The Prototype

53. The Eye of the Storm

TEMPEST

Fastening the last button of my silk pajama top, savoring the feel of the fabric against my skin—cool, luxurious, and smooth, like a whisper of decadence only I could afford. The pastel blue shimmered faintly in the golden morning light streaming through the windows, its subtle silver piping catching the glint and elevating the garment to understated elegance. The matching pajama pants hugged my hips with the perfect balance of fit and ease, the material brushing against me with every step like a lover's fleeting caress. The hem flared slightly, sweeping gracefully over my matching slippers.

I paused in front of the floor-length mirror inside the walk-in closet. My flawless reflection staring back at me. My hair framing my face like a halo of defiance, every strand deliberate yet seemingly wild—effortless perfection. My signature perfume hung in the air, a lingering blend of sweet vanilla, jasmine, and melodies of dark amber plum. Satisfied, I ran a hand through my hair, letting the now loose waves settle naturally as I stepped away, the soft padding of my slippers muffled against the marble floor.

Leaving out of the closet, I entered my bedroom, the faint vibration of my phone grasping my attention. Laying on the sleek nightstand, its screen illuminating faintly in the muted light. I walked towards it, picking it up and tapping the screen. Seeing a message from Marcellus:

"Meeting in my office. 45 minutes after breakfast."

Short. Curt.

"What the fuck is this now?" I muttered under my breath, my thumb hovering over the keyboard to fire back some sarcastic retort. But I paused, staring at the screen. Marcellus never wasted words, but this? No details, no context, just this cryptic command dropped into my otherwise predictable Monday morning. Instantly irritating me just enough to shift the morning I planned.

A soft sigh escaped my lips, equal parts frustration and resignation. I tossed the phone back onto the nightstand with a flick of my wrist, its dull thud muffled against the glass. If he wanted to play mysterious, I'd match his energy. Let the theatrics begin.

I grabbed the key from the nightstand, its smooth, cool metal grounding me momentarily. Sliding it into the pocket of my pajama pants, I left the room, locking the door behind me with a soft click. The hallway outside was its usual quietness, its stillness amplifying the hum of my thoughts. My slippers echoed softly as I moved toward the grand staircase, the sound bouncing off the high ceilings.

Irritation churned in me, a slow boil that bubbled with every step. No agenda, no dress code, just a vague demand. My mind raced through possibilities, each one more infuriating than the last.

What the hell could he want?

My jaw tightened as I descended the staircase, the railing cold beneath my fingertips. The muted morning light spilling through the arched windows, their intricate designs mocking me with their perfection.

The aroma of breakfast hit me as I neared the bottom step. Freshly brewed coffee, warm pastries, and the savory scent of bacon and eggs wrapped around me like an uninvited embrace. Normally, the promise of food would be enough to shift my mood, to coax me into some semblance of patience, but not today. Not when Marcellus had decided to upend my morning with his enigmatic bullshit.

I passed the kitchen, my eyes flicked toward the open doorway. Staff bustled inside with military precision, their movements quick, efficient, and unnervingly silent. Silver trays gleamed under the fluorescent lights, hands darting back and forth as they prepared the feast. They never looked up, not even for a second. The kitchen was a different world entirely, and its inhabitants acted as though acknowledging anyone outside their realm would shatter their fragile balance.