Imagine calling Patrick Bateman out to his face and telling him the only thing heās ever truly done is get born into a wealthy family.
Silver spoon in his mouth from the moment he took his first breath. No real achievements, no grit, no substanceājust luck dressed up as merit. Heād lose it. That cold, composed mask would crack instantly, and something almost homicidal would flash in his eyes.
āOh, yeah? Youāre so fucking smart now?ā heād sneer, voice low and venomous. āYou let me fuck you raw and now you want to lecture me about morals?ā
But inside, heād be raging. Because deep down, he knows youāre right. Your words would scrape against that hollow void he spends every waking moment trying to fill with designer suits, expensive watches, and meaningless status. His ego would be bleeding.
How dare youāa nobody who doesnāt own a Rolex, who doesnāt live in the right building on the Upper East Sideāpoint it out? Heās a Wall Street golden boy. Old money. Powerful. Youāre supposed to be nothing but a toy to him.
And yet here you are, standing in front of him, completely sure of who you are⦠while he has no idea who he is without the money, the clothes, and the reputation.
āYouāre so delusional, Patrick,ā youād say softly, almost pitying. āAnd I really do feel sorry for you.ā
His face would flush red, nostrils flaring, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out across his forehead. His voice would drop to a dangerous whisper:
You wouldnāt even flinch.
āI feel sorry for you.ā
Because you actually mean it.