Fallen Queen

~ C H A P T E R S E V E N T E E N ~

The human brain is akin to a supercomputer built on top of a clunker. The clunker is your primitive, reptilian, survival brain. The supercomputer is what does your proper calculation, is logical, clever and connects the dots together. However, when stress takes over, the bandwidth of the supercomputer falls drastically, tossing us back to a primal and basic way of thinking.

I haven't felt this so deeply, ever.

"And how does that concern me?" I say nonetheless, and he is still smiling coolly. A subtle laugh escapes his laugh and he uncrosses his legs, "A lady with class. Minding your business, I see, Miss Crimson," he dismisses my cold attitude smoothly, "How unique."

"I'm sure you did have other intentions than just complimenting me," I smile back and snap my spectacle case open and put on the black rimmed glasses on my face, shrouding my eyes from his view. He dismisses me coolly again, however my annoyance increases with each passing second. "Right," he nods, "Approaching the reason for my arrival, I'd like to start with the fact that you've been spotted at Wolfe Theodore's side quite often recently," he nods, "And have been quite close to him as a child. What a surprise."

The little hairs on the back of my neck stand up when he calls Wolfe by the name, not bothering with prefixes, or suffixes even. "I don't quite understand where you're heading, Mr. Deveraux," I cough, "However, you seem quite interested in how I'm associated with Mr. Theodore."

"A beautiful and equally smart woman by a multimillionaire businessman's side," he laughs in the typical relative-type way, "Who wouldn't be curious?"

"Curiosity killed the cat, Mr. Deveraux," I battled his cool smile with an icy one of my own, "Conspiracy theories sure serve like rum for people."

"Wise words coming from a smart-"

"I'd rather prefer it if you'd refrain from complimenting me at every step; I like my snack sweet but I don't to be diabetic anytime soon, Mr. Deveraux." The smile on my face has now dissipated into a businesslike expression. With every passing second, this man inspires the serial killer inside me to act out. Suppressing it is hard work and I'm more of a lazy person. He dismisses my coldness smoothly once more.

"You seem quite stressed and bothered by my claims," he counters.

"People live their lives bound by what they accept as correct and true. That's how they define 'reality'," I pause, enjoying the shift in his features from a sleek smile to a thoughtful expression, "Your claims are merely vague concepts- your reality might be a mirage, Mr. Deveraux," I smile back, flipping the power back to my hands, "Don't mistake your concepts to be the definite truth."

"How practical," he laughs, "So very different from the typical Hawthorne woman, Miss Crimson-Hawthorne."

It is suspicion that sends a cyclone of adrenaline whipping through my body. Ominous winds pummeling my ribs. Toxic rain corroding my skin, contaminating my veins and muscles and sinews.

"Mr. Deveraux," I grind the words out, "I am not interested if the point of your visit was to remind me of my extended family."

"You seem to loathe the subject, Miss Crimson," he smiles like a serpent, "Anything wrong?"

It's not just anything- it's everything. Frequent articles about me and Wolfe out and about, Wolfe asking a spy that I've met before to stay away from me, some random rich dude buying his way up through the list of my clients in waiting, questioning me about my relationship with Wolfe indirectly and finally driving the last nail in the coffin by mentioning my Hawthorne bloodline.

No, there's something wrong. And that's my analysis.

This isn't some random rich dude.