Days passed. Maybe weeks.
At first, Elias kept waiting to wake up, half-expecting it all to vanish–the penthouse, the money, the power. But it didn't.
It stayed.
And he adapted. Fast.
He stepped into the role like he was born for it. Designer suits, private jets, expensive scotch. A financial advisor handled his assets, a personal chef prepared his meals, and a driver addressed him as sir.
He wasn't just rich. He was someone.
And he wasted no time using it.
—
"Mr. Elias!" The bartender grinned, already pouring another drink. "On the house."
Elias chuckled, clinking glasses with a model whose name he hadn't bothered to ask.
"See that?" He smirked. "People give me free drinks now."
The model giggled, sliding closer. "Maybe I should stay by your side all night."
"Maybe," he murmured, taking a slow sip of whiskey.
The club pulsed around him—loud music, flashing lights, a sea of celebrities, influencers, and billionaires. This was his world now.
A man he barely knew clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Elias, my guy! You coming to Monaco next weekend?"
He raised an eyebrow. "What's in Monaco?"
"P1, of course. Private yacht parties. Champagne showers. The usual."
He hesitated.
A few months ago, Monaco had been nothing more than a place on a map. Now, it was a playground for men like him.
"Sounds fun," Elias said.
"Fun?" The man scoffed. "It's essential."
The model beside him ran a hand down his chest, her fingers teasing.
Maybe it was essential.
"Alright," he said, smirking. "Count me in."
* * * *
The weeks blurred together–mornings on yachts, afternoons in high-rise meetings, nights in penthouses filled with strangers. He spent weekends attending parties in Monaco, drifting through a life that others could only dream of.
Everything was perfect.
Or it should have been.
But something was off.
It started small.
Little things.
Like how sometimes, he'd look in the mirror and feel… disconnected. Like the man staring back at him wasn't really him.
Or how his past felt hazy.
He tried to remember his old apartment. The peeling wallpaper. The smell of burnt coffee. The cold.
But it was fuzzy.
Like the more he lived this life, the more his old one faded.
—
At a friend's party, Elias sat in the VIP lounge, absently scrolling through his phone. His contacts were filled with names he didn't recognize. Investors. Socialites. Models. Actors.
But no one from before.
Before.
He frowned.
What was before?
Rubbing his temples, he tried to shake off the unease.
Did it matter?
He had everything now.
****
"Elias, where's your head at?" The party host's voice cut through his thoughts.
He blinked. Laughter, drinks, the haze of cigars–he was surrounded by people, yet suddenly, he felt miles away.
A man with slicked-back hair grinned at him. "You look lost, brother."
Elias forced a chuckle. "Just thinking."
"About what?"
He hesitated.
He didn't know.
That feeling was back. The emptiness.
He downed his drink. "Nothing important."
The model from a few weeks ago—Tiana, he later learned—curled up beside him. "Relax, baby. You're the luckiest man in the world."
Lucky.
Then why did he feel like something was missing?
The laughter around him felt distant, the music a dull thud in the back of his mind. He had everything–money, women, power–everything anyone could ever want.
So why did it feel like none of it was real?
As if this wasn't his life.
As if he was wearing someone else's skin.
He exhaled slowly, forcing the thought away.
Maybe he was just overthinking.
Or maybe–
No.
He grabbed another drink, ignoring the gnawing doubt.
Tiana leaned in, whispering something flirtatious. She wanted to spend time alone with him in one of the rooms.
The men around him laughed, hailing him as he stood, leading her away. She was a fucking goddess. Lucky didn't even cover it. They all envied him.
He followed Tiana deeper into the house, until they were in a dimly lit room. The door clicked shut behind them.
She took him out of his clothes and hers. She was pure perfection. Long legs, a slender waist, a perky ass.
He was like a man possessed. He fucked her like a fucking animal. Hard. Rough. Without stopping. He used all that uneasiness and anger to fuck her. To fuck her hard. She screamed so loud, he almost came right there, but he held it in.
After fucking her in every hole, in every position, she was done. She lay there on the bed panting, smiling, completely exhausted.
He put his clothes back on and walked over to his wallet that fell on the floor when he had taken off his pants. He took out a few hundreds and dropped it on the table beside her.
Her eyes lit up with the cash, but she was smiling at him.
"We should do this again," she said.
He looked back at her biting her lips and smiled as he walked out.
But the emptiness was there.
Later that night, Elias stumbled into his penthouse, drunk and buzzing.
He kicked off his shoes, loosened his tie, and collapsed onto the couch.
Silence.
For the first time in weeks, there was silence.
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair.
Something wasn't right.
He had everything. Money. Power. Everything.
So why did it feel like he had nothing?
His gaze swept over the penthouse–gleaming chandeliers, marble floors, gold accents.
But no life.
No warmth.
Just… space.
He rubbed his face. "Get a grip, Elias."
Then, his eyes landed on the black book.
It sat on the glass table, exactly where he had left it.
His pulse quickened.
He had everything he asked for.
But maybe…
Maybe he needed something more.
Someone.
He grabbed the book, flipping it open. His heart pounded.
Slowly, he picked up the pen.
His hands trembled as he wrote:
"She is everything I've ever wanted. My perfect woman. And she is real, and her name shall be Seraphine."
He hesitated.
No. Not enough.
He pressed the pen back to the page.
"She has long, flowing hair, dark as midnight, with waves that sweep down her back. Her eyes, deep and charming, hold a storm within them–sharp, smart, and intelligent. She carries a presence that turns heads, an aura that blows minds. A body carved by the gods, graceful, sensual, effortless in its allure. She is elegant and fiery, soft yet untouchable. She does not beg for attention; she commands it. She is both temptation and destruction–the woman no man forgets."
His breath hitched.
Something inside him burned.
He swallowed hard and kept writing.
"She is fearless, unshaken by the world. She walks with power, with purpose. She does not bow to anyone. Her mind is a labyrinth, sharp, cunning, impossible to outplay. She is confident but not cruel, untouchable but not heartless. She knows what she wants and takes it. But beneath the steel, there is warmth–a rare softness only a chosen few will ever see. And I am one of them."
The ink glowed.
The book vibrated.
His hands shook.
He barely had time to take a breath before–
From the shadows of his room…
He heard soft, approaching footsteps.
Was he still drunk?
Because it felt like he was hearing things.