CHAPTER ONE
1156 Words
CHAPTER ONE
Mornings here in the penthouse are always too quiet.
The kind of quiet that reads as beautiful on the surface — soft sunlight spilling onto marble floors, warm gold reflecting off the Manhattan skyline — but in which one senses something sharp underneath. Something listening.
The early morning is alive with the slow stirring of the city below, where I stand by the window. Lights flicker.
Cars blur into streams. New York sounds like a giant being jostled awake.
It’s peaceful from up here.
It’s never peaceful underneath.
I look away and go over to the wardrobe — floor-to-ceiling glass doors, inside dresses in silk, velvet, champagne colors, dark reds.
Victor calls it my “palette.” I refer to it as the cost of playing the role.”
I select a malleable robe that has been crafted from silky champagne and I let it fall over my shoulders. My hair falls in loose waves. My skin has that practiced, effortless glow.
A meek knock comes at the door.
“Isabella?”
Rosie’s voice. Warm. Shy. Familiar.
“Come in,” I say.
The door opens slowly. It opens to reveal Rosie, in a pink satin robe with the shades of her red hair pulled up into an ill-behaved bun. She’s got a makeup brush in one hand, a lip balm in the other — obviously caught mid-pampering herself.
When she sees me, her face brightens.
“You’re up,” she says with a smile like it’s the best thing I’ll see all day. I was about to come up and see that you had something to eat.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You always worry too much.”
“Somebody has to,” she mutters, coming over to smooth the sleeve of my robe. “You never worry about yourself.”
That makes something a little tight in my chest.
Rosie is about the only halfway decent thing that’s ever happened around here.
Tender where the world made us tough.”
Gentle when the agency trains sharpness.
The most beautiful amongst us, if you ask me.
And the only one that Victor has not succeeded in breaking.
“What’s happening today?” I ask.
Rosie tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Victor told you to come down, but not why?”
Of course he didn’t.
I nod. “I’ll go soon.”
Rosie hesitates. “Do you want me to hold on for you?”
“No, go finish getting ready.”
She smiles, relieved. “Fine … but I’m going to look in on you later.”
“I know.”
She leaves, and the silence comes back.
I go to the vanity, and I apply a whisper of gloss, barely-there mascara, a hint of blush. Natural. Unreadable.
The top girl in the agency doesn’t even appear to try.
She simply is.
I slip into a pair of heels, and leave my room.
The hallway is already buzzing with girls getting ready for their various events this night.
It is Ava who emerges from her room first — hair wet, robe tied loosely, eyeliner already sharp before the day has truly begun. She smirks when she sees me.
“Well, well. Royalty wakes early,” she teases.
I give her a small look. “Your voice is too loud for now this hour.
She gasps dramatically. “Insulting me before breakfast? Isabella you know my heart’s not going to be able to handle this.”
Mila appears next. Furrowed black hair, clean face, phone in hand. Calm. Observant. Dangerous when needed.
She stops beside me. “Heard anything about tonight?”
“Nothing,” I answer honestly.
Mila hums. “Victor’s tense. Saw him earlier pacing his office.”
Ava snorts. “Victor is always tense. He sleeps with his eyes open.
I hide a smile.
We walk to the elevator together, our heels clicking lightly. Rosie hurries up, now fully clothed in a pale blue dress, makeup shimmering. She falls in beside me.
The girls are yapping — whining, confiding, boasting, fear masquerading as sarcasm. It’s like a cozy blanket in the room.
But at the bottom of it… we’re all monsters.
And where we belong.
And who pulls the strings.
“Are you nervous?” Rosie murmurs, waiting for the elevator.
“No.” I say side eyeing her.
She nods, believing me.
The elevator dings, the doors slide open without a hitch. The others peel off to complete their glam appointments, but I enter alone.
The descent is soundless — only my own reflection in the gold panels, placid and empty of feeling.
Victor is standing exactly where I expect him to be when the doors open.
Black suit. Polished shoes. Hands clasped behind his back. He doesn’t smile—he appraises.
He walks towards me with measured, deliberate steps.
“You look rested,” he says, his eyes taking a survey of me. “Good.”
His approval dangles in the air like a knife.
“You wanted to see me,” I say.
He nods, walking around me once a kind of he’s looking for anything that is not in order.
“Tonight’s going to be light,” he says.
He then pulls something out from his pocket and hands it to me.
A small vial skirting across. The glass catches the soft light, delicate and heavy at the same time.
“This,” he breathes, squeezing it into my palm, “is for tonight. Slip it into his drink.” His voice lowers an octave, tinged with something unsaid — danger and command. “When he’s exposed, you take it.”
I grip the vial as if it weighs more than its tiny design suggests. Inside, a clear liquid so nearly harmless, but I know better. The room feels tight suddenly, and his cologne isn’t as sharp as whatever that is but there’s a hint of metal under it.
“No questions?” I say, trying my best to keep my voice even while something like adrenaline snaps through me as a sort of warning.
He shakes his head once, his eyes hard as glass. “You know the stakes.”
There is no hesitation in his tone and no room for second-guessing. I slide the vial deep in my clutch, feeling its weight there as a mute promise.
The elevator dings, doors glide open, and I step out into the night.
Victor’s driver is already out, waiting for me.
He opens the door, and I slide in.
.
Tonight’s client is one who victor has been targeting since, but only accepted to do business with him because of me.
A chance to have a night with the Orchid after his business dinner.
As if.
I peek at my clutch, the vial’s cold pledge pressed into my fingers.
I am the knife they sharpen in the dark.
And tonight, I’ll cut deep.
- Writer
