CHAPTER 7:The Wealthy Man Drowning in Emptiness

If wealth could buy happiness, then Lucian Devereaux should have been the happiest man on earth.

His life was a dream wrapped in silk and gold. His face—flawless. His suits? Tailored by the kind of people who didn't even look at you unless you had a six-figure bank balance. His home was not a mansion, because that word was too common. No, Lucian lived in an estate—a palace of glass, marble, and quiet luxury.

People adored him. Women wanted him. Men envied him. The world was his, neatly packaged with a bow.

And yet… he felt absolutely nothing.

The Perfect Life (On Paper)

Lucian had spent his life collecting. Money. Power. Status. Cars that sat in his garage like museum pieces. Watches that cost more than some people's homes. Properties he had never even set foot in.

He threw the best parties, drank the finest wine, attended the most exclusive events—and none of it mattered.

Lately, he had started wondering if he was, in fact, already dead.

Sure, he still breathed. He still looked every bit the charming, devastatingly handsome billionaire. But inside? A yawning, endless void.

He had tried everything.

Therapy? "Lucian, you have to find meaning in life." (He had promptly bought the therapist's entire practice just to fire them.)

Meditation? He lasted three minutes before boredom nearly killed him.

Charity work? He had donated millions—built schools, hospitals, and even a few orphanages. The media called him "a man of the people," but deep down, he knew the truth. It was all just another transaction.

Love? Please. He had tried that, too. He had dated models, actresses, heiresses—the kind of women who dripped in diamonds and spoke in whispers. But in the end, they all left. Not because he was cruel, but because he was indifferent. He had mastered the art of charming without caring.

Nothing reached him. Nothing mattered.

Until, of course, the piano incident.

The Call Arrives in the Most Unbelievable Way

It happened on a quiet evening. Lucian was in his study, sipping on a 1945 Château Mouton Rothschild (a wine so expensive it made millionaires cry) while absentmindedly playing his grand piano—a rare Fazioli, crafted from the finest woods, one of only a few in the world.

He wasn't particularly good at playing. But he liked the way the sound filled the silence.

Then, just as his fingers pressed the keys, the piano played back.

Not an echo. Not a delay.

An entirely different melody.

Lucian froze.

The notes were haunting, ancient, something that did not belong in this world. The music wrapped around him, seeped into his bones, and for the first time in years, he felt something.A voice—smooth as velvet, yet heavy as stone—whispered from the piano:

"You cannot buy what you seek. You must come."

Lucian stood up so fast he knocked over his wine glass.

This was absurd. A hallucination. Maybe he had finally gone insane.

And yet… deep in his chest, something stirred. Something old. Something terrifying.

Because for the first time in his life, someone—or something—had spoken to him in a way no amount of money could control.

And it thrilled him.An Invitation He Couldn't Decline

Lucian tried to ignore it.

He booked a private island retreat. He surrounded himself with models, laughter, the best distractions money could buy.

But every time he closed his eyes, he saw it.

A temple. Calling him.

A journey. Waiting for him.

Drowning in Emptiness

Lucian tried everything to drown out the call.

More parties. More noise. More distractions.

But it followed him.

At night, the whispers curled around his silk sheets. In the morning, the reflection in his mirror no longer looked quite like his own. And worst of all? His beloved piano refused to play correctly.

Every time he touched the keys, they hummed with that same eerie, otherworldly tune. He even flew in a world-class piano technician to fix it—only for the man to stare at him, pale-faced, and whisper, "Sir… this instrument is perfectly fine."

Lucian emptied his wine glass in frustration. Fine? He was losing his mind, and his piano was fine?

Something had to give.

The Mysterious Invitation

The final straw came when a letter arrived.

Not through his personal assistant. Not through his highly trained security. Not even through a courier.

No—this letter appeared on his breakfast tray one morning, nestled neatly between a golden croissant and his imported French butter.

Lucian did not like surprises.

With slow, measured movements, he picked up the envelope. The parchment was thick, old, like something out of a forgotten past. No address. No sender. Just his name, written in calligraphy older than ink itself.

He opened it.

Inside was a single line:

"You have tried everything but the truth. The temple awaits."

Lucian stared.

Then, calmly, he set down his fork, pushed away his breakfast, and called his pilot.

"Prepare the jet," he said.

"Destination, sir?"

Lucian looked at the letter again.

He had no idea where he was going.

But for the first time in years, he wanted to find out.

And that was reason enough.