BRIANNA

9. DON'T WORRY ABOUT A THING

BRIANNA'S POV

"What are we doing in a hotel? I thought you said we were heading to your apartment," I asked Sarah, my voice tinged with confusion and maybe a little apprehension as I stared out the window at the gleaming façade of the building we had just pulled up to. The sleek, modern lines of the structure screamed luxury and the discreet valet who had already appeared to take the car keys confirmed it.

My mind raced as I tried to piece together what exactly was going on, why we had stopped here instead of continuing on to what I assumed would be a more modest, student-friendly apartment complex. The reality of our destination hit me like a wave, unsettling and disorienting. This wasn’t just any hotel—it was the kind of place where the elite stayed, where the very air seemed to carry the scent of wealth and privilege. The idea that Sarah lived here was almost too much to comprehend.

She turned to me with a smile, one that was almost sheepish, as if she knew she had pulled a fast one on me. "I knew that if I told you I live in a penthouse, then you wouldn't agree to come with me. It was the only choice I had," she explained, her tone casual, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to deceive someone into visiting a place like this.

Her words hung in the air, and I found myself staring at her, trying to reconcile the girl I thought I knew with this sudden revelation. A penthouse. She lived in a freaking penthouse! My mind grappled with the sheer enormity of that statement, trying to wrap itself around the kind of life that came with it. The opulence, the exclusivity, the kind of money that allowed you to live not just above the city but above everything and everyone else.

"Don't tell me your mother owns this hotel?" The question slipped out before I could stop it, my voice filled with a mix of incredulity and awe. It sounded ridiculous even as I said it, but at this point, nothing seemed impossible. Every time I thought I had a handle on who Sarah was, she revealed something new, something that pushed the boundaries of what I thought I knew about her—and about the world, really. This wasn’t just wealth; it was a different level of existence altogether, one where the rules were different and where even the concept of home was redefined.

"Unfortunately, she does," Sarah replied, her tone betraying a hint of exasperation as if this was just another inconvenience in her life. "And that means I couldn't get an apartment of my own here because she wouldn't allow me. She bought it two years ago, and when I decided to move to a place close to our school, she told me to move in here." She paused as if weighing her next words, and I could see the flicker of resignation in her eyes. "I couldn't do anything about it because my dad supported her. He said it was for my safety, and since he is a judge, nobody knows about safety more than he does. That's what he always says, and my mother agrees with him all the time."

Just how rich is she? The question echoed in my mind, louder and louder until it was impossible to ignore. Her father is a judge, and her mother owns a hotel—these were facts, but they didn’t even begin to scratch the surface of what they truly meant. They spoke of a life filled with privileges that most people could only dream of, a life where even the smallest inconveniences were smoothed over by money and influence.

And yet, there was something in the way Sarah spoke, something in the way she seemed almost resigned to her fate, that made me realize this life wasn’t as perfect as it seemed from the outside. There was a price to pay for all this wealth, a cost that wasn’t measured in dollars but in something far more valuable: freedom.

I glanced at her, trying to see beyond the surface, trying to understand the girl who seemed to have everything but who still felt the need to deceive a new friend just to get her to visit her home. It made me wonder if all that luxury was worth the sacrifices she had to make, the compromises she had to live with.

“Don’t worry about a thing,” Sarah said, her tone reassuring, as if she could sense the unease that was creeping into my thoughts. “I know most people freak out when I tell them about my dad, but you are the only person in our school who knows my mother owns this hotel.” There was something almost conspiratorial in her voice, like she was letting me in on a secret that had the potential to change everything, yet she delivered it with such nonchalance that it was clear she had grown accustomed to managing the reactions of others.

I could see why this would be a big deal. In a place like our school, where everyone was either wealthy or connected to someone who was, her mother owning a hotel would be headline news, the kind of gossip that spread like wildfire. But Sarah seemed determined to keep her life as quiet as possible, to maintain a sense of normalcy that her family's wealth could easily disrupt. It made me wonder how often she had to hide parts of herself just to fit in, to keep the peace in a world where money had the power to define everything.

“She always tries to keep her life as private as possible, even though sometimes it gets really difficult,” she continued, her voice carrying a hint of the struggle she must face on a daily basis. The way she spoke, it was clear that maintaining privacy was more than just a preference for her—it was a necessity, a way to carve out a space where she could be herself without the weight of expectations that came with her family’s status. I could only imagine how hard it must be, living under the constant scrutiny that came with being part of a family like hers, where every move was watched, every choice dissected by people who saw her not as Sarah, but as an extension of her parents’ wealth and power.

I wanted to ask her what her mother did for a living, to understand more about the woman who owned this hotel and yet somehow managed to keep such a low profile. But there was something else I needed to ask first, something that had been nagging at me since we left school. I figured I could always ask her about her mother later, now that we were going to be living under the same roof. “People were looking at you at school,” I began, carefully choosing my words, “and I know they weren’t expecting to see you with me. You don’t interact a lot with others, do you?” It wasn’t just a casual observation; it was something that had struck me as odd, considering how most of the students at our school seemed to thrive on social interactions, on being seen and heard by as many people as possible. But Sarah had been different from the start, and now I was beginning to understand why.

“I’m a very private person,” she admitted, her gaze steady and open, as if she had made peace with this part of herself long ago. “I’m not going to lie to you and say that I do interact, because I don’t. My mother tried everything possible to make sure that I had a normal life, and I like it that way. That is why I avoid a lot of people in my circle.”

There was a quiet strength in her words, a resolve that spoke of someone who knew exactly what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to go against the grain to achieve it. It was admirable, really, this determination to live life on her own terms, even if it meant standing apart from the crowd. In a world where everyone seemed desperate to be noticed, to be liked, Sarah was content to remain in the background, to let others have the spotlight while she kept to herself. It was a choice, not a circumstance, and that made all the difference.

“Everyone in our school is either from a rich family or is related to someone rich,” she continued, her voice taking on a slightly cynical edge. “I think it’s only a few people who don’t belong in those categories, people like you.” Her words hung in the air, and I felt a strange mix of pride and discomfort at being singled out like that. It was true, of course—I wasn’t from a wealthy family, and I had only gotten into this school because of a scholarship. But hearing it said out loud, especially by someone like Sarah, brought all those differences into sharp relief.

“The scholarship programme was established five years ago, which means there are only maybe three or four students who are in our school because they have a scholarship,” she explained, her voice tinged with a hint of sadness. “You know what that means. The majority of our school is those students who enjoy a social life, they live their lives based on what is trending on social media or whatever.” There was a slight roll of her eyes as she said this, a gesture that conveyed just how little she thought of the superficial world that surrounded us.

“I think most of them have even forgotten who they really are,” she added, her tone softening into something more reflective, almost melancholy. “I can’t associate myself with those kinds of people, otherwise my life would never be private anymore.”

“I wanna be a normal teenager,” she confessed, her voice filled with a quiet longing that was impossible to miss. “To make my own choices and live my life the way I want to. It gets difficult when you’re around those people.” Her words resonated with me in a way I hadn’t expected. I had thought of her as someone who had everything, who could have whatever she wanted without even trying. But now I realized that there was a price for all that wealth, and it was one that she wasn’t entirely willing to pay.

I never looked at it like that. It was a revelation, a glimpse into a world that was more complex and more challenging than I had ever imagined. Sarah wasn’t just a rich girl living in a penthouse—she was someone who was trying to navigate a life that was defined by other people’s expectations, someone who was trying to find a way to be herself in a world that constantly demanded she be something else. I didn’t blame her for wanting to keep her life private, for wanting to stay away from the social scene that seemed to swallow up everyone else at our school. If I were in her shoes, I would probably do the same. And maybe, in a strange way, that was why we had connected so quickly—because despite our differences, we both wanted the same thing: a life where we could be ourselves, without the weight of the world bearing down on us.

“I guess maybe there is something about you that drew me to you. I am not good with making friends, and I hardly talk to strangers,” Sarah confessed, her voice soft yet tinged with a note of honesty that made her words all the more poignant. It was as if she was revealing a part of herself that she rarely showed to others, a vulnerability that she kept hidden beneath her confident exterior. Her admission felt like an invitation, a way of telling me that despite the differences in our lives, we were not so different after all. We both struggled with making connections, with finding people who truly understood us and in a way, it made me feel less alone in this new place, less like an outsider who didn’t belong.

That makes the two of us, I thought to myself, though I didn’t say it out loud. I wasn’t sure if I could put into words just how much her words resonated with me. Back home, I didn’t have friends either. The only people I ever really talked to were much older than me, and that was mostly because I spent most of my time with my mother.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want friends; it was just that making them had always been difficult for me. I had always been more comfortable in my own company, more at ease with the familiar routines of my life than with the unpredictable nature of social interactions. I had grown close to the people who worked at the supermarkets and the local shops, but I wouldn’t call them friends.

They were more like acquaintances, people who knew me in passing but didn’t really know me. Most of my neighbours had sons, and they were often too busy with their own lives to pay much attention to me. It was a quiet, solitary existence, one that I had grown accustomed to.

“You’re the only normal friend I have,” I said, my voice thoughtful as I reflected on my own life. “I do have friends back home, but they are way older than me. Most girls in my neighbourhood are too forward for my liking, and they have different personalities from me.” I knew there was a slight frown on my face as I spoke, as was recalling memories that weren’t entirely pleasant. “I guess it is not easy to be friends with someone when you have no idea what you would even talk about if you were friends.”

I found Sarah nodding in agreement when I looked at her. As if she knew exactly what I meant. It was hard to form connections with people when you felt like you had nothing in common with them, when the differences between you were too great to bridge. It was easier to keep to yourself, to avoid the awkwardness and discomfort that came with trying to force a friendship that just didn’t fit. “I get you,” She said quietly.

“Come on, let’s get inside,” Sarah said, her tone lightening as she motioned towards the entrance of the hotel.