The Prototype

68. Check, But not Mate

TEMPEST

The early morning pressed against my skin, thick and cloying, dragging at my limbs. Sleep barely touched me last night—not with the relentless hours of packing, the restless pull of my mind refusing to settle. Exhaustion coiled deep in my bones, heavy, unshakable. But I moved through it, pushing past the weight, forcing myself into motion.

My reflection stared back at me in the full-length mirror, the dim lighting casting faint shadows along the curves of my body. My attire matched the agenda for the day—practical, comfortable, yet cute. Keeping in mind the text Marcellus sent last night for today's itinerary involving him having a meeting today which means that I'll be able to get straight to my own personal work without expecting any surprises.

My fingers traced the hem of my two-piece set, smoothing over the deep charcoal-gray fabric. The material clinging like a lover's touch, fitted but not suffocating. The short-sleeved crop top molded to my torso, teasing a sliver of toned stomach. High-waisted, soft-knit pants hugged my hips before cascading into a relaxed drape over my sleek, low-covered mule shoes. Black. Seamless. Whisper-soft against my skin.

The black crossbody purse slung over me, the weight grounding. The gold hardware caught the light in my walk-in closet, gleaming, subtle but deliberate.

I lifted my eyes, sweeping over my reflection. Hair pulled into a loose, curly updo—polished yet effortless. A few wild tendrils framed my face, cascading in delicate spirals. The lack of sleep dulled my features, so I masked it. A touch of skin-tone concealer under my eyes—just enough to brighten. A flick of bronzer to warm my deep complexion. A sheer gleam on my lips. A hint of mascara to accentuate my eyes and lashes. Simple. Effective.

The air thickened with the scent of my perfume, wrapping around me like silk—seductive, dangerous. Madagascar vanilla melted into my skin, rich and decadent, laced with the sticky, golden glow of caramel. A slow, lingering indulgence.

Ripe black cherries bleeding through, dark and syrupy, their sweetness edged with something wicked. Peach nectar clinging my to my pulse points, lush, dripping with juiciness—a contrast to the creamy, floral bite of jasmine sambac. Innocence kissed with sin.

As the fragrance settled, praline and toasted tonka bean emerged, warm, addictive. The sensual depth of amberwood curled through the air, grounding everything in something deeper, darker. And beneath it all, a phantom trace of cashmere musk, soft but commanding. A whisper of seduction, impossible to forget. It wasn't just meant to just linger on my skin—it's meant to haunt the air I left behind. Weaving into thoughts. Into sheets. Into quiet moments where nothing remained but memory.

The exhaustion pressed deeper, a relentless pull, but I didn't stop moving. I stepped back into my bedroom, my footsteps soft against the floor. My eyes flicked to the nightstand, locking onto the dim glow of the digital clock. A quiet reminder.

5:25 a.m.

Here we go.

I grabbed my phone, slipping it into my purse, my fingers brushing against the solid, familiar weight of the key. The second I wrapped my hand around it—

A sharp knock sliced through the quiet.

Right on time.

The routine second nature by now. Without hesitation, I crossed the room, fingers curling around the doorknob, twisting it open with a smoothness and mechanical.

On the other side, the same man from before stood waiting. Tan skin, ink winding up his arms, crisp suit perfectly pressed. A wall of unreadable expression. Unwavering presence.