•Dichotomy•
|"A division or contrast between two things that are or are represented as being opposed or entirely different."|
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How many silhouettes can one trap in oneself? How many faces can a mask hide...
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The secretary and the driver were both startled by their master's sudden command to turn when the black car came to a complete stop in on the steep driveway by the lake. They were supposed to be heading over straight to his penthouse.
His sudden diversion from the course of plans was unexpected.
Henry McLeay, his secretary, with his dried mouth gulped out of nervousness. "Sir, we still haven't....."
"I want to take a walk."
He cut off the butler's words with his calm tone. The driver hesitantly got off his seat and opened the back seat door.
"Don't." He briefly shook his head towards Henry, who was about to follow him out. "I'll see you at the estate," he said as he turned his back.
By estate, he meant the Walker House. It was a humungous place worthy of being called an estate, not just a company.
At his order, Henry returned to the car while the driver quickly got back to his seat. After they drove away, the road became silent again.
He took a leisurely stroll under the drizzling clouds, holding his watch in one hand. His face was covered in a black mask, because he did not like the petrichor that lingered in the air around him.
He hated when it rained.
The sound of his shoes coupled with the swaying leaves in the breeze created a unique yet thrilling melody.
He was the image of perfection as a child, a student, and as a head of the household.
And now, he was making and governing major deals and processes of the law systems and was becoming a perfect President. No, he was already there.
All of these facets of his life were so perfect that he began to feel a little bored. Even though the initiation was something that no one would wish upon to even on the foes, now it never concerned him at all. His present was perfect. And that perfection left no room for bumpy mishaps to happen that could swipe away his boredom.
He slowed the tempo of his steps. The bright stream of water poured through the gaps in the tree leaves dampened the edge of his slightly slanted eyes. His hidden silver belt buckle, and the gleaming black fabric that decorated his black-gray three piece suit were then softly bathed in the cold rain.
'A collaboration was proposed by the President of Frostford. To take in a candidate for internship'
He had listened to the proposal with a grimace. Merely, because it was an audacious offer that was bound to be rejected, and moreover when it came from a man who knew him well enough to know how absurd it was to bring it up to him.
'He believes Alexandra Bridgette is the most suitable candidate for the role for this collaboration.'
He did not know whether the other man had just hit a point of coincidence or if he was clever than he could imagine.
