This is true enough, but success is the next best thing to

Host: The office tower was almost empty now — the kind of corporate cathedral that glowed blue at midnight, windows flickering with the last stubborn lights of ambition. Down below, the city pulsed in quiet rhythm — neon veins feeding sleepless hearts.

Inside, on the top floor, the executive boardroom sat in half-shadow. The long mahogany table reflected the faint shimmer of the skyline, and the smell of coffee and paper hung like old perfume.

Jack stood by the window, his tie loosened, his face caught between exhaustion and reflection. Behind him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on the conference table, surrounded by scattered reports, a bottle of wine, and two half-filled glasses.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward — it was the kind that follows years of shared noise.

Jeeny broke it first, her tone calm but edged with irony, reading from the quote scribbled in her notebook:

“This is true enough, but success is the next best thing to happiness, and if you can't be happy as a success, it's very unlikely that you would find a deeper, truer happiness in failure.” — Michael Korda.

Jack turned, half-smiling, half-tired.

Jack: “Ah, Korda. The prophet of pragmatism. Happiness through achievement — the corporate gospel.”

Jeeny: “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Jack: “It’s not bad. It’s just… limited. Like measuring joy with a paycheck.”

Jeeny: “But he’s not wrong, Jack. Success might not make you happy, but failure sure doesn’t improve your odds.”

Jack: “Maybe not. But failure humbles you. It reminds you happiness isn’t earned — it’s allowed.”

Jeeny: “You and your philosophies. You talk like happiness is an act of rebellion.”

Jack: “It is. Especially in a world that confuses being busy with being alive.”

Host: The city lights spilled into the room, soft and electric, wrapping around their silhouettes like the faint outline of ghosts still at work.

Jeeny poured more wine, the sound sharp in the stillness.

Jeeny: “I’ve seen you when you close deals, Jack. You light up — it’s not about money, it’s about winning. Don’t pretend you’re not addicted to it.”

Jack: “Winning’s just the high. It wears off fast.”

Jeeny: “But that’s still happiness, isn’t it? Even if it’s temporary?”

Jack: “No. That’s relief. Happiness doesn’t need a scoreboard.”

Jeeny: “You’re romanticizing suffering again.”

Jack: “And you’re romanticizing comfort.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “That’s because comfort is underrated.”

Host: The air felt warmer now — wine softening their words, truth making them sharper. A faint hum from the city below filled the pauses.

Jeeny leaned back on her palms, staring up at the ceiling lights.

Jeeny: “Korda’s right about one thing — if success can’t make you happy, nothing else will. Because success gives you proof that you’ve done everything right, and if you’re still miserable after that… what’s left?”

Jack: “Freedom. To stop trying to impress anyone — including yourself.”

Jeeny: “That’s not freedom. That’s resignation.”

Jack: “Maybe. But sometimes giving up the illusion of control is the only honest thing we do.”

Jeeny: “So you’d rather fail and feel profound than win and feel shallow?”

Jack: “At least failure forces introspection. Success just feeds ego.”

Jeeny: “That’s rich coming from the man whose ego has its own office.”

Jack: grinning “Touché.”

Host: The rain began to fall outside, streaking the windows, warping the city lights into watercolor streaks of gold and red. The moment grew heavier, intimate in its quiet unraveling.

Jack turned from the window, his reflection ghosted over the skyline.

Jack: “You ever notice how people at the top talk about balance — but they mean burnout with better lighting?”

Jeeny: “That’s the tax you pay for ambition.”

Jack: “Then ambition’s a loan shark, not a virtue.”

Jeeny: “But it built everything we’re standing in. This view, this job, this version of us.”

Jack: “Yeah. And every version feels emptier than the last.”

Jeeny: “You think happiness was supposed to live in skyscrapers?”

Jack: “I thought success would make space for it.”

Jeeny: “And it didn’t?”

Jack: quietly “It just made more noise.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked past midnight. Somewhere in the distance, a siren rose and fell — a lullaby for the sleepless.

Jeeny looked at him — not with pity, but with recognition.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe Korda wasn’t talking about material success. Maybe he meant mastery. That when you succeed — truly succeed — you’ve learned enough discipline to enjoy the moment.”

Jack: “Maybe. But I don’t see mastery in exhaustion.”

Jeeny: “No, but you see meaning. And meaning’s the grown-up version of happiness.”

Jack: “That’s bleak.”

Jeeny: “It’s realistic.”

Jack: “You used to dream bigger.”

Jeeny: “I used to confuse dreaming with direction.”

Jack: “Now you sound like me.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I finally caught up.”

Host: The room was quiet except for the patter of rain. The wine bottle sat nearly empty, their reflections blurred in the glass tabletop.

Jeeny stood, walked to the window, and looked down at the city — the moving headlights, the glowing signs, the sleepless ambition.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? Success and happiness are twins — same parents, different destinies. One’s loud and public, the other quiet and private. People chase one because it’s easier to prove.”

Jack: “And the other?”

Jeeny: “You can only find it when you stop performing.”

Jack: “You think I’ve been performing?”

Jeeny: “I think we both have. Every deal, every smile, every time we pretend the next promotion will fill the silence.”

Jack: “And it never does.”

Jeeny: “No. It just buys better noise.”

Host: She turned to face him, her eyes soft in the dim light.

Jeeny: “Maybe Korda was right — happiness isn’t hiding in failure. But success isn’t where it lives either. It lives in the in-between — when the applause fades, when the lights go out, when you stop needing to prove you’ve made it.”

Jack: “So happiness is… ordinary?”

Jeeny: “It always was. We were just too extraordinary to notice.”

Jack: “You make failure sound peaceful.”

Jeeny: “Peace isn’t failure, Jack. It’s the prize we forget to collect.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — the city stretching endlessly beneath them, two silhouettes framed against the soft glow of ambition’s aftermath.

The rain softened, the lights blurred, and for once, neither spoke.

In that silence — somewhere between success and surrender — the truth of Korda’s words found its home:

that happiness isn’t the reward for winning,
and failure isn’t the birthplace of wisdom,
but both are mirrors — reflecting the same face,
the one still searching for peace behind the performance.

And there, in that high-rise sanctuary of exhaustion and grace,
Jack and Jeeny finally sat still —
two souls learning that success might fill your pockets,
but only stillness can fill your heart.