The Second Coming of Atlas Prime

Chapter 9

"What's wrong?" Atlas asked, keeping his voice low as they walked away from the gathering. The corridor's dim lighting cast long shadows across Hannah's worried face.

Hannah glanced over her shoulder, making sure they were alone. "I don't know much, but Anola has this... pattern. Every high-positioned staff member gets summoned to her private chambers eventually. A personal meeting, she calls it."

"That seems standard for someone of her position," Atlas remarked, though his instincts told him otherwise.

"It's not what you think." Hannah's voice dropped even lower. "Every single person she's called for a private meeting ends up fired or worse. Some even got jailed on fabricated charges."

Atlas raised an eyebrow. "Every single one?"

"Without exception." Hannah's fingers nervously twisted the diamond bracelet on her wrist. "No one knows what happens in there. She has the room swept for bugs daily, and there are no cameras. Whatever happens in her place, stays in there."

A chill ran down Atlas's spine despite his careful preparation. "What should I do?"

Hannah shook her head helplessly. "I don't know. Just... be careful. Aaron can't protect you if she decides she doesn't like you. Even he doesn't cross her."

"I understand." Atlas nodded, his mind already calculating this unexpected development. Another piece on the chessboard had made a move he hadn't anticipated.

…

Later that evening, Atlas stood before Anola's private study, the weight of his revenge hanging heavy in the air around him. He knocked three times, each rap against the ornate wood door echoing in the silent hallway.

"Enter," came the imperious command from within.

The room that greeted him was unlike anything he expected. Rather than the severe, businesslike environment he had anticipated, Anola's private study resembled a luxurious boudoir.

Rich burgundy drapes framed floor-to-ceiling windows, while plush Persian rugs covered every inch of hardwood floor. A massive four-poster bed dominated one corner, separated from the study area by an ornate Chinese screen.

Anola sat behind a delicate writing desk, still dressed in her evening attire but with her shoes removed. The diamonds at her throat caught the light from the crystal chandelier above.

"Mr. Reed," she acknowledged without looking up from the papers before her. "Close the door behind you."

Atlas complied, standing at attention several feet from her desk. "You wanted to see me, Mrs. Finnegan?"

"Anola," she corrected, finally raising her eyes to meet his. "Please, sit." She gestured to a plush armchair positioned across from her. "Relax. This isn't a formal interview."

Atlas lowered himself into the chair, maintaining perfect posture. Relaxation wasn't in his vocabulary, particularly not in the presence of the woman who had orchestrated his downfall.

"Tell me about yourself," she began, leaning back in her chair. "Your real self, not the resume version my future daughter-in-law has been parroting."

"There's not much more to tell," Atlas replied smoothly. "I've devoted my life to security work. The Montgomerys, the Crawfords-"

"Yes, yes," Anola waved dismissively. "Impressive credentials, I'll grant you that. I've already verified them." She stood, moving to a crystal decanter on a side table. "Drink?"

"No, thank you."

"Suit yourself." She poured herself a generous measure of amber liquid. "You know, I find it interesting that a man with your qualifications would accept a position as a glorified bodyguard for someone like Hannah."

Atlas kept his expression neutral. "The position offered certain... advantages."

A knowing smile curved Anola's lips. "I'm sure it did." She took a long sip of her drink, studying him over the rim of her glass. "You're an attractive man, Mr. Reed. Very... physical."

Something shifted in the atmosphere of the room. Atlas watched in growing disbelief as Anola set down her glass and began to unbutton her silk blouse.

"Mrs. Finnegan-" he began.

"I told you, it's Anola." Another button fell open, revealing the lace edge of her bra. "And I think we understand each other quite well."

Atlas's mind raced. This hadn't been part of his plan. "I'm not sure I follow."

She laughed, a cold sound devoid of humor. "Don't play coy. It doesn't suit a man of your... capabilities." The blouse slipped from her shoulders, revealing toned arms and the smooth decolletage of a woman who spent thousands on maintaining her appearance.

"Ever since my husband died, certain needs have gone unfulfilled."

Atlas felt a wave of revulsion as the realisation dawned. "You're suggesting..."

"I'm not suggesting anything." Her voice hardened. "I'm stating facts. If you want this position, if you want to stay in this house, you'll satisfy me. It's that simple."

Atlas struggled to maintain his composure as James Reed while inwardly, he recoiled at the thought. Every woman in this house seemed obsessed with s*x as a form of power.

First Hannah, now Anola.

"You're hesitating," Anola observed, her hand moving to the zipper of her skirt. "That's disappointing."

Atlas calculated his options rapidly. He needed to maintain his cover, needed access to the mansion and its secrets. And he needed Anola's trust, or at least her distraction.

"Not hesitating," he replied, his voice dropping to a seductive timbre as he rose from his chair. "Simply... appreciating the view."

Relief flashed briefly across Anola's features before her mask of confidence returned. Atlas moved toward her with predatory grace, his hands coming to rest on her bare shoulders.

"You've caught me by surprise," he murmured, brushing his lips against her ear. "But I'm nothing if not adaptable."

He turned her slowly, pressing her against the desk with gentle but firm pressure. Anola's breathing quickened as he trailed his fingers down her spine.

Atlas fought against his disgust, channelling all his acting abilities into this performance. His mind conjured the image of Anola ordering the guards to break his limbs, to dump him like trash. The memory helped him continue the charade.

He kissed her neck, working his way down her shoulder while his hands caressed her waist. She moaned softly, her hands fumbling with his belt buckle.

"I knew you were special the moment I saw you," she whispered, her fingers moving to his zipper. "Such power, such control..."

As her hand slipped beneath his waistband, Atlas saw his opening. His fingers found the pressure point at the base of her skull, pressing with precise, calculated force. Anola's eyes widened in surprise before rolling back. She slumped forward into his arms, unconscious.

"That was disturbing," Atlas muttered, laying her carefully on the chaise lounge. "My stepmom? Really?"

With Anola safely unconscious, he moved swiftly through the room, searching for anything that might advance his revenge.

He checked the obvious places first, desk drawers, filing cabinets, the safe behind the predictable painting.

Nothing of significance.

Atlas ran his hands along the underside of furniture, feeling for hidden compartments. He tapped walls, listening for hollow spaces. Frustration mounted as minutes ticked by without discovery.

Then he noticed something. The bed. Its massive headboard seemed disproportionate, thicker than design would require. His fingers traced the ornate wooden carvings until he felt a slight depression, nearly invisible to the eye.

He pressed firmly. A soft click rewarded him as a small drawer slid open within the headboard itself.

Inside lay a single item: a leather-bound journal with the Finnegan family crest embossed in gold.

"What is this…"