Born into opulence, Elliot Hawke struggles to find his place in the world. As he grapples with the pressures of his family's legacy, he discovers Charlotte, a free-spirited person who inspires him to question everything. Join Elliot on his journey of self-discovery, love, and the courage to defy expectations.
Chapter 1 THE LIFE I DIDN'T CHOOSE
I never solicited this existence. The opulent suits, the sprawling estates, the extravagant soirées-none of it was originally mine. However, here I find myself, ensnared in the midst of it all. My name is Elliot Hawke and I'm the sole offspring of the illustrious Hawke lineage. You know the one: a multi-billion dollar empire, luxury automobiles, private jets-the full package. Everyone anticipates that I will assume control one day. Everyone assumes I desire it. But the reality is, I do not. Not in the least.
As I sit in the rear of my father's sleek black SUV, observing the cityscape unfold as we journey to yet another charity gala-another dazzling occasion intended to bolster the family's standing-the sun begins its descent, casting an orange glow across the horizon. Although I recognize the beauty of the view, I feel indifferent. I have no interest in the wealth. I care not for any of it. "Are you prepared, son?" My father's voice jolts me from my reverie. His deep baritone is smooth, yet there is an undercurrent in his tone that I recognize all too well-expectation. "Of course, Dad." I manage a grin, although it is as disingenuous as the individuals we are about to encounter.
My father does not wait for a reply; he is acutely aware that I am not truly "prepared." I have never been prepared for this: the speeches, the small talk, the seemingly endless handshakes with individuals I will likely forget. This is not my realm, however, it is the one into which I have been born and I am expected to navigate it. The car decelerates as we approach the venue-an exclusive five-star hotel hosting the gala. A dozen photographers are snapping pictures as we exit, the flashbulbs momentarily blinding me. I detest the cameras. I loathe the attention. Yet, my father-ever the politician-strides ahead, all smiles, waving to the cameras as if he were destined for this life. As we enter, the weight of their gazes is palpable. They are all anticipating something; they desire me to embody the heir, the flawless son who will uphold the Hawke legacy. They expect me to conform to their expectations. But I do not. I cannot. "Elliot," my mother calls out from across the room. She stands beside a group of women in designer gowns, engaging in animated conversation, but her gaze locks onto me the instant she spots me. She is beautiful and poised, the epitome of high society; this, however, can also be utterly exhausting.
"Approach, my dear," she states with that contrived smile that invariably seems to conceal something deeper. She articulates it as if she genuinely means it; however, I recognize that she is merely gauging my adherence to the expected script. I stride toward her, donning my most convincing "I'm the ideal son" expression. "Hello, Mother." She plants a kiss on my cheek before redirecting her attention back to her conversation, as if I'm nothing more than an accessory in this gathering. I have grown accustomed to this dynamic over time. After all, I do not possess the authority; I am merely the child they anticipate will inherit the mantle when the moment arises. I seize a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, attempting to assimilate into the atmosphere, but I cannot dispel the sensation that I am suffocating within these confines. The opulent decor and the individuals exchanging insincere pleasantries-it all feels so... vacuous. "Elliot." I catch Xander's voice before I actually spot him, his tone reminiscent of a serpent slithering through the throng. I pivot and discover my cousin standing there, embodying every aspect of a future corporate mogul. He is clad in a sharp, tailored suit that could likely fund a modest island. He offers me a subtle, knowing smile. "What's it like to be the heir to the throne?"
I suppress a groan. Xander has never been particularly discreet; he constantly nudges at the fact that I'm the one designated to inherit the family business. However, the issue lies in my disinterest. "I'm just here for the drinks, Xander," I respond, forcing a tight smile. He chuckles, his gaze wandering around the room before settling back on me. "I understand that sentiment. But you won't be able to evade this reality for long. You'll come to realize, eventually, it's your destiny." I roll my eyes and take a sip from my glass. "Destiny?" I mutter, almost inaudibly. That word feels like a burdensome weight pressing against my chest. I don't subscribe to the notion of destiny. Not for me, not for anyone else. He leans in slightly closer, lowering his voice just enough for me to catch his words. "You ought to contemplate what's at stake. This isn't merely about money, Elliot. This is about power and influence. You'll never encounter a more opportune moment than this. The company, the empire... it's all ripe for the taking. Yet, you must cease pretending that you're not intrigued."
I fix my gaze upon him, my heart racing within my chest. My blood simmers at the mere idea of being tethered to this. This existence filled with superficial encounters and empty assurances. It's not who I am. I cannot embody his role. I refuse to be the heir. I reject the notion of being ensnared in a gilded cage, striving to meet the expectations of others. "I don't want it," I murmur, my tone more assertive than I had planned. However, it is the truth. I cannot conceal it any longer. Xander's grin wavers, albeit briefly, before it returns to its previous state. He claps me on the back, perhaps too forcefully. "You'll come around. You always do." I observe him as he walks away, but his words persist in echoing within my thoughts: You'll come around.
It feels like a promise I can't escape.
As I survey the room, I observe a sea of unfamiliar faces (all adorned with smiles) that somehow render the atmosphere insincere. I could simply exit; I could effortlessly slip through the back door and vanish into the night. However, I choose not to. Not at this moment.
I need to figure out what I'm doing.
As if fate itself had been observing, my gaze finally rests upon her. She stands near the entrance, engaging with a group of students from the university I intend to attend. This girl is not like the others; she seems out of place here. Dressed simply in a navy dress, she lacks flashy jewelry or any designer label on display. However, there is something about her-something that compels me to approach and initiate a conversation. Her name is Charlotte Stone, or Charlie, as I will later discover. She embodies the type of person who doesn't conform to societal expectations. I can sense it in the way she carries herself: confident, independent and entirely oblivious to how her presence reverberates throughout the room. When she glances up, our eyes connect. For a fleeting moment, everything else dissipates-the gala, the chatter, the clinking of glasses-it all vanishes. And for the first time in what feels like an eternity, I experience a sense of vitality.
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