Just Adrian

Chapter 1 “Don’t tell anyone who I am,” I mumbled to my driver, placing the cap lower on my face. The words felt strange coming out of my mouth. I had spent years making sure that everyone in the world knew exactly who I was… Adrian Byron, billionaire mogul, playboy, ladies' man or whatever title the magazines decided to give me that week. My name carried fear, envy and greed in equal measure. And now here I was, dying to be invisible. My driver peeped at me in the rear-view mirror, his brows gave a look that said, "You’ve finally lost your senses. Mr. Byron." “Adrian,” I corrected immediately. “Just Adrian.” He paused before trying again. “Adrian. This is ridiculous. You don’t belong in this tacky environment.” Maybe he was right. I didn’t belong in Edinburgh Ville, a town so small, it probably didn’t even appear on half of the map. I didn’t belong in a worn-out flannel shirt that smelled like a faint scent of sun and soap from the thrift store I had walked into that morning. And I am sure that I don’t belong in a rented one-bedroom apartment above the movie store that rattled every time a truck passed by on Main Street. But maybe that was the point. I pushed the car door open and stepped into the crisp air. Edinburgh Ville was quiet in a way New York will never be. No flashing cameras. No paparazzi. No personal assistant. No boardroom waiting to be addressed. Just Main Street with brick sidewalks, flower vases under shop windows and lines of buildings that have lasted over decades. It was peaceful. And unsettling. The driver rolled down his window as I adjusted the straps of the duffel bag on my shoulder. “And how long do you plan to keep up with this charade?” “As long as it takes,” I replied. Go back to America without me. He opened his mouth, then closed it, knowing better not to argue. With a resigned sigh, he held the wheel and pulled away, leaving me alone in the corners. For a moment, I stood there, looking at the walkway filled with streetlights. Alone. Really alone. No bodyguards. No entourage. No one to shield me from the world. Just me. It was terrifying. I walked down Main Street, keeping my head low even though no one really knew me there. At least, not yet. A few people passed by nodding in greetings. A dog tied to a bike rack barked cheerfully as I passed. Everything was starting to feel normal. A bell jingled above the door when someone stepped into the bakery and the smell of cinnamon drifted out, so warm and real. Then I saw it. I paused outside a small brick building that read HARBINGER SALON. The windows glowed warmly from the inside, the glass pane was smudged, the paint a little faded, but there was something inviting about it, like it belonged to someone who cared. Through the windows, I could see a group of young women chatting, laughing and flipping through magazines while a stylist trimmed someone’s hair. It was ordinary. Something I have never experienced before. I don’t know what made me push through the doors; maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was the fact that for once, I wanted a room where I would enter and nobody would scream or whisper my name. The bell above the door chimed, and every head in the salon turned towards me. For a second, I was scared because I didn’t know what to think. But they just glanced, offered a smile and went back to their conversations. No one recognized me. I was relieved to the extent that I nearly laughed. “Hi there,” a voice said brightly. I thought I was hearing voices. I turned. And that’s when I saw her. For the first time, I felt that there was finally something that money could not buy. She stood behind the front desk, tucking her brown hair behind her ear. Her apron was filled with stray bits of hair, her hands still gloved from whatever she was doing. She wasn’t glamorous, dressed like the way women I met dressed. No diamonds. No gold. No designer clothes or shoes. Just a messy bun and glasses, a smudge of color on her cheeks, and eyes that were astonishingly bright. She didn’t look at me like someone important. She looked at me like someone who needed something. She just… looked. “First time here?” she asked, smiling in a way that felt both sincere and professional. At first, I didn’t hear her because I was lost in her eyes, until she coughed. I snapped back to life and nodded, adjusting my cap. “Yeah. Just….checking out the place.” “Well, welcome to Edinburgh Ville Salon,” she said. “We do cuts, styling, color, even occasionally manicures if you’re feeling adventurous.” Her lips curved into a teasing grin. I found myself chuckling. “I’ll stick to a haircut for now.” She scribbled something onto a notepad and gestured towards a chair. “Have a seat. I’ll get you set up.” I moved as she directed me; the pressure in the room was pressing on me most strangely. That was it. This is what I came here for. To be treated like everyone else. To talk to someone who doesn’t know my net worth or my last quarterly earnings. She walked over with a comb and a pair of scissors, tying her apron tighter as she stood behind me. “So what’s your name?” My throat tightened. The truth wanted to come out, Adrian Byron. The names people whispered in awe, cursed in envy or splashed across glossy magazine covers. But here, I wasn’t that man. “Adrian,” I said finally. “Just Adrian.” She smiled at me in the mirror, and for the first time in a long time, I felt that was enough.