The Rise
Success should feel good.
But all I feel is nothing.
By twenty-five, I had it all.
The penthouse. The power. The profile.
Max Carter—Forbes’ 25 Under 25. The golden boy of Wall Street.
A prodigy. A king in a suit.
A CEO before I could legally rent a car.
People loved to say my name.
In meetings, in magazines, in places that once slammed the door in my face.
I’d walk into boardrooms and watch grown men—men who’d built empires—sit straighter, like the weight of my presence made the air heavier.
They said I was brilliant. Ruthless. The next big thing.
What they didn’t know?
I failed Algebra twice in high school.
My father pulled strings just to get me into Columbia.
And every “win” I racked up came with a footnote stamped in his name.
They didn’t know that sometimes I’d wake up in my million-dollar bed, sunlight pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows, and feel like I was watching someone else’s life.
I was successful.
I was rich.
I was empty.
The Rot Beneath the Gold
I had money—more than I could ever spend.
Accounts so fat they could suffocate someone. I had a driver, a chef, a personal assistant who filtered out the noise before it ever reached me.
I had three cars I never drove.
A watch collection worth more than most people’s homes.
Custom suits from Milan, tailored to perfection, because image is everything.
And women.
God, I had women.
They were beautiful. Bored. Addicted to the idea of me.
They came in waves—models, socialites, bored heiresses who wore Chanel like it was a second skin and kissed me like I was a drug. They loved the power, the lifestyle, the access. Not me.
But that was fine.
I didn’t need love. I needed distraction.
I hosted parties so wild even the tabloids stopped caring. I popped pills to sleep, then more to stay awake. I drank to soften the edge of success, because sharp things always bleed eventually.
I laughed when I felt nothing.
Smiled when I wanted to scream.
Because in this world? Vulnerability gets you eaten alive.
People thought I had everything.
But I knew the truth.
All I had were ghosts.
Ghosts of who I could’ve been. Ghosts of what I used to want.
Ghosts that followed me from room to room, whispering in the dark when I thought I was alone.
The One Thing Missing
I saw her once.
Months ago.
It was in the firm’s hallway. She was standing off to the side, trying to disappear into the crowd, eyes down, shoulders tight like she was bracing for impact.
But I saw her.
I always saw her.
Emilia Grace.
The intern. The girl with sharp eyes and tired hands. The one I never could figure out, and maybe that’s why I fixated on her in the first place.
She wasn’t like the others. She didn’t fake-laugh at my jokes. She didn’t flirt to climb the ladder. She worked hard. Harder than anyone else. And she still never fit.
Maybe that’s why I pushed her.
Maybe I wanted to see how far I could bend her before she broke.
Maybe I wanted to see if she’d break at all.
Spoiler alert: she didn’t.
She just left.
Didn’t beg. Didn’t cry. Just walked away like I wasn’t even worth hating.
And I told myself, Good. One less problem.
But that night, I lay awake staring at my ceiling, and for some reason, I kept seeing her face. Not when she walked away—but before that. When she looked at me like I was nothing. Like I never touched her, never rattled her world.
Like I was forgettable.
That was the part that haunted me.
I’ve had a hundred women in my bed, and not one of them made me feel like that.
Like I lost something I never even had.
The Bottom of the Bottle
If I can’t feel good, I’ll feel nothing.
That’s the rule now.
Tonight, I throw a party in my penthouse.
Not because I want to celebrate anything—but because silence is too damn loud.
A hundred people I barely know swarm my place. Models, brokers, failed actors turned influencers, everyone chasing the high of being “seen.” The kind of people who live for proximity to power but would sell you out for a shoutout and an ounce of coke.
They don’t know me. They don’t care to.
They laugh too loud. Sip drinks they didn’t pay for. Take selfies in front of my fireplace like it’s some tourist landmark.
I watch them from the bar, detached. Like I’m floating outside my own skin.
There’s a girl draped over my arm—blonde, gorgeous, and forgettable. She smells like expensive perfume and bad decisions. She whispers something about flying to Paris next week. Wants me to come.
I nod. I don’t listen.
Someone shouts my name. A guy from Goldman, eyes red and wired, lifts his drink and screams, “To Max Fucking Carter!”
They cheer.
I take another shot.
I haven’t eaten all day. Doesn’t matter. The burn feels good.
It reminds me I’m still here.
My phone buzzes.
My father.
I stare at the screen until it goes black.
He’ll leave a voicemail. Something clipped, cold, and surgical. A reminder that I’m still disappointing him, even when I’m at the top.
He built me.
Polished me.
Molded me into the perfect heir.
But even he can see it now—that no matter how far I climb, there’s something in me that’s still rotting from the inside out.
What No One Knows
What no one knows is that I hate myself.
Not in the dramatic, poetic kind of way.
No—it's deeper. Quieter. Like a hum in the bones you can’t shut off.
I hate the way I look in the mirror and see him. My father. His jawline. His posture. His cold, empty eyes.
I hate the way I pretend I don’t care.
The way I lie so well it’s become a second skin.
And most of all—I hate that I don’t know who I am when I’m not “Max Carter.”
Strip away the money, the women, the headlines—and what’s left?
A scared little boy who wanted to matter.
A kid who just wanted to be loved without earning it.
And now?
Now I’m just noise.
White noise.
Loud, suffocating, meaningless.
The Truth
I’m not scared of dying.
I’ve danced with death too many times—drunk driving, drug overdoses, blackout nights on rooftops I don’t remember climbing.
No, death isn’t what scares me.
What scares me is being alone.
Truly alone.
No lights. No distractions. No parties.
Just me and the silence.
Because in that silence, I have to face it.
The truth.
That maybe I don’t deserve love.
That maybe I pushed the one person who saw me—really saw me—so far away, she’ll never come back.
That maybe I climbed the wrong mountain, and at the top, there’s nothing but cold air and a view that means nothing.
So I take another drink.
I laugh too loud.
I let the music swallow me whole.
Because if I stop—if I pause—I might finally hear the echo of everything I’ve lost.
And I’m not ready for that.
Not yet.
