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

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