Chapter 2

Damian Hayes POV

I have many names.

The golden boy, the Hayes heir, the spoiled brat who never learned what responsibility truly is.

Damien Hayes, the playboy.

Damien Hayes, the spoiled brat. 

Different people, different opinions.

It all depends on who you ask, I guess.

But I prefer to be unbothered by these.

I know who I am and what I am..

I am on my way to university, where my Lamborghini's engine roared beneath me like a predator, sleek and anxious, as I pulled into the university gates.

The cameras were already there, vultures circling for their morning meal.

Paparazzi at a college?

Seriously?

I know it's ridiculous, but they love me beyond measure; the poor bastards won't leave me alone.

Flashes went off even in broad daylight, already to catch my smirk through the tinted windows.

The music exploded out from the speakers, loud as well as unapologetic, plus the bass rumbled the stone walls of academia.

As before, heads always turn.

Some scowled, some cheered. A couple of girls waved at me like this was the red carpet instead of a lecture hall.

I parked across three spaces. I stepped out in my navy suit jacket, aviators still on. The September sun glinted off the metal of my watch, the one worth more than most students' yearly tuition. I tossed the keys to some gawking sophomore lingering on the steps.

"Park it somewhere nice."

"Uh, uh, there's no valet service here," he stammered.

"There is now," I replied with a smile.

He held the keys like I just gave him Excalibur. Poor kid probably had posters of it on his wall growing up.

As I walked across campus, the whispers followed.

Isn't that the guy who is in Page Six?"

"Didn't he get busted with two models yesterday?"

"Wow, he's pretty gorgeous."

All is right, though.

This week's scandal was still hot: me leaving a nightclub at three a.m., both blondes draped over my arms like jewels.

I quickly headed towards my class, leaving behind all the gossip.

These university classes were just a theatre to me. A place for professors to perform like they were actually going to teach me about business, and for me to pretend to listen long enough to get credit. I don't think they thought for a second that I was actually there to learn anything.

I was just there because Hayes men graduate from Ivy, and tradition is a beast that money has to feed. I walked into the lecture hall ten minutes late, making sure I was noticed, and found a seat.

The professor, a fifties wearer of tweed jackets with a hairline demise, was undoubtedly droning on about responsibility within leadership.

"True power," he said, tapping his extensive notes, "is not in what you have earned, but how you earn it. A leader must think not only of profit but of humanity."

As I slid into my seat and kicked my feet up on the desk, I leaned back.

"With all due respect, Professor..." I said loudly across the room. "Money makes life better. Ask my accountant."

The hall erupted. Other students laughed because of what they thought was funny. Other people laughed, because it was easier than challenging me. A few of them stared at me like I had descended on Earth from on high.

Whitmore locked his jaw. “Mr Hayes, your scepticism is getting old..”

I laughed and rotated a pen in my fingers. “Not scepticism. Realism.”

The rest of the lecture was background noise. I scrolled my phone, and a text from my on-and-off girlfriend Vanessa popped up.

Vanessa Monroe was a model, influencer, and professional heartbreaker, the type of girl you couldn’t escape but never fully took seriously. It was not so much about love, but for us, convience mattered to a greater degree. I knew of it, and she knew of it. But she looked adorable on my arm, and I looked good in her feed.

After class. I quickly texted Vanessa

Party tonight. Don't be late. 

She sent back a heart emoji and a hot mirror selfie, almost naked, that almost made me forget I am in a class.

By the time the lecture wrapped up, I was restless. Out of the corner of my eye, Whitmore shot laser beams through me as students began to file out. I casually gave him a salute.

"See you next week, professor. Don't work too hard on those ethics."

I could hear his sigh as I ambled out the door. I could even feel her glare.

The party was one of those exclusive occasions for which the Manhattan elite company was built. The Beaumont, with this special event held at the top of a skyscraper, where the glass siding of this floor made it feel like the whole city lay beneath our feet.

Champagne flowed like water, the string quartet was raising a few eyebrows, and diamonds of all colors on display were competing with the glittering skyline of glass against glass.

My parents were in their element, my father, Michael Hayes, moving around the room like a senator, shaking hands, swinging smiles, and making promises of insipid value but treasured expense. My mother, Catherine, dressed in silk and pearls, took in the accolades of the women around who could only imagine a life like hers, jealous of her clothes, her position, and, of course, her only child.

That’s me, the heir.

And Vanessa looked stunning, like a sprightly firefly in a red satin dress basically designed to photograph well. She laughed the wrong amount at my jokes, kissed my cheek a beat longer than necessary for cameras, and whispered a bunch of stuff in my ear that she was unlikely to actually live up to before the sun got hot tomorrow morning. But it was fine; it was all part of the dance.

There were reporters snagging photos, all looking for their scandalous headline for the morning, and I certainly did not stop them.

After all, what is the Golden-lucky Playboy for? The world is itching to see the golden boy; they, my world, needed that somewhere.

But my perceived audience of admirers was not equally cheering across the ballroom.

The farthest side of the ballroom near the windows stood my grandfather. Edward Hayes: silver hair, a crisp and sharp suit, eyes sharper and tight, not drinking, and definitely not smiling.

He was with me tonight, but he didn’t need to drink to be seriously sober; he had the business of the Hayes Empire right there with him, and now out of retirement, the way people treated him was like he deserved the best seat in their walls.

That was the way that he saw me, not the charming, happy fake, but the glass of champagne in one hand, the language of Juliette on my chest, and ... me.

And he wasn’t smiling.

He never smiled anymore when it came to me.

I held his gaze across the full, busy ballroom for just a moment, and gained confidence to glass him a mock salute, smirked, and turned away and walked away before the ruination of my evening dug in.

Vanessa tugged me back into the noise, laughter, and cameras. For everyone else, I was exactly who they thought I was, some untouchable Hayes heir, the lucky boy with all the wealth.

But later that night, as I walked out into the New York night with Vanessa by my side, we planned to have a wild night together after the hectic day. I slid into the driver’s seat of my black Lamborghini sports car; the smirk faltered just for a second. The cameras didn’t catch that; they never do.

My world never wants to see the cracks.

They just want the glitter.