Rising To Power

Chapter 2

The Laurent penthouse didn’t whisper wealth—it roared it, unapologetically.

Maybelline stood just inside the entrance, her fingers curled tightly around the leather handle of her suitcase. Her coat still hung from her shoulders, but she didn’t feel the chill. Not really. Not when everything in front of her screamed precision, silence, and superiority.

The walls were bare except for modern, abstract pieces—jagged swaths of gray and crimson framed in black, like echoes of chaos kept behind glass. The floors gleamed under soft golden lighting, and a scent lingered in the air—cedar, bergamot, and something cooler, sharper, like mint over steel. Nothing was out of place. Not a single book spine misaligned on the dark oak shelves. Not a single pillow creased on the couch.

This was not a home. This was a fortress, built by a man who believed vulnerability was a myth.

And Timothée Laurent stood in the center of it like a god.

No jacket now. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms that looked more like they belonged to a fencer than a CEO. His storm-gray eyes—cold, calm, calculating—tracked her like he was watching the final piece of a puzzle fall into place.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked, his voice as smooth as the marble beneath her feet.

Maybelline didn’t move. “Is this the part where you pretend this is normal?”

He smiled faintly. “No. This is the part where we discuss what comes next.”

She didn’t answer. Not yet. She was still trying to reconcile the fact that she was standing here—at midnight, in a stranger’s home, after being bartered like a commodity. A Prescott pawn.

He turned without waiting for a reply, walking deeper into the penthouse. The silence he left behind pulled at her like gravity.

She followed, because she refused to be intimidated. Not by this man. Not by his empire.

He led her into a space that straddled the line between a study and a command center. One wall was nothing but monitors—stock tickers, breaking news, a rotating gallery of security footage. The other held shelves lined with books that looked read, not just displayed. Near the massive window was a desk of dark glass, its surface flawless, save for a crystal decanter and two glasses.

“Sit, if you’d like,” he said, motioning to one of the leather chairs.

“I’ll stand.”

Timothée didn’t press the issue. He merely nodded and leaned against the edge of the desk, arms loosely folded across his chest. He looked like he could stay in that position for hours, perfectly at ease. Perfectly in control.

“I imagine you have questions.”

“Just one,” she said coolly. “Why?”

He tilted his head. “Why did I agree to the arrangement?”

“No. Why me?”

A flicker of something—respect, maybe—passed through his eyes. “Because your father is ambitious. And you’re the leverage that came with the deal.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is. Just not one you want.”

Maybelline crossed her arms. “So I’m leverage. A bargaining chip. A headline.”

“Not just a headline,” he corrected. “You’re a Prescott. You have public appeal. You’ve kept your name clean, which is a miracle given your family. You’re educated, poised, and you know how to keep your mouth shut when it matters. You’re exactly the kind of woman who can stand beside someone like me without flinching.”

She almost laughed. “You think I won’t flinch?”

Timothée’s smile didn’t waver. “You haven’t yet.”

The tension between them thickened, but it wasn’t loud. It was quiet, simmering—like the air before a storm.

“You don’t want to be here,” he said after a moment. “That’s obvious. So I’ll be direct: you have a choice.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You can walk out right now. I won’t stop you.”

She stared at him, waiting for the punchline.

He continued, “No guards. No locked doors. I’ll even have my driver take you anywhere you want. But if you leave, your father’s campaign collapses. The media will spin this into a scandal so wide it’ll stain your name, too. The Prescott family will become a joke. And you—” he paused, “you’ll still have no power.”

“You think this is about power?”

“I think everything is.”

Maybelline’s heart pounded, but her face remained still. She didn’t know whether to be horrified or impressed. This man wasn’t playing chess—he was the board.

“What do you get out of this?” she asked softly. “Truly?”

Timothée straightened. Walked behind the desk. He pulled open a drawer and withdrew a slim leather folder. Inside was a contract—clean, clinical, thorough. “Legacy,” he said. “Political influence. A wife who understands discretion. And, on occasion, someone to share a glass of wine with when the city burns.”

She stared at the folder but didn’t touch it.

“You’ll have your own space here,” he said. “Your own schedule. You’ll attend events when necessary, pose for the cameras, smile at the right moments. In return, I’ll fund any cause you want, maintain your independence, and keep the wolves away.”

“What about…” She hesitated, cheeks warming. “Intimacy?”

His eyes locked with hers. “That’s your choice. Always. I won’t force you into anything. This is not a romance. It’s a contract. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

A breath escaped her lips, trembling at the edges.

And still, she asked the question that clawed at the back of her mind. “If I refuse?”

“Then you go back to a man who treats you like a pawn and a sister who would sell your secrets for attention. You’ll watch them strip you of your name, your choices, and any future that isn’t wrapped around their politics.”

He closed the folder.

“Stay,” he said, voice low. “And you get to rewrite the rules.”

Maybelline turned away.

She walked slowly to the tall windows that overlooked the skyline. New York glittered beneath her, eternal and indifferent. She’d grown up here, yet in this moment, she realized she had never truly seen the city—not like this. From above. From power’s vantage point.

She thought of Cassandra. Of her father’s speech. Of the cameras and the applause.

And she thought of her mother—of gentle hands and whispered warnings. Power always comes wrapped in promises. Look closely before you unwrap them.

She spoke without turning. “If I stay… I want something in writing. A clause. If, at any point, I decide to walk away, I walk. No penalties. No smear campaigns. Nothing.”

Timothée nodded. “Done.”

“And I want access to the Prescott campaign files. All of them.”

His brow lifted, but again, he agreed. “Granted.”

Only then did she turn to face him.

“I’ll stay,” she said. “But not for my father. And not for you.”

He didn’t smile. He didn’t gloat. He simply said, “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

---

An hour later, Maybelline stood in the hallway of the private guest wing, her suitcase once again in hand. A quiet maid in black approached and opened a door for her without a word.

Inside was a suite larger than her childhood bedroom and her first apartment combined. The walls were dark gray, the furniture understated but luxurious. A velvet chair faced a fireplace. A king-sized bed, framed in silver, waited beneath a crystal light fixture.

She set the suitcase down and finally allowed herself to exhale.

The silence here was different than the one in the ballroom. It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t loud.

It was real.

Maybelline sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped, heart still racing. Her fingers found the chain around her neck, the silver pendant her mother had given her just before she passed. Her thumb brushed over the worn engraving: Courage is

quiet.

She laid back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling.

Tomorrow, the war would begin.

But tonight, she could rest.