Crimson peak re-telling (Reader x Tomas Sharpe)

ℭℌą℘ţℯr ∫∫

An Invitation

Gripping your manuscript tightly against your chest, you waded through the muddy streets and towards the publishing house. You were almost an hour early, but your nerves could no longer stand to wait in that silent house with only the clock's ticking to break the silence. You ignored the stares of men almost twice your age and women who looked down on you and your "silly hobby." You held your head high and, as you had done almost your entire life, went on to take care of business by yourself.

The building was romantic in its way. Perhaps the oldest and least cared for building in your section of New York, its decaying edifice was but a friendly face to you. The chipped stones and fading statues were welcome friends. You marched up the steps and through the heavy wooden doors. The lobby of the publishing house was busy as usual. Ogilvie's secretary spotted you the moment you walked in and you could almost hear her shoulders slump with dread at your arrival. Smiling to yourself, you dodged the many writers and agents who carried stacks of papers and mountains of coffee, and made it to the main desk. The secretary, Kristen, forced a smile at you, her blue eyes icy cold and her hair pulled back into such a tight pony tail, you were worried that if the band broke, it might take someone's eye out.

"You're early," she said, clearly annoyed.

"I know," you explained. "But I couldn't help it. I was just too excited to see him and show him my new manuscript."

"I bet," she said flatly. She stood and held out her hands.

"He's in a meeting right now, but it's not important. I can drop it on his desk so he has it for your meeting."

You hesitated, not trusting Kristen not to drop it in the trash the moment you walked away, but you handed it over with the apprehension of a mother leaving her child. Kristen flashed you another fake grin and walked to the back of the room. She opened the door quickly and slipped inside. Moments later she returned, and, if you weren't mistaken, she was blushing profusely.

"Is everything alright?" you asked her as she sat back down at her post.

"Yes," she cleared her throat, looking flustered. She pulled at the collar of her dress. "Why wouldn't it be? He will see you in about fifteen minutes."

You thanked her curtly and took a seat near Ogilvie's door. Your tapping foot made little impact on the swarm of sounds around you. People were talking, typing, writing, and pacing everywhere. You considered just bursting into the room and forgetting the consequences because of your anxiety to meet with him. Just as you had almost rationalized the action, the door opened. Before you could even think, you had stood up. Expecting to see the wrinkly, old Ogilvie, your breath was snatched away by the sight before you.

He stood at least a head taller than you with an air of dark importance. His suit was perfectly tailored and exquisite, but at least a year old. Your eyes trailed from his silk necktie up to the pale skin of his neck. They followed up along his rigid jawline, pronounced cheekbones, thin lips, and at last, the most piercing eyes. His black hair was combed back, but you could tell it took a lot of wrangling to get it to look so relaxed. That accurately described the rest of the man as well. He had a presence of a hurricane, contained within a glass jar.

The man tilted his head to the side, clearly waiting for something from you. It was only after a few moments that you realized he must have asked you something. You blushed, ashamed that you had let this man's appearance distract you from the world for such a time.