Architectural Nonsense

A majestic Darien Quin stood by the window of his office, staring out at the glittering cityscape. It was a habit of his — one he could hardly explain. Maybe it was the way the city at night reflected power and calm in equal measure. Or maybe it was because it reminded him that everything below him moved at his will.

The faint creak of the office door drew a frown across his face. How he hated interruptions.

“Were you ever taught courtesy in school?” His voice was quiet, smooth, and authoritative — the kind that commanded attention without ever needing to rise.

“I was,” came the calm reply. “And that’s exactly why I’ve come — to ask you to please honor Edwin’s invitation. He brought this party to your hotel because he wants you there.”

“I already informed him I wouldn’t be attending.” Darien’s tone was flat, his gaze still fixed on the skyline.

“At least go downstairs and say 'hi'. You both weren’t enemies the last time I checked,” the man pressed.

Darien turned his head slightly, enough for the dim light to catch the sharp line of his jaw. “Did he ask you to do this– lure me into changing my mind?”

“That would be a waste of effort,” the man said with a small, dry laugh. “He knows better. Once you give your word, there’s no turning back.”

“Then you also know you’re wasting your time,” Darien said, turning away again. “I’ve given my word.”

The man exhaled heavily, defeated. Before he could respond, the telephone on Darien’s desk rang, slicing through the silence. Darien picked it up.

“Sir,” a voice came through, steady but cautious. “Grand Mrs. Quin has just arrived. She’s waiting for you on the third floor.”

For a brief moment, something flickered behind Darien’s cold eyes — a restrained emotion that vanished as quickly as it came. He set the receiver back down.

“Noted,” he said quietly.

He sighed, more out of irritation than surprise. Of all the reasons that could have pulled him downstairs tonight, this one left him with little choice.

“You should leave my office,” he told the man without looking back, then strode out.

The stairway to the fifth floor echoed with the thump of his polished shoes. By the time he reached it, the muffled throb of music from below grew louder. On the last flight to the Grand Floor, the noise burst into full force — laughter, chatter, and the pulse of celebration.

Darien’s phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a message from Hau, the man from earlier.

You have guests on the third floor.

He slid the phone back into his pocket and exhaled through his nose. When he looked toward the crowd, all eyes had turned on him.

His expression dropped instantly, his aura cooling the air. This was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid.

Descending the last stair, he moved through the crowd. People parted instinctively, as though before some untouchable deity. He didn’t slow down — he had no intention of staying longer than necessary.

Darien Quin carried himself like the embodiment of control: ruthless, brilliant, the tabloids’ obsession. But just as he neared the edge of the crowd, a small figure stumbled right into him.

The girl’s slight body collided with his, and she would have fallen if his hand hadn’t caught her in time. His frown deepened, irritation flashing through his calm exterior.

Across the room, Irene and Mia froze. Their friend — that friend — was in the arms of Darien Quin, the man the media called the city’s most unapproachable billionaire.

Outrage widened their eyes. This man, who’d never once been seen smiling, who was said to have zero tolerance for the middle class, was holding the very girl who often called herself “the nation’s poorest.”

“Oh no,” Irene whispered, her hands flying to her mouth. “Is she— Is she flirting with him?”

Mia just stared, her usual composure replaced by wide-eyed disbelief.

“What do we do?” Irene asked, panic rising in her voice.

No answer. Just that same dumbstruck stare.

Darien Quin, meanwhile, looked down at the girl in his arms. Her fingers brushed against the front of his shirt — too casually, too boldly. Every instinct in him screamed against it, yet he couldn’t move.

Who was she? What kind of woman dared to touch him this way — without permission?

Even the women he took to bed never did. Not without his word. And yet, here she was — soft, reckless, defying every unspoken rule that governed his world.

Her dress was simple. Unimpressive. She wasn’t one of the elite. He could tell. The elite women he knew dressed like peacocks — always competing to outshine each other.

Then he remembered: the party was open to commoners tonight.

His jaw tightened.

So that’s what you are, he thought. A commoner with no idea what you’ve just done.