Alan Vale had grown up in the kind of world most people only saw in glossy magazines and stock photos of the American dream. New York City was his kingdom—its noise, its lights, its pulse. But for Alan, the chaos had always been wrapped in velvet. He was the son of Martin Vale, a steel magnate who’d turned his father’s small construction business into a multi-billion-dollar empire, and the youngest of three brothers who had all been bred for business, politics, and legacy.
Alan, however, was the anomaly.
While his older brothers attended Ivy League schools, interned in Washington, and made headlines with their “strategic marriages,” Alan lived softer, sharper, and infinitely more reckless. He had no desire to prove himself, not in the way his father had outlined in stern lectures and carefully crafted expectations. He liked pleasure, he liked beauty, and he liked to consume life as if every day was both his last and his first.
On paper, Alan Vale was twenty-six years old, a Columbia graduate, heir to a fortune most men couldn’t even imagine, and a board member in three of his father’s companies. In reality, he was a beautiful disaster—sharp cheekbones, perpetually tousled dark hair, a smirk that always looked like it was hiding something wicked, and eyes so blue they made strangers turn in the street.
That morning, he sat in the back of his father’s town car, expensive sunglasses perched on his nose, while traffic crawled down Fifth Avenue. He wasn’t going to a meeting. He never went to meetings unless he was forced to. He was heading instead to a late brunch with friends, the kind of people who floated in the same rarefied social circle: artists who lived off trust funds, heirs who’d never worked a day in their lives, women who looked like supermodels and men who wanted to own the world.
He scrolled through his phone idly, ignoring the message from his father’s assistant reminding him about a quarterly board call later that afternoon. Instead, he opened Instagram, liking a few photos of people he didn’t care about, before leaning back against the seat and sighing.
“Another day, another performance,” he muttered to himself.
Alan liked his life, or at least he told himself he did. He liked the penthouse apartment on Central Park West, where the windows overlooked the skyline like a stage backdrop. He liked the cars—sleek, custom machines imported from Europe, polished so clean they reflected the city lights at night like stars. He liked the clubs, the champagne towers, the endless laughter that always carried an undercurrent of boredom.
But beneath the indulgence, there was a restlessness, a gnawing edge to his existence that even he couldn’t explain. He wanted more, though he couldn’t have said what “more” even meant.
His father, of course, despised this version of Alan.
Martin Vale was a man of stone, his hair gone silver but his voice as sharp as it had ever been. For Martin, life was about building, conquering, and controlling. He didn’t understand indulgence. He didn’t understand why his youngest son refused to wield his privilege like a weapon.
“You’ll waste it all,” Martin had snapped over dinner two weeks ago, his voice carrying across the long dining table like a gunshot. “Every opportunity I’ve given you, you treat like it’s optional. Do you know what men would do for your position?”
Alan had only smirked, swirling his wine glass lazily. “Maybe they’d do something more exciting with it.”
His brothers had laughed nervously, the sound brittle. His mother had sighed, caught between loyalty to her husband and her affection for her wildest child.
Martin had leaned forward, his eyes like steel. “One day, Alan, the world won’t forgive you for being frivolous. And when that day comes, don’t expect me to save you.”
Alan had smiled then—an expression that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Then maybe I’ll save myself.”
That was Alan in a sentence: beautiful, charming, reckless, and utterly unprepared for the weight of reality.
At brunch, he played his usual part. He lounged in his seat, charming the table with stories that may or may not have been true, making women laugh and men roll their eyes, ordering another round of mimosas long after everyone else had stopped drinking. His friends adored him because he was effortless. He made the world look like it bent around him without him ever having to try.
But when the brunch wound down and the table emptied, Alan felt that same old restlessness stirring again.
He didn’t want to go home.
He didn’t want to sit through another conference call where men in suits debated numbers he didn’t care about.
He wanted to feel something. Something real.
That evening, he found himself at one of the city’s private lounges, the kind tucked behind unmarked doors and guarded by men who recognized faces, not names. Alan belonged to every circle that mattered, and if he wanted in, no one dared say no.
The lounge was dim, filled with low music and the hum of quiet conversation. It wasn’t a nightclub—this was quieter, more intimate, designed for whispers and secrets. Alan liked it because it felt different. It wasn’t about spectacle; it was about power.
He leaned against the bar, nursing a glass of whiskey, and watched the room the way a predator might watch a herd. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but he also wasn’t content to leave alone. He liked flirting. He liked being wanted. He liked knowing he could walk into any room and leave with whoever caught his eye.
A man approached him—tall, handsome, the kind of jawline that could cut glass. They exchanged words, casual at first, then more suggestive. Alan flirted easily, smiling with that lazy confidence that had undone men and women alike. But as the conversation went on, Alan found himself growing distracted.
Something—someone—had caught his attention across the room.
A presence, more than a person. Dark, magnetic, impossible to ignore. He couldn’t quite see the face from where he stood, but the effect was immediate, visceral. For a brief moment, Alan forgot how to breathe.
And then, just as quickly, he shook himself free.
He didn’t chase shadows.
He returned his attention to the man in front of him, finished his drink, and eventually left the lounge with someone else.
But the image lingered in his mind, like smoke curling at the edge of his memory.
That night, lying in his bed with the city glittering outside his window, Alan Vale thought about the presence he’d felt across the room. He didn’t know who it had been. He didn’t know what it meant. But he knew, instinctively, that his life—this endless carousel of indulgence and beauty—was on the edge of something.
Something dangerous.
And though he didn’t realize it yet, he had already stepped onto the path that would lead him far from champagne brunches and expensive cars. He had already begun to walk toward someone who would change everything.
Alan Vale thought he was untouchable.
But he had no idea what he was getting himself into.
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