Rising To Power

Chapter 3

Morning in the Laurent penthouse didn’t arrive with sunlight—it arrived with silence.

There were no chirping birds, no city noise bleeding through the windows. The glass was engineered to block sound completely. Here, in this suspended world of steel and sky, Maybelline woke in a strange stillness that made her question if she’d truly left the world behind.

Her eyes opened to soft gray light filtering through sheer curtains. The sheets were crisp and cool, scented faintly with lavender. For a moment, she forgot where she was.

Then the memories slammed back—the ballroom, the spotlight, her father’s voice declaring her engagement like it was a political slogan. Timothée’s eyes. His voice. The contract.

She sat up, hair tousled and heart thudding.

There was a knock at the door.

Not sharp. Not demanding. Just a soft, polite tap that somehow managed to convey the wealth of whoever stood behind it.

Maybelline rose, pulling the silk robe off the armchair. “Yes?”

The door opened slightly, and a woman in her mid-thirties stepped in, dressed in a sleek black uniform. Her hair was pulled back into a tight chignon, and she carried a tablet in one hand.

“Good morning, Miss Prescott,” she said. “I’m Elise. Mr. Laurent asked me to show you around and assist with your schedule.”

My schedule.

Maybelline resisted the urge to scoff. She hadn’t even agreed to anything beyond staying the night—and already there were plans being made with her name attached.

Still, she nodded. “Thank you, Elise. Give me ten minutes?”

Elise offered a tight smile. “Of course. There’s breakfast prepared in the main dining area. I’ll wait outside.”

When Maybelline was alone again, she glanced at herself in the full-length mirror by the closet. Her face was pale, her eyes shadowed. But there was steel there, too. Something sharp behind the exhaustion.

She washed quickly and dressed in a soft beige blouse and navy slacks she found neatly hung in the closet—her size, her style, somehow already waiting. The Prescott family had always been experts at control. Clearly, Timothée had learned a similar trick or two.

By the time she stepped into the hallway, Elise was already moving.

The tour was quiet, efficient. The penthouse stretched across two entire floors—each one a seamless blend of modern design and cold functionality. The lower level held an indoor pool, a private gym, and a media room that looked more like a boutique cinema. Upstairs was reserved for business—a sleek office suite, two meeting rooms, and a security command center discreetly tucked behind an unmarked door.

“There are twelve staff members on rotation,” Elise explained. “Security, housekeeping, tech maintenance, culinary. You won’t see most of them unless requested.”

“Like ghosts,” Maybelline murmured.

“Efficient ones,” Elise replied.

They paused in front of a set of double doors made of smoked glass.

“Mr. Laurent is inside. He’s asked for you.”

Maybelline hesitated. “For what?”

Elise didn’t blink. “He said it was time you learned why you’re really here.”

---

The room was different than the others—darker, more intimate. No bright lights, no surveillance screens. Just a fire flickering low in the hearth and soft jazz playing from an unseen speaker.

Timothée stood by the window, his silhouette cut against the pale morning light. He held a cup of espresso in one hand, his other tucked casually in his pocket. He wore black slacks and a charcoal shirt with the collar undone, sleeves rolled. Somehow, he always looked like he’d walked off the pages of a European fashion spread.

“You’re awake,” he said without turning.

“I wasn’t aware I was expected to report for duty.”

That earned a faint smile. He turned and nodded toward the armchair opposite his. “Sit.”

“I prefer to stand.”

“Suit yourself.”

Maybelline leaned against the fireplace mantle, arms crossed. “You told me last night I’d get to rewrite the rules. So why does this already feel like a strategy meeting?”

“Because it is.”

She blinked. “I thought we were pretending to be engaged.”

“We are. But pretending only gets you so far. Eventually, someone wants proof.”

He walked to a small console near the wall and tapped the tablet lying there. A large screen descended silently from the ceiling and lit up with photographs, headlines, and video clips.

Prescott’s political network. Laurent’s holdings. News articles speculating on the engagement.

“You and I are officially front-page material,” he said. “Everyone’s watching.”

“So?”

“So,” he said, walking back toward her, “we play it well. Or we both lose.”

Maybelline studied the board. “What exactly do you want from me?”

Timothée sat down, one leg crossed over the other. “There’s a gala next week. International economic summit. High-profile. Press will be there. You’ll attend with me, give one interview, and smile like you mean it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You think I’ll fake it that easily?”

“I think you’ve been faking it your whole life,” he said softly.

That hit deeper than she liked.

Maybelline turned back to the screen, jaw tight. “And what happens after the gala?”

“We start collecting information,” he said.

Her head turned sharply. “On who?”

Timothée tapped the screen. A folder opened—marked Cassandra Prescott.

“I thought you might be curious about your stepsister’s real ties to your father’s campaign.”

Maybelline’s stomach twisted.

“She’s not just a socialite. She’s been brokering deals behind closed doors—some that may jeopardize more than your father’s election.”

“Why would you tell me this?”

“Because you wanted power,” he said. “I’m offering you leverage.”

Her voice was quieter now. “Why help me at all?”

Timothée stood. Walked toward her, slow and measured. “Because I’ve learned that real allies aren’t the ones who love you. They’re the ones who need the same things you do.”

“And what is it you need?”

“Control.”

The room was suddenly too warm. Maybelline felt her pulse in her neck.

“This is war, isn’t it?” she asked. “Not just politics. Not just family.”

He nodded once. “Every dynasty starts somewhere. Ours starts now.”

---

That night, Maybelline stood on the penthouse balcony, staring out at the glittering city. She held a glass of wine in her hand but hadn’t touched it.

The air was cool. Her thoughts were colder.

Somewhere inside the penthouse, Timothée worked late—always working, always moving chess pieces no one else could see. He hadn’t mentioned his past. He hadn’t mentioned his family. Everything about him was calculated. And yet… there was something undeniably magnetic about the way he moved through the world, like he wasn’t just surviving in it—but quietly reshaping it to his will.

Maybelline touched the glass railing. Her reflection stared back at her—tired eyes, careful mouth, perfect posture.

She was becoming something else here. Someone else.

Not the Prescott princess. Not the rebellious daughter.

Something sharper. Quieter. More dangerous.

Her phone buzzed.

A message from an unknown number:

You don’t know the whole story. Meet me tomorrow. Discreetly. I’ll explain everything. – M

Maybelline’s stomach flipped.

M.

There was only one person who would sign that way.

Malik.

Her oldest friend. Her first betrayal. The tech genius who’d vanished years ago after a falling-out with her father.

Her fingers hovered over the screen.

Outside, the city pulsed with secrets.

Inside, Timothée Laurent played god with politics.

And Maybelline Prescott? She had just stepped onto the board.

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