In a heart-wrenching tale of sacrifice, betrayal, and redemption, Makenna Lewasi faces her greatest challenge yet. Six years ago, she made a decision that shattered her own heart but saved her family. Now, as she stands on the brink of a loveless ma...
A few devastatingly torturous hours later, Dionysius is driving up a woody boulevard of overgrown hibiscus and young spruce trees, a cobblestone driveway winding up a hill towards what seems to be pulling up to a house recluse from the rest, the swiss alps towering behind it. A garden of somewhat overgrown thistle and dandelions line its driveway, some hibiscus crawling up the walls in bursts of pale pinks and purples. The house itself was so unassuming it almost looked abandoned, plants growing wildly almost waist-high around it in a clusters of oranges, reds and purples. You wouldn't have suspected to accuse anyone, let alone the wife of Dionysius Plutarch, of living there.
When the garage door opened, a stone structure built into what could be the basement of the house, he could only assume she had seen the car drive in and wished to maintain the illusion that no one was here. So he drove into the garage, parked the car and stepped out, following the door to what appeared to be stairs that led to the front of the house. He stopped, taking in the view of the alps, the fresh air, the majesty of nature. So this is where she had been hiding...
He mumbles a short prayer to whoever would listen and then made his way up the steps and opens a surprisingly modern door given the old stone facade of the back of the house. It opens into a corridor much sleeker than he would have expected of the house's interior.Part of him was so nervous he would have thrown up if he had eaten anything, but he hadn't. He was confident now, in his outfit choice, and his arguments and if it came to it, his grovelling. He had to be. The corridor opens into a beautiful but also unassuming living area, flooded to the left by a huge colourful mosaic window that took up the entire wall and was crowned by the alps. Seated there, bathed in the pale blues, pinks and greens flooding the room from the colourful mosaic window, is his former secretary Myrtle Robson, her long sleek blonde bob taking on the colours of the mosaic.
Perhaps he had been naive in thinking it would be just him and Makenna here tonight, after all she had accused him of cruelty and misbehavior as grounds for divorce. However, he would have expected Mikulas or Eva or Zafira or even Nadia before he expected to see Myrtle here. There was a long list of people, Makenna's parents included, that he would have thought to find here before he'd have thought of Myrtle. Myrtle's green gaze finally moves from the breathtaking view of the alps to him, looking his outfit over with opaque languid approval. She had always been attracted to him, Dionysius knew that. What he didn't know is if he could work that to his advantage at this precise moment.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Is there anything you can't make work?" she wonders at his bright pink cap pushed backwards and the navy sweater and pants ensemble.
He was going for nostalgia, for the old Dionysius, for someone who was very far removed from cruel and misbehaved. He wanted Makenna to see him differently, as if he had shed the ways of the guy on the newspapers.
"I don't know if you've heard but my marriage is in shambles; so that's one thing I might be unable to make work." He shrugs, trying to not show his disappointment at her presence here.
