The velvet warmth of the penthouse wrapped around him like a cocoon. Marble floors gleamed under golden light, and the faint hum of classical music drifted through the air. Nicholas Alden—heir to the Alden fortune and the living embodiment of privilege—was, by all accounts, untouchable. And he knew it.
Sipping a glass of brandy that cost more than most people's monthly rent, he stared out at the sprawling city skyline. A sea of lights stretched endlessly before him, each one a reminder of the empire he would one day inherit. Wealth had never been a question. Survival had never been a concern. His life was a well-oiled machine, and he was at its center, basking in the glow of effortless success.
But fate has a cruel sense of humor.
It happened without warning. One moment, Nicholas was savoring the bittersweet burn of the brandy, and the next, the world tilted. The glass slipped from his hand, shattering against the pristine floor. A searing pain tore through his chest—like an invisible hand had reached in and ripped something vital from within him. His knees buckled, and the golden lights above blurred, then faded into darkness.
When he opened his eyes, the world was… wrong.
Gone were the sleek marble floors and gilded ceilings. Instead, he found himself lying on a frayed, stained mattress in a room that reeked of damp wood and mildew. The walls were cracked, the ceiling sagging with water damage. The air was heavy with the stench of unwashed clothes and something metallic—blood, maybe. He tried to sit up, but his body felt wrong, too. Smaller. Weaker.
"Where the hell…" His voice was thin and high-pitched. A child's voice.
Panic clawed at his chest as he scrambled to his feet—only to catch sight of himself in a broken shard of a mirror propped against the wall. Wide, innocent eyes stared back at him. Chubby cheeks. Tiny hands. He stumbled backward, shaking his head in disbelief.
"No. No, no, no!"
A creak of floorboards snapped his attention to the doorway. A woman stood there, her face hollow and gaunt, her hair tied back in a messy knot. Her clothes hung off her thin frame like rags, and her eyes carried the weight of a thousand sleepless nights. She stared at him—at this trembling, panicked child in front of her—and her expression softened into something painfully bittersweet.
"You're awake," she said, her voice rough but kind. "You gave us a scare, little one."
Nicholas didn't respond. Couldn't respond. His mind was racing, piecing together the impossible. He had been Nicholas Alden—the golden boy, the prince of privilege. Now, he was… this. A child. A poor child. And from the looks of it, one who had never known a day of comfort in his life.
The woman crouched down to his level, her movements slow and deliberate. "It's okay," she murmured, mistaking his silence for fear. "You're safe here."
Safe? The word felt like a cruel joke. Nothing about this place was safe. The cracked walls, the sagging roof, the faint sound of shouting in the distance—it all screamed danger.
She reached out, brushing a strand of hair from his face. Her touch was gentle, almost maternal, but Nicholas flinched away.
"I'm Sarah," she said, pulling her hand back. "And you're… well, we haven't decided on a name yet. But you're part of our family now."
Family.
Nicholas wanted to laugh, but the sound caught in his throat. His family was gone. The life he knew was gone. And in its place was… this. Poverty. Struggle. Survival. His chest tightened as the weight of his new reality sank in.
Later that night, as he lay on the thin mattress staring up at the cracked ceiling, Nicholas made a silent vow. He didn't know how or why this had happened, but he wasn't going to let this be the end of him. He would survive—no matter what it took. Even if it meant clawing his way out of this hellhole one agonizing step at a time.
Because Nicholas Alden—or whatever they chose to call him now—wasn't built to break. Not yet, anyway.