The garage opened like the gate to another dimension—rows of machines, every one gleaming, engines dreaming. She chose the Bugatti today—of course she did. The car's lines matched her: sharp, perfect, slightly terrifying. I climbed in, seatbelt clicking in the heavy silence.
For a while we moved through the city without words. The skyline rose around us—corporate towers like blades, sunlight flashing off glass. People turned as we passed, phones lifting to capture proof that the Ice Goddess existed outside of screens.
I sneaked a glance at her profile. Expression unreadable. The city's reflections ran along the car window like rivers of data, and for a second I saw her eyes soften, then reset to steel.
"Selen," I said quietly, "do you ever get tired?"
Her gaze stayed on the road. "Of what?"
"Everything. The meetings, the headlines. People treating you like a myth."
Her lips curved—not a smile, more like an echo of one. "Mythology is easier than reality. Myths don't bleed."
I wanted to ask what that meant, but traffic slowed, cutting the conversation short. She parked at the front gate of the university. Immediately, phones were out, flashes exploding. Students whispered, half awe, half disbelief.
I reached for the door handle. "Thanks for the ride, sis."
She looked straight ahead. "Study well."
Then the car moved, engine roaring like a controlled storm. No wave, no goodbye.
The students parted as we left, their whispers chasing us down the street. I watched them shrink in the side mirror—a sea of phones and wide eyes. They'd post about this within minutes. #IceGoddess #LuckyBrother #WishThatWasMe.
By tonight, I'd be tagged in a hundred stories I never asked to be part of.
Selen didn't notice. Or if she did, she didn't care. For her, attention was just weather—something that happened around her, unavoidable as gravity.
I stood there, feeling the gravity of her absence the moment she turned the corner. Around me, people buzzed, whispering Ice Goddess, that's her brother?, is she real? I exhaled, forced a smile, and walked toward the main building.
Inside, university life felt like another planet—laughter, noise, normal people chasing normal dreams. My chest eased for the first time that morning. Maybe here, I could breathe.
Classes blurred. Names, faces, introductions. Professors who spoke like they believed words could change the world. Students who actually argued about literature instead of stock prices. For a few hours, I almost forgot I lived in a mansion that felt more like a museum.
Almost.
By late afternoon, the lecture hall had emptied, leaving only the echo of footsteps and closing notebooks. I checked my phone: 4:17 PM. No messages. Selen never texted anyway—she commanded in person or through assistants who treated her words like gospel.
I gathered my things and headed toward the main gate, already mentally preparing for the bus ride home. The courtyard was quieter now, most students gone or clustered in small groups, laughing over coffee and cigarettes.
Then I heard it—murmurs again. The same kind of murmurs that followed her.
I turned, and there she was.
Selen.
Standing at the edge of the main gate, surrounded by people. The crowd parted without being asked. Phones rose, flashes blinked, her presence freezing the air. Even the guards looked unsure whether to move or bow.
She was still in her suit, perfectly composed, but her eyes—those cold, silver-gray eyes—searched the crowd until they found me.
My heart stumbled.
"What is she doing here?" someone whispered.
"Isn't that the CEO of ASTAR Group?" another voice added.
"Wait—he's related to her?"
Every eye turned toward me.
I took a slow breath and walked forward, feeling every step like a countdown. When I reached her, I managed a quiet, "Selen... why are you here?"
She didn't answer immediately. Her gaze swept across the students still filming her. Then, calmly, she said, "Get in."
"I—what?"
She glanced at her watch, the faintest flicker of impatience crossing her perfect mask. "Your class ended seventeen minutes ago. I waited."
I blinked. "You didn't have to. I could've taken the bus or—"
Her tone sharpened, not loud but cutting enough that everyone heard: "I said, get in."
A hush fell over the courtyard.
I sighed, nodded once, and opened the car door.
As I sat, she rounded the front of the car, ignoring the flashes and voices, and took her seat beside me. The doors closed, sealing us away from the noise.
Inside, silence again. Only the soft hum of the engine.
I turned toward her. "You didn't answer my texts all morning. Now you show up here like—like you're checking if I'm alive."
"I was making sure you were safe," she said simply, eyes fixed on the road.
"I'm at a university, not a battlefield."
"In my world," she said, "they're the same thing."
Her words hung between us. I wanted to argue, but part of me knew she wasn't entirely wrong. The higher you went, the sharper the knives got.
Still, I leaned back and exhaled. "You know, people already think I'm living in a movie because of you."
She finally looked at me, one corner of her mouth twitching—a ghost of amusement, maybe. "Then play your role well."
And with that, the car moved again, the city swallowing us whole.
The ride home felt longer than the morning one.
Selen drove without a word, her eyes fixed on the road ahead, the city lights gliding across her face like passing thoughts she didn't share. When we finally reached the mansion, the sky was already dimming—an expensive shade of twilight, painted just for her world.
As soon as the doors closed behind us, she turned toward the stairs.
"I have calls to attend," she said, voice flat.
"Okay," I replied softly, but she was already gone.
The silence she left behind filled every corner of the house.
I sighed, loosened my tie, and went into the kitchen. The marble counters gleamed under the warm light. For anyone else, this place would feel like a dream—clean, elegant, perfect. For me, it felt like a museum where every memory was locked behind glass.
Still, I knew her routine. Every night, she drank the same coffee: black, no sugar, a touch of cinnamon.
I made it carefully, the way she liked—because even if she never said thank you, she noticed. She always noticed.
I carried the mug upstairs, the heat seeping through the porcelain into my hands.
Her room waited at the end of the hallway—the grandest one in the mansion, befitting an empire's queen. Even the door looked intimidating—matte black, soundproof, sealed like a vault. I hesitated before knocking twice.
No response. Then, after a few seconds:
"...Come in."
I opened the door slightly. She was at her desk, three monitors glowing in the dark. Graphs, contracts, news tickers—all flashing in quick, cold colors. Her hair was tied up, a few loose strands falling against her face as she worked.
I placed the coffee on her desk. "You've been working all day," I said. "You should rest."
Her eyes flicked to the mug, then to me. "Thank you," she said simply, voice unreadable.
And before I could say anything else, she added, "You can go now."
The door closed behind me with a soft click.
That was how she always was—walls built out of discipline and distance.
And yet, I kept bringing her that coffee. Maybe because I still remembered the girl she used to be before the world turned her into this cold perfection.
Downstairs again, I started making dinner.
The act itself felt grounding—washing vegetables, listening to the quiet hum of the refrigerator, the sound of a knife against the cutting board. Sometimes, silence is easier to live with when it's filled with small sounds.
Halfway through slicing onions, my phone buzzed. "Mother" flashed on the screen.
I smiled automatically. "Hey, Mom."
Her voice came through, warm and familiar. "Soren! How are you? Did you eat?"
"Not yet. I'm making dinner now," I said, stirring the pot. "How's Dad?"
"He's fine. Both families have been busy here. Your father and Selen's parents are still in meetings. You two managing alright?"
"Yeah, we're fine. Selen's... working a lot, as usual."
"She's doing okay?" Mom asked, and I heard the worry threaded through her lightness.
"She's doing okay," I said, though the words felt hollow. How could I explain that Selen wasn't just busy—she'd become her work? That the girl Mom remembered, the one who used to steal cookies and read under blankets, had cremated herself to build an empire?
"Good," Mom said, relief softening her voice. "I worry about her. Both of you, actually. That house is too big for just two kids."
"We're managing," I said, stirring the pot. The onions hissed in the pan, filling the silence Mom couldn't.
"I know you are. But managing isn't the same as living, Soren."
Her words hit harder than she meant them to.
Before I could respond, another voice joined the call—Selen's mother. Her tone was softer but carried that same sense of authority. "Soren, is my daughter eating properly?"
I hesitated. "She's... fine, ma'am. Still running her empire like usual."
She sighed gently. "Tell her I called. I'll try reaching her later tonight."
"Okay, ma'am."
Mom came back on the line. "Alright, son. Eat well, and don't stay up too late."
"I won't. Goodnight, Mom."
"Goodnight, Soren."
The line went dead, and the house was silent again.
I finished cooking—a simple dinner: pasta with garlic and olive oil, Caesar salad, grilled chicken seasoned the way she liked. Not that she'd ever told me she liked it. I just... knew. The way you know someone when you've lived in their orbit long enough.
I plated everything carefully, arranged the greens, wiped the rim clean. Presentation mattered to her, even if she never said so. Even if she'd eat it alone in that fortress of a room, lit only by monitor glow.
I left a plate outside Selen's door, knocked twice, and walked away before she could open it.
That was the ritual. I cooked. She ate. Neither of us acknowledged what it meant—that in this mansion of silence, food was the only language we both still spoke.
No reply came, but in the morning, the plate would always be empty. That was her way of saying thanks.
As I turned off the lights, the mansion felt too big for two people.
Her empire was built on logic and ice, mine still on small gestures and warmth.
Maybe, in this place of power and silence, those little gestures were the only thing keeping us human.