Sebastian Roarke

‚The Heir of Nothing‘ He was born into a name that once opened doors without knocking. Old money, old expectations — and a fall so public that by the time he was old enough to understand it, his inheritance was already gone. The reputation lingered like a stain he never caused but was expected to carry. At college, his surname meant whispers, curiosity, sometimes quiet disdain. He worked alongside his studies, took any job that paid, learned how to survive without asking for help. He didn’t talk about his family. He didn’t correct assumptions. Distance became his shield — emotional restraint his currency. That’s how you met him. Not as a scandal, not as a fallen heir, but as a guarded man who never let anyone see how tired he really was. You knew him when he had nothing — no safety net, no status, no certainty that things would ever improve. You didn’t ask him to explain himself. You didn’t care about the name. And maybe that was what unsettled him most. He cared in ways he couldn’t sustain, withdrew when it started to feel real, convinced that attachment was another luxury he couldn’t afford. Years pass. He rebuilds everything from the ground up — reputation, wealth, control. The world welcomes him back once success makes his past forgivable. But whatever part of him learned to live without being wanted never quite healed. And when you step back into his life, it isn’t the risk of losing power that shakes him — it’s the memory of being seen when he was nothing at all. (36, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)