The Prototype

62. The Risk We Face

TEMPEST

The bright lights in my closet hovered over me, their sharp glow spilling across the space. It should've been enough to wake me but I didn't need it, my nerves already taken the role, Suffocating me for the past week—ever since Marcellus stood in my doorway last Sunday with that same unreadable expression, calm, low, and firm with his deep tone.

"Saturday, Five a.m. Be up and Ready to leave"

No explanation. No elaboration. No room for questions. Just clear, undeniable command.

I was inevitably challenging him when I told him to take me off the estate if he really liked me. Thinking he wouldn't do it. That he wouldn't dare break his own rules, taking someone like me, temporary and under contract, off the estate.

And yet, here I am.

Four-something in the goddamn morning. Preparing to do the one thing I thought he'd never allow.

Leave.

My reflection in the full-length mirror staring back at me. My eyes scanning over my outfit once again, mentally checking off the list of information Marcellus texted me last night:

The weather tomorrow will be 30-35 Celsius (86-85 Fahrenheit). It is suggested that you wear light, breathable clothing. No heels. Put on sunscreen. Bring shades if you want.

His words echoing in my mind, clipped and unyielding, as if he was standing in front of me. I could hear the firmness in his tone making his word final.

Is this really fucking happening?

The thought felt foreign, unsettling even, like walking a tightrope without knowing if there was a safety net below. My stomach twisted, the weight of what this meant pressing heavy against my ribs. Marcellus wasn't a man who bent for anyone. Not for pleasure. Not for sentiment. Not for anything that wasn't meticulously calculated to serve his interests.

So Why the fuck is he doing this? Why is he going against the most important fucking rule he set on this estate.

For no one to leave it.

But Today, I am leaving. But with him.

The corset hugged me like a second skin, enough to ground me, yet it wasn't doing enough. Its intricate designs of roses pattern both commanding and seductive. The earthy tones of cream and brown created a beautiful visual contrast against my glowing, shimmering, sunscreen covered skin, emphasizing every curve while offering a sense of elegance. The laces at the back were pulled taut, cinching my waist and creating an almost armor-like silhouette. The neckline dipped low, the boldness of it matching the boldness of my existence.

My hands glided over the mustard-yellow skirt, the fabric smooth as water beneath my fingers. Clinging to my hips before cascading into asymmetrical layers, pooling softly around my legs like liquid sunlight. The high slit running up to my hip, exposing one bare leg, a deliberate and provocative glimpse of skin that teased vulnerability but promised control. The jagged hemline whispered chaos, unbalanced but meticulous.

The skirt swaying as I shifted my weight, catching the light and throwing it back in shimmering waves, a quiet statement of defiance. Adjusting the fabric again, my movements slow and calculated.

Since the text suggested no heels, I opted for flat-heeled mules in deep brown leather, simple yet polished. The pointed toes were adorned with understated golden accents, complementing the rest of my look.

Through the reflection of the mirror, my eyes shifted behind me to the dresser, looking at my clutch purse waiting. It's small, structured, and encrusted with gold and pearl accents, almost too beautiful to be practical. Inside, I tucked the essentials: room keys, phone, sunscreen, shades, and a tube of lipgloss.