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𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠: where is my mind - pixies
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Marianna James delicately fastened her pearl earrings, the soft lustre of the pearls accentuating the elegance of her white dress. As she stood before the mirror, the ethereal glow of her presence seemed to mock the mundane reality that unfolded in the invitation clutched in her fingers.
The piece of paper, adorned with ornate calligraphy, detailed yet another invitation to a lavish lunch date with society's elite ladies, all enchanted by the allure of her artistic creations. Mar's eyes scanned the elaborate wording, her lips curving into an amused smirk that hinted at the underlying sarcasm bubbling beneath.
"Oh, another rendezvous with the esteemed dames of society." Mar commented mockingly, her voice a melodic blend of amusement and disdain. She savored the irony of being courted by those who admired her work while remaining oblivious to the rebellious spirit that fueled her art.
In the wake of Mar's alliance with Alfie Solomons, fame swiftly embraced her, tracing her every step through the winding streets of London. Now recognised as an aspiring painter, her canvases became the whispered talk of the city, extending their influence beyond its borders.
In the daylight, she revelled in the richness of her newfound life, bathed in the accolades and admiration her art garnered. The sunlit hours allowed her to flourish as a painter, shaping her identity within the vibrant tapestry of London's artistic circles.
As the night descended, Mar seamlessly transformed into an essential piece of Alfie Solomons' intricate network. Within the confines of his bakery, she became more than a mere artist; she metamorphosed into a watchful and thoughtful secret adviser, her identity shrouded in the shadows of her dual existence.
Nevertheless, the hands of time seemed to conspire against Mar. In the span of a week, three letters arrived at her doorstep, each bearing the weight of a message that urged her to return to the place she had abruptly departed from several years ago.
As Marianna stood in her room, a suitcase poised atop her bed, she felt the pull of inevitability. The messages, written on delicate parchment, echoed the call of her roots, compelling her to revisit the past she had left behind.
A gentle knock resonated through the room, and Mar, adorned in her white dress, welcomed the intrusion with a polite smile.
"Madame, there's a phone call for you." Suzanne, the elderly widow Mar had hired to assist around the house, informed in a soft tone.
