The Heir's Awakening

<p>New York City never truly sleeps. Not at 3 a.m. when the streets</p><p>glitter with gold from streetlights and neon flickers from some</p><p>24-hour bodega down below. But up here in my penthouse</p><p>perched like it owns the skyline the city's noise doesn't matter.</p><p>Tonight something else is stirring inside me-something older</p><p>than the concrete older than my carefully curated life.</p><p>I bolt upright in bed heart hammering. Moonlight spills across</p><p>the marble floor catching the edges of my gold-etched desk. My</p><p>parents' framed photo glares at me from the corner. Dad tall</p><p>composed storm in his eyes. Mom elegant sharp every smile</p><p>measured. And yet... it's like I'm staring at strangers. Faces I</p><p>know lives I don't.</p><p>Then I hear it-a whisper soft impossible to ignore. Juannika...</p><p>rise.</p><p>I press my palms against the sheets trying to convince myself</p><p>it's exhaustion maybe too many late nights in the boardroom.</p><p>But no. My chest tightens as if the words have roots in my bones.</p><p>You are the first-born. You are the heir.</p><p><br> </p>