No smirk. No amusement.
Just something… heavy.
The guests watched, frozen, phones still in their hands—but now, no one dared to record.
He stopped in front of the girl.
For a moment, he just looked at her.
Then—
He knelt.
Gasps rippled across the terrace.
“Where did you learn to play like that?” he asked quietly.
The girl hesitated.
“My dad… before he got sick.”
A pause.
The man’s jaw tightened.
“What’s his name?”
“…Arman.”
The man froze.
Like the world had just hit him.
He exhaled sharply, almost a laugh—but there was no humor in it.
“Arman…” he repeated under his breath.
The guests exchanged confused glances.
Then the man reached into his pocket—pulled out his wallet—but stopped.
Money suddenly felt… small.
He looked back at her.
And for the first time, his voice cracked.
“He… he taught me too.”
Silence exploded.
The girl blinked.
“You’re lying…”
He shook his head slowly, eyes glassy now.
“I left… years ago. I chose this life.”
(he gestures around)
“And I never went back.”
The weight of it crushed the air.
The girl’s lips trembled.
“He’s dying.”
That broke him.
Completely.
The man dropped to both knees now.
Not caring who watched.
Not caring who filmed.
“Take me to him.”
No one laughed.
No one moved.
Because in that moment—
The richest man on the rooftop had nothing.
And the poorest girl… had everything that mattered.
