance and control. But on the inside, Caelan was exhausted.
The city outside teemed with life—honking cars, chattering crowds, flashing billboards—yet none of it reached him. He watched it all the way one might watch a movie: vivid, fast-paced, and entirely disconnected from his reality.
As the eldest son of the Levines—an empire-spanning family whose name appeared on banks, malls, hotels, and global holdings—Caelan's life was one of perfection. Or so everyone believed.
But behind the expensive clothes and prestigious name was a boy quietly unraveling.
He leaned his head against the window, eyes scanning a group of teenagers laughing as they crossed a street. Their faces were relaxed. Free. Alive.
Caelan's own reflection stared back at him in the glass, still and cold.
Is this all there is?
Day after day, he played the role: the model student, the perfect heir, the flawless son. Everyone admired him, even envied him—but none of them knew him. Not the real him. Not the boy who sometimes felt like a prisoner in a golden cage.
"Approaching the gate, young master," his driver said gently.
Caelan blinked. The towering archway of Sanford Academy came into view. Regal and pristine, it looked more like a historical monument than a school. Carvings of ancient scholars and philosophers lined the stone entrance, watching over the students with solemn expressions.
The car came to a smooth stop. The driver turned slightly. "We've arrived."
"Thank you, Bernard," Caelan murmured, stepping out.
His uniform was immaculate: a navy blazer with white trim, a crisp shirt, a striped tie, gray trousers. The gold emblem on his chest—a lion holding a key—marked him as one of Sanford's elite. It wasn't just a school; it was a symbol of legacy, where future world leaders, CEOs, and royalty mingled behind ivory towers and marble walls.
Around him, students gathered in tight-knit groups. Some laughed. Some glanced his way. A few whispered.
"Oh my God, that's him," a girl whispered.
"He's even more perfect in person," another breathed. "Top of our class, the heir to the Levine Group… is he even real?"
Caelan said nothing. His expression didn't change, but he heard every word. Felt every stare. He walked calmly toward the school, face composed, heart untouched.
The truth was: he hated being admired for things that didn't matter. His name. His face. His reputation. They weren't him—they were pieces of an image carefully built by his family, his school, the world around him.
And no one ever looked beyond it.
As he stepped into the elevator, a group of students rushed in behind him. Giggling. Nervous. Glancing his way, then quickly looking down.
The ride was silent.
Caelan stood still in the back corner, his hands in his pockets, eyes fixed ahead. He could feel the tension radiating off them—the awe, the curiosity, the envy. They didn't see Caelan, they saw Levine. A last name. A legacy. A brand.
When the doors opened on the third floor, he stepped out wordlessly.
The hallway was long and sunlit. Paintings of Sanford's founders lined the walls like ancestral ghosts, watching every step.
Caelan's mind wandered as he walked. He thought of all the expectations riding on his shoulders. His future already mapped out—university, then training, then leadership of the empire his father had built.
There was no room to ask what he wanted. He wasn't even sure anymore.
Just as he reached his classroom, a gentle voice stopped him.
"Good morning, Caelan."
He turned to see Eliza—a classmate with soft black hair and kind, expressive eyes. She offered a shy smile, her hands clutching her books tightly.
"Good morning, Eliza," he said politely.
Her cheeks flushed a deeper red at his attention. Her smile widened, even as she looked down quickly, unable to hold his gaze. She liked him. He could see it clearly.
She was sweet. Sincere. And Caelan liked that about her. But he knew he couldn't give her anything more than politeness. She deserved someone who could meet her gaze without the weight of the world behind his eyes.
He watched her walk into the classroom, shoulders slightly bouncing from happiness.
I can't afford to let anyone close, he thought. Not when I don't even know who I really am.
He slipped into the classroom, heading straight for his favorite seat by the window. From there, he could look out over the soccer field and the trimmed gardens beyond. A breeze stirred the tree branches. Clouds drifted slowly across a deep blue sky.
Freedom. That's what it looked like. That's what it felt like, for just a moment, when he gazed outside.
Then the door slammed open.
"Caelan, my man!"
Shawn and Jin—his closest friends—strode in like a storm. Shawn, broad-shouldered and grinning, clapped him on the back.
"You ready for another thrilling day of pretending to care?"
Jin, shorter, wilder, threw himself into the seat beside him. "You mean pretending to listen while planning our escape route for Friday's party."
Caelan smiled—genuinely, this time. With these two, he could almost forget who he was supposed to be.
They didn't care about the gold emblem on his chest or the power behind his last name. They just saw him. Even if he didn't let them all the way in, they were the closest thing to normal he had.
"Morning," Caelan said, his voice lighter.
Their conversation bounced from basketball scores to Jin's latest prank. For a few minutes, he laughed with them. But even then, the laughter didn't reach all the way down. There was always a layer of glass between him and the world.
As the lesson started, Caelan's gaze wandered to the board, then beyond it.
Perfect grades. Perfect manners. Perfect future. The words whispered in his mind like a curse.
He didn't need to hear the teacher drone about economics—he had already mastered the material. What he hadn't figured out was how to live a life that was truly his.
When the final bell rang, Caelan was the first out the door. As always, Bernard was waiting by the car, punctual and silent.
The drive home was quiet, the city slowly fading into wide streets and marble mansions. Birds replaced sirens. Lawns replaced noise. The air grew still.
The Levine estate emerged through the trees like a castle from a dream—symmetrical, immense, flawless. Bathed in golden sunlight, it seemed to glow. The gates opened without a sound, and the car glided forward along the circular drive.
But as breathtaking as the house was, it wasn't the size or the wealth that mattered most to Caelan. It was inside these walls that he found peace.
The marble foyer greeted him with chandeliers, gilded molding, and soft music playing faintly in the background. But what made him smile was the sound of laughter—two small voices echoing down the hall.
"Brother!" called Leyla, his younger sister. Her little feet pounded on the polished floor as she threw herself into his arms.
"You're getting too big for this," Caelan said with a chuckle, lifting her effortlessly.
"You say that every time!" she giggled.
Cain, his younger brother, followed with a shy but joyful smile. "Welcome home, Brother."
Caelan ruffled his hair gently. "Thanks, Cain."
Here—with them—he could just be himself. Not the heir. Not the icon. Just Caelan.
Their mother appeared from the kitchen, as graceful as always. She was like a still lake: calming, serene, gentle in all her movements.
"How was your day, dear?" she asked.
"It was… fine," Caelan said. And when he looked at her, his smile reached his eyes.
"Go change. Your father will be home soon. We'll have dinner together."
In his room, bathed in blue and gold, Caelan stood by the window once more. Below, flowers bloomed in perfect rows—his mother's work. She always said flowers reminded her that beauty had to be nurtured.
He touched the glass, watching the wind move the petals slightly. My life is perfect, he told himself. I have everything anyone could want.
But the words felt heavy.
A knock broke his thoughts.
"Young master," said a maid, "your father has arrived. Dinner will be served shortly."
"Thank you."
Caelan adjusted his collar and made his way down to the dining room.
His father was already seated—sharp-suited, commanding. In public, Dewan Levine was ruthless and feared. But at home, he was warmer, softer in expression.
"How's your studying going?" he asked.
"No problems, Father."
"You'll come to Friday's event with me. I want you to meet some of our partners."
"Yes, Father," Caelan replied without hesitation. He knew it wasn't a request.
"And don't forget the tea leaves when you visit your grandfather Saturday," Dewan added with a smile.
"I won't forget."
Approval flashed in his father's eyes. Caelan returned it with quiet resolve.
After dinner, the family gathered in the music room. His mother sat at the piano, her fingers gliding over the keys like flowing water. The melody was soft—gentle waves of comfort that eased the pressure on his chest.
Caelan closed his eyes, letting the music carry him somewhere quiet.
This is what matters, he thought. Not business partners. Not perfection. Not legacy.
Just this.
The warmth of his sister's hug. The calm of his mother's smile. The quiet support in his father's glance. The weight lifted, if only for a few moments.
The world could demand all it wanted. But here—here—he was simply Caelan.
And for now, that was enough.
But fate was already stirring beyond the world he knew—quietly, patiently—waiting for the moment when everything would change.
And soon, the life Caelan thought he understood would be swept away into something far beyond imagination.