THE CAGE (The Chosen Series #3)

CH18. ♖fd1 ♟h6

I remove the items I'll need for tonight, and exit, the door sealing shut behind me.

Leaving the workroom, I walk passed several vehicles and head straight to the private elevator. The building's AI senses my arrival, and the steel doors open automatically.

I close my eyes and allow the AI to take me to our floor when I'm inside. My mind is blissfully blank of all noise, but the ache in my lower back increases with each level we pass.

Similar to the Office, the Bradshaw building has thirteen floors. While most are leased out to private enterprises, there are several that we have for personal use.

The Bradshaw building, like the farmhouse, is only a cover. It's the workroom that holds the heart of the operation.

When the elevator dings, alerting me of my arrival, I crack my neck and move through the doors when they part.

"Welcome, Maverick," Liz's feminine voice fills the lobby and flows into the ample family living space.

The lights, heating, and music are already on. Something Shay requested programmed when we originally purchased the building.

AI, or as Shay likes to call her, Liz, was one of the first projects I helped design with Oтец. And one of the only things I took when Griffin and I left the under.

The moment Shay discovered the artificial intelligence system, he became enthralled with the base program and worked to give it a more humanized voice. At the same time, he was obsessed with an English actress and decided to mimic her sound, using another program I'd created to extract their digital voice prints, completing Liz's programming.

Liz is now installed in all our safehouses, including Griffin's house. However, we have her on silent to not cause issues with Ava or have her ask too many questions.

Unlike the other levels, the top floor is a penthouse. Complete with four bedrooms, two study areas, six bathrooms, and a fully functioning chef's kitchen with a butler's pantry. The space, designed by Griffin, is filled with all the modern amenities required to pull off the facade of a high-end building.

Entering the main bedroom, I leave the clothing bag on the bed, strip and carry the cases into the adjoining bathroom, placing them on the vanity. Without looking at my reflection, I raise my hand and tap the screen on the mirror to the left. It takes a second before the glass dissolves, and the mirror transforms into a digital screen.

With the home screen activated, I tap several more times and locate the image of Ciara. Dragging it to the center, I enlarge it until her face fills the space.

Unlike our home on the Spur, the main suite belongs to me and contains additional extras that will assist with what I need tonight.

I quickly shower, ensuring I'm groomed, then dry my hair, parting it down the middle and curling it in the same style as the picture.

Satisfied with my dark strands as they fall just below my breasts, I open the latches on the larger of the two cases and pull open the drawers—each row revealing all colors and styles of makeup.

I may not have skills in applying cosmetics for myself. But there's one thing I can do. I can mimic.

Primer, concealer, foundation, highlighter, bronzer, eyeshadow, eyeliner, and blush. I select each color precisely to match the image on the screen. Placing the cosmetics on the vanity, I begin with the primer and work on autopilot, taking no enjoyment out of the process.

When the final layer of lipstick is applied, a cherry red, the color of blood. I peer at my reflection in the mirror and no longer see myself.

Just as I'm about to look away, I notice something flicker in my eyes, the dark grey warming. I shut them, holding them closed, and regulate my breathing. After several seconds, I reopen them and exhale when they return to their original color.