Rachel's Cage of Gold
Editha sweeps into the penthouse with the package cradled in her arms. The entrance of hers brims with the self-importance of someone bearing a crown jewel. The grin on her face sits, a closed book, its meaning known alone to her. Rachel Marron catches the expression and raises an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued.
"What's that?" the Voice asks as Editha thrusts the package toward her.
Bill Devaney, a shadow by the window, lifts his eyes from his notebook, their edge keen as a honed blade.
Sy Spector paces the room, arguing into his phone about a late shipment of promotional.
"A gift from your parents," Editha says, her tone dripping with mock reverence. "A little something for Ashley."
The stage queen frowns, taking the box. The explanation seems simple enough, but Editha's smug energy sets her on edge. She glances at the package, her fingers peeling back the layers now unwrapping a secret. A gaudy Ascot hat. A dress emerges. Both, drenches in Union Jack flair—so overflooded in British cliché it pulls a laugh straight from her chest.
"Well, that's subtle," she mutters, holding up the dress for everyone to see. "I mean, this screams, 'God save the King.'"
Editha isn't focused on the gift anymore. Her eyes roam the penthouse as if a hawk surveys a field for prey, her grin growing wider.
Editha scans the room, a predator sniffing the air. "OG Lord Rhymes-a-Fumble ain't back yet?" she asks, a wicked gleam in her eye. Playful in her tone but laced with something darker. The words land with a ripple of confusion in the air, the room unsure whether to laugh or concern.
The music icon realizes that there are no postal markings. "How did this even arrive?" The songstress shakes off her personal assistant's confusing behavior.
Editha taps her temple as if the singing sensation should already know. "The Watcher your parents mentioned. You know, the Ghost, delivered this." She sweeps her hand toward the package as if unveiling a hidden treasure.
The Vocal powerhouse freezes, her blood going cold at the mention of The Ghost. "That's not true," she says, but even she can hear the crack in her voice. Her stomach tightens.
Editha lifts her shoulders in a flourish as if casting off an invisible weight. "Well, the package doesn't have any postal markings. Explain that, Sherlock."
Across the room, Ivy Reed's ears perk up, her sharp eyes flicking between the two women. Bill's silence remains, the manager too cool for words, but his gaze has sharpened. Sy, half-listening, his attention split between his phone and what's happening. The look of him with quiet entertainment on his face betrays his amusement.
The Chart-topper rises from her chair, gripping the back of it as if for an anchor in a storm.
Editha's grin morphs into a look of faux innocence. "A gentleman courier …" She tilts her head, mock pondering. "He did seem familiar."
Then Editha straightens up, her expression shifting to a high, dramatic tone. "You shoulda heard how he talked to Ashley after that hand kiss," she continues. Her style, a mocking rendition of romance. A comment that once again causes hilarity. "Lady Ashley, even the kindest heart feels sorrow, but morning always returns to color the sky with hope." She flourishes her hands.
The room explodes with laughter. Ivy lets out a snort so loud it sounds as if she tries to clear her sinuses. "Wait, wait—he talks in Edgar Allan Poe levels of drama?"
Sy looks up from his phone. He smirks as if a cat spots a mouse.
Bill, from his quiet corner, studies Ivy with a look so unreadable it borders on eerie.
Kyle swivels toward Ivy, his mouth open, as if he sees the impression of her existence for the first time.
"What?" Ivy snaps, catching his astonished expression. "Why you look at me?"
Kyle blinks, searching for the right words. "You enjoy ... classical literature?"
Ivy's mouth drops open in indignation. "You jokin' right now? Tell me how we been together this long, and you ain't know I'm into that?" She crosses her arms with a dramatic sigh, rolling her eyes to the heavens. "God, you men. I gotta spell everything out."
Kyle stammers, his face going red. "I didn't say nothin'—"
"Yeah, you didn't." She gives him a pointed look. "That's the problem."
"What did he say to you?" asks Ivy, turning to Editha.
Editha, perched on the edge of the coffee table. Then as if a gossip columnist intends to spill the juiciest tea of her career, she straightens her back and affects a regal air. "Anyway," she says, cutting through the lovers' spat with precision, "he called me Miss Burruss." She pauses long enough for everyone to hang on to her words, then tilts her head, smiling. "Very posh."
The Platinum-selling artist narrows her eyes, her arms folded as if she braces for impact. "He knew your names?"
Editha's grin stretches, sharp enough to cut glass. "Oh, sweetheart, he knew everything. He played the diplomat card in New York, but let's not kid ourselves. That's a cover. He's a secret agent."
Ivy leans forward, her jaw hangs as if someone offered her a private jet. "A British secret agent?" Her voice spikes with disbelief, hitting a cartoonish pitch.
"Right," Editha purrs, her narrtive curling around the words as if smoke relishes the drama. "And guess what? Assigned to keep tabs on Rach and Ash."
Ivy leans back in her chair, shaking her head as though trying to process the information. "So he put on a big show for Ashley?" Then, in one seamless motion, she snaps her fingers and points at Editha. "Name? Linkcode? Address? And does he need a place to stay? 'Cause, you know, I got a spare loft. Real close to Rachel's, too."
Kyle's face darkens. "You better be joking."
Ivy smirks, leaning in enough to make him squirm. "Or what? You gonna pout me to death?"
Kyle throws up his hands in exasperation. "You do that, and I'm moving out."
Ivy crosses her arms and shoots him a pointed look. "You read my mind, boo-thang." She plants her hands on her hips with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. "I'll miss you so much."
The hum of city traffic filters through the tall windows. There is a distant rhythm that seems to mock the chaos inside the penthouse. The Pop legend presses her fingers to her temples. She tries to block out Ivy and Kyle's bickering, but her unease grows.
Sy hangs up his call, sliding his phone into his pocket with a satisfied sigh. "What'd I miss?" he asks, looking around as if he joins the best dinner theater in town.
Ivy snorts. "Oh, your competition, Sy. Sorry to break it to ya—there's a new alpha in town."
Sy smirks, leaning against the armrest of the couch. "I'm okay with it. Better than daytime TV."
But Rachel's focus wanders elsewhere. The earlier laughter has drained from her face, replaced by a deepening tension. Her eyes dart to Bill, the one who hasn't cracked a smile. He watches her with the kind of intensity that makes her want to look anywhere else.
Bill adjusts his voice with a faint cough. A low, commanding sound that cuts through the noise in similar fashion of a knife. The room falls silent. "Enough," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.
He locks eyes with the Grammy-winning legend, his words slow and deliberate. "Whoever this guy is, he's not here for tea and crumpets. Or has everyone forgotten the assassination attempt on Rachel's father?"
"What's his name?" the Music royalty asks, her lilt calm but probing. Her fingers drum against the armrest, a soft rhythm as a distant thunder. She hopes for something familiar. She's right ...
Editha hesitates, shifting her weight as if she were bracing for impact. "Peter Pan," she mutters, her expression a mix of embarrassment and exasperation.
The room turns to stone. A beat of silence stretches, punctuated by the faint hum of the city outside.
Editha throws up her hands. "Look, it wasn't me, alright? It was Ash's idea."
Rachel's lips part, but no words come out. She's a statue carved in silence, her brow a storm cloud gathering in thought. Ivy jumps in, her tone half-joking, half-serious. "Is the little one tryin' to manifest somethin'? What's she looks for'?"
"Let's hope not," the International sensation murmurs, her gaze drifting as a cloud lost in the sky. A flicker of something dark passes over her face. "Then she'll be no different from me."
Editha, cautious now, a woman stepping onto thin ice. "Ash's assumption… well, it's not without roots in truth."
This earns her a roomful of skeptical stares, but she soldiers on. "He didn't tell us his name, but—" she hesitates, eyes darting as if searching for the right words. "—Tinkerbell showed up. And, uh, she kinda… buzzed around him."
"Tinkerbell." Sy deadpans, leaning back with a snort. "Great. Next thing, we're gonna find out he flies."
A few chuckles break the tension, but the Queen of the stage stays quiet, her mind elsewhere.
Time passes, the conversation a blur of jokes and speculation. Then the sound of heavy footsteps in the hallway signals a shift.
Wesley Black enters the room as if a thundercloud rolling in. His eyes scan the faces frozen mid-laugh. He catches Editha's voice trailing off: "… and he touched you so many times, you didn't even notice."
That's all Wesley needs to hear. His jaw tightens, and his lips curl into a bitter half-smile. "Well," he says, his Boston accent sharp, "then it couldn't have been that impressive?"
The room falls silent. All eyes swing to Wesley. He stands there in the doorway, arms crossed, radiating a mix of anger and faux nonchalance. His gaze strikes the Siren and Editha, their proximity a subtle challenge to his comfort.
Rachel's gaze sharpens. She stays planted in her seat, exuding the poise of someone who's weathered worse storms. Her speech comes out steady, laced with faint amusement. "You need somethin', Wes?"
Wesley shrugs, his smile stiff. "Yeah. Someone from the FBI's here to see you."
Before the Voice of a generation can respond, Ivy darts in, gripping Rachel's arm with a sudden burst of energy. "Ask them what James Bond's real name is!" Her laugh breaks the tension, though it sets Wesley's jaw tight.
The pop star suppresses a grin, brushing off Ivy's enthusiasm as a speck of lint. "They won't tell me anything personal. I know how it works—my dad made sure of that."
Wesley scoffs. "Google it, Ivy. There's a million websites about who played Bond." Clipped his tone and dismissive. His Boston drawl sharpens the edges of his words.
Ivy pulls a face. "Boring," she mutters.
Rachel's soft laugh cuts through the tension. Her tone carries enough warmth to disarm the moment, though her eyes flick toward the door.
The air shifts as the agents enter. Their polished shoes click against the marble floor, each step purposeful. Conversations hush; even the muted background music seems to dim.
The male agent, tall and broad-shouldered with a precise haircut. He commands the room's attention. But it's the woman beside him who stops people mid-breath. Waves of hair that cascade past her shoulders, a sharper edge to her posture.
The murmurs ripple as an unspoken wave, and even Rachel's brows lift in quiet acknowledgment. Bill, arms crossed, stares, as he tries to solve a riddle.
The agent's voice cut through the whispering crowd. "Special Agent Sade Prescott," he says. He gestures toward her with the faintest hint of a smile. "I'm Special Agent Quentin Holt."
Sade's cool gaze sweeps the room. She seems unaffected by the attention, though her presence vibrates with authority.
Agent Holt glances at Sade with a grin. "We are part of the security protocols for Rachel Marron."
A flicker of dry amusement crosses Sade's face, but she stays silent.
Quentin Holt's words land with deliberate precision. His measured tone betrays the weight beneath. "Pure precautionary," he begins. The undercurrent of urgency in his state suggests anything but. "The point is your visibility and the recent concerns. We're coordinating with local law enforcement and… external agencies."
The luminary leans back, arms folded, a slow smile curving her lips. Her eyes stay locked on Holt, unblinking. His next words freeze the room.
"Also to the police and FBI," he says. His voice dipping into a sharper cadence, "British support has assigned. Per security protocol, there will be no direct contact with this individual."
Her expression sharpens. "You mean the British lieutenant colonel from the Special Reconnaissance Regiment? The one who saved my father's life?" Her tone cools down, laced with challenge.
Holt's professionalism falters, his composure slipping. "Marcus Gallagher didn't disclose that you two knew each other."
Rachel's grin widens as if a cat corners a mouse. She glances at Ivy, who now vibrates with suppressed laughter. Ivy's silent nod conveys a mix of mischief and triumph.
Turning back to Holt, the Queen replies. Her utterance a calm river flowing over sharp stones, "He stopped by this morning to say hello to my daughter Ashley."
Holt raises a brow. "He's efficient, considering he arrived today. Though to be fair, he does live close."
Agent Prescott stands to the side. He shifts, a shadow unsettled by the light.
Her expression, a quiet storm, unimpressed by Holt's open blade of a tone.
The celebrity stretches the next words out, her cadence dripping with calculated nonchalance. "I wasn't home when he came in. Then we had a call, but … Something must've happened to his phone. We got cut off, and now I have no idea where I'm supposed to meet him for dinner."
Holt blinks, baffled. "You don't know where the British diplomats stay in New York? You are Brit, too. Even I know—"
Before he can finish, Ivy explodes into laughter, doubling over as her body shakes. All heads swivel toward her, except Kyle, who glares at his drink as if it owes him money.
Wesley mutters from the far wall, "Is Ivy drunk?"
Kyle grunts, his glass empty before he sets it down hard. "She's obsessed with James Bond fantasies."
Ivy straightens, her face flushed. "Waldorf-Astoria," she says, her voice lilting with glee.
"Of course," Holt says, as if stating the obvious.
Prescott cuts him a sharp look.
"Agent Holt, please tell me you didn't skip the interrogations module at Quantico?" Sade's sarcasm threatens scalpel-sharp.
Holt sputters, "No."
"Yes," Prescott retorts, her tone a sharp edge, provoking a snort from Ivy. "Can we close this chapter?"
Holt finds his footing, his words sharp as he sketches the outline of the new security measures. The leading lady lets them wash over her, her fingers dancing a steady rhythm on her elbows. Police become positioned as life-size chess pieces, their presence thickening the air. Not alone the star—the whole scene tightens around her, as if a web draws them in.
When Holt finishes, Rachel's measured nod conceals the disquiet pooling. All beneath her calm exterior. The thought of unseen eyes tracing her every step as a shadow that lingers, pulling at her as an unseen current. "Thank you," she says, her voice steady. Holt exits with a clipped nod, leaving the room heavy with unanswered questions.
The air inside the living room felt heavy, thick with the humidity of emotions nobody wanted to name. Outside, the rays of the sun slipped through half-drawn blinds. It's paints long, restless shadows across the floor.
Wesley stood near the doorway. One of his shoulders props against the frame, his eyes sharp and burning into the performer. His Boston accent sliced the quiet. "What's this about James Bond?"
The diva looked up from the couch, her face a mask of cool detachment. She tilted her head enough to catch Ivy's gaze, her lips twitching in an unspoken joke.
"Peter Pan, ghosts, spies—hell if I know. Ivy's gone full Brit-mania. Imagining herself in a tuxedo." Kyle said, leaning back in a chair as if his limbs? Made of water.
Ivy gave Rach a lazy grin, the kind that dared her to escalate. "Nothing you'd understand," Ivy quipped, dropping next to the music legend as if she owned the spot. The couch creaked as she kicked off her shoes, one landing with a hollow thud.
Editha announces she's leaving to pick up Ashley.
The room stirs for one or two seconds before settling into its fractured rhythm.
Kyle, sprawled in a nearby chair, wears his face as a crown of indifference.
Wesley's jaw tightened, his smirk thin and dangerous. "You two got a crush on someone?"
Ivy rolled her eyes. "Relax, Boston. We're talking."
The ruler of the charts leans back, her lents glinting with a dangerous kind of calm. "No more than talks, right," she says, her voice as smooth as glass but sharp underneath. "That's a lot different than someone smelling of cheap perfume."
Her gaze locks on Wesley, steady and challenging. A mask his expression, but there's a flicker in his eyes—shock.
Sy, sensing the tension reaches its breaking point, and tries to cut in with a weak smile. "It's without doubt not that cheap." His attempt at humor lands with a thud, ignored by everyone.
Songstress presses forward, her utterance carrying the weight of a victory. "Do you think I don't notice?"
"That's not fair, Rach," Wesley shoots back, his indignation bubbling over. His voice carries the practiced tone of someone used to twisting the narrative. "You know what it means when you meet enthusiastic fans."
"Of course, she has some," Sy quips with a grin.
But the room? Too far gone for levity.
Bill, the resonance of caution, snaps, "Stay out of it, Sy."
Wesley turns his full attention back to the enchantress. The tone of him shifts into wounded theatrics. "Am I accusing you if you smell … aftershave?" His words hang in the air, a dagger wrapped in self-pity.
The woman in the spotlight lets his question hang for a moment. Then, silence amplifies the tension in the room. Out of the blue, she nods. "You're right," she says, her tone softer, almost yielding.
The shift catches everyone off guard, Sy most of all. He glances at Bill for some kind of explanation.
Bill's focus now locks on the Queen, his brow furrowed with concern.
The Voice turns to Wesley, her expression unreadable. "I'm sorry, Wes," she says, the apology cutting through the atmosphere similar to a razor.
Wesley studies her, his features hard, searching for an opening or a trap. The room feels suspended, the unresolved conflict simmering below the surface.
The Billboard darling ignored them all, lounging as a queen unbothered by her court. Her focus locked on Ivy, the two exchanging grins, kids with a shared secret. Wesley's jaw tightens as he watches, his irritation mounting.
Ivy drops onto the couch beside her celebrity colleague with a casual flop. Her curiosity sparkles as a live wire. "Alright, spill it. This lieutenant colonel—what's his deal? Some kind of special ops big shot?"
The Queen of the Night leans back and crosses her legs. Her eyes glint with the kind of knowledge she seldom shares. "Oh, he's more than special ops. The SRR? They're phantasmal. Where the SAS handles the heavy lifting, the SRR dives into the shadows. They specialize in the kind of work no one talks about. Covert operations, high-stakes intelligence, counter-terrorism. Of all the elite units, they are my absolute favorite. If there's a mess too delicate for the regular guys, the SRR cleans it up."
Ivy raises an eyebrow, her skepticism tempered by intrigue. "SAS I've heard of, but the SRR? Never. They sound: spooks in fatigues."
"Pretty much," The Voice says with a half-smile. "They're built for discretion. It's not brute force. It's strategy, subterfuge, and an uncanny ability to blend into any situation and local folks. These guys train to think ten moves ahead and make sure no one even notices."
The city roars. Taxis honk, in an endless symphony of frustration. The pedestrians move like combatants in a street brawl. The air carries the distinct aroma of hot pretzels. Some exhaust fumes, and make questionable decision.
Marcus Gallagher, a man trained for war zones. Right now unprepared for Manhattan's brand of urban combat. A bike courier clips his shoulder. Marcus pivots, eyes narrowing. The offender is already a block away, oblivious. Then comes an electric scooter, cutting through the crowd like a missile. Marcus sidesteps and crashes into a wall of tourists. Shopping bags slamming into his chest.
He exhales, straightens his jacket, and keeps moving.
A street vendor's stand looms ahead. All stacked with newspapers, cheap sunglasses, and an assortment of personal safety gadgets. A wiry man in a Yankees cap handles customers with military precision. He makes a change without looking up. A woman in a leather jacket lingers near the pepper spray display. Now she turns a canister. It's labeled. 'Maximum Defense'. As if she's considering a weapon for the apocalypse.
Marcus pauses in time to avoid another scooter. That time this one zips past at near-suicidal speed. He mutters, "I do admire your commitment to endangering pedestrians." The rider flings a curse over his shoulder and vanishes into the human tide.
The woman by the pepper spray turns, her eyes lighting up. "You're British?"
Marcus regards her with the kind of polite detachment reserved for garden parties and hostage negotiations. "Ah, quite so. You have an exceptional ear, madam."
She grins. "Knew it. You people talk… different. All smooth and refined. Even when you're mad, you sound like you're about to give a TED Talk."
Marcus nods, deadpan. "One does what one can."
The woman gestures at the street. "Meanwhile, here? It's all 'Move ya ass' and 'What the hell you lookin' at?' No respect anymore. This city—" she shakes her head, "manners got left on the subway in '95."
Marcus offers a diplomatic nod. "A dreadful state of affairs, I'm sure."
She leans in. "I work at a hospital. Lemme tell you—late nights, walking home? You gotta be ready. Last time I had to use one of these" She lifts the pepper spray. "The dude was so high, he blinked at me like I sprayed him with lavender mist."
Marcus tuts reaches into his pocket and produces a small, unassuming canister. "Try this. British army issue. It will incapacitate a small battalion of drunken Russians."
Her eyes widen as she takes it. "No shit?"
"None whatsoever."
She turns the canister in her hand, intrigued. "Huh. You fancy Brits are useful."
Marcus allows himself a smirk. "On occasion."
She eyes the canister, tapping it against her palm.
Marcus hesitates. "Madam, I assure you, the British military would't issue something ineffective. But if you require proof—"
A man on an electric scooter materializes, a vision of Wall Street hubris.
Perfect, tailored suit? Check. Designer crash helmet? Check. Leather briefcase swinging from the handlebars. Looks like he's off to broker international peace deals at 20 miles per hour? Check.
His grin is wide, his speed reckless. He zips through the crowd with the confidence of a man who has never once faced real consequences.
Marcus watches him for exactly one second, then plucks the pepper spray from the woman's hand.
"Allow me to demonstrate."
With the grace of a fencer, he extends his arm and sprays the rider in the face.
The results are immediate and very satisfying.
The scooter king lets out a high-pitched AAAAAGGGHHH! Clutching his eyes as his vehicle wobbles beneath him. He swerves left, then right, his briefcase flailing. Pedestrians scream. A businessman in a trench coat flattens against a mailbox. A pretzel vendor dives behind his cart.
Then, the scooter lurches straight into a hot dog stand.
CATASTROPHE.
A geyser of mustard and relish erupts into the sky. Buns and sausages launch in all directions. The vendor, a man built like he was once in a bare-knuckle boxing league. He watches in mute devastation as his empire crumbles. The hot dog water container tips, releasing a wave of scalding steam onto the pavement.
The scooter rider crashes into the wreckage. He gasp and his hands still clawing at his burning eyes.
The woman blinks at the carnage, then turns back to Marcus, slack-jawed.
Marcus, unbothered, hands the pepper spray back to her with a gentleman's precision.
"As you see, madam, it is rather effective."
She looks at the wreckage, then at him. "Jesus Christ. You Brits are too friendly."
Back in Rachel's Penthouse.
Ivy said, leaning closer to her pop star friend, now teenage girls swapping secrets. "Sounds sexy."
"That's because you've got terrible taste," Wesley snapped. His laugh was loud, hollow, and aimed as a missile at Ivy. "So, what—you've got a British James Bond tailin' you now? Imagining yourself as some Bond girl? Femme-fatale types with more lipstick than brains?"
Ivy flinched—a small, involuntary motion. Rachel's hand brushed her arm, a silent reassurance. Songstress chuckles. Ivy snorts. "Girl, if I had a shadowy Brit watchin' my back, I'd sleep equal a baby."
"Easy," Kyle muttered, shifting in his chair.
Even Sy and Bill's attempts to drag their boss into business discussions do not often register.
Wesley doesn't budge. His eyes follow his girlfriend as though her silence appears a cipher he's determined to break. The weight of what wasn't said lingers, a tension neither secret nor spoken.
But Wesley pressed on, stepping further into the room, his movements slow, deliberate. He gestured toward Ivy with a mock flourish. "Or you're thinking you'd play the tux-wearing man-fem." He grinned, waiting for the laughter that followed his words.
Kyle chuckled, but it was nervous, uneven. The air in the room thickened, heavy with something unspoken.
"Alright, that's enough," Rachel's voice cut through the laughter as a whip.
"Aw, come on, Rach," Wesley smirked, circling toward the couch. "You always get so serious. I'm playing." He locked eyes with her, his grin sharpening into something darker.
Wesley lounges in the chair nearby, smirking, a cat who's found a mouse. "What's next, Ivy? Imagining yourself in a tuxedo, posing on a yacht with Rach and … Eddi?"
"Stop it, Wes," she said, her tone colder now.
"Or what? What do you think, Ivy?" Wesley's smile fell, replaced with a sneer. Wesley, watching Ivy and his girlfriend, grows more irritated.
But Wesley's tone shifts. The mockery sharpens, becoming something colder, crueler. "In truth... that's not quite right," he sneers. "Man-fem may be the better term."
His laughter rolls over the room, but the atmosphere has changed. Ivy's expression remains unreadable. And still, the corners of her mouth twitching as if holding back something. She feels hurt. There grows rage, or something worse.
But Wesley's humor can't quite cut through the tension hanging in the room. He stands out of earshot, his jaw tight as he watches her—the nightingale dripping gold. Her ease, her growing connection with Ivy—it all unfolds in a world he's no longer a part of. And for Wesley, that's a dangerous thought.
Rachel's eyes narrow, but she stays silent, watching the exchange unfold. The words are daggers, but Ivy takes them without protest, her pride and pain too deep to show.
A storm brews inside Wesley. It's there in the way his jaw tightens and his eyes narrow as he watches Rach and Ivy. The conversation, their laughter—it grates on him as nails on a chalkboard. He clenches his fists, the anger bubbling below the surface. He becomes sidelined, left to stew in a room where he feels an outsider looking in.
Bill watches it all, his expression impassive, but his mind works overtime.
Wesley doesn't notice the shift in the room. He's too busy enjoying his own words, too caught up in the way he can twist and degrade. The laughter feels heavy, the weight of something unspoken. Ivy's face remains unreadable, but there's a stillness in her eyes, a coldness.
The diva cuts through the tension, her voice hard. "Stop it."
"Please", Wesley twists his tone into a grotesque echo of anguish, a cruel parody of a desperate cry. "You're hurting me. Stop it! You don't need a guard to watch your back, you need someone to guard your pussy."
Kyle jumps up from his seat, realizing it's time to intervene.
"And what do you want now?" Wesley moves toward him, a storm cloud rolling in, heavy with the promise of thunder. "Will the funding cut off if you don't defend the honor of your bank account? It's too late for that."
"Wes, shut the fuck up!" Bill's voice was a thunderclap, his usual composure cracking for once. It's unusual for Bill to not let Rachel's boyfriend get away with something. But the Queen doesn't object.
Wesley blinked, caught off guard by the outburst. Wesley stared at her, his jaw clenching, but the fire in his eyes flickered. The pop star didn't move. Her face stayed unreadable. Her eyes—dark and piercing—burned into Wesley as an unspoken warning.
Ivy leaned forward, her face hurt but resolute.
Nobody laughed this time. Wesley's grin folded, his confidence ebbing away, a tide retreating under a storm. The room's tension hung as a noose, tight and unyielding.
Outside, the muffled sound of a car horn echoed. Distant but sharp, slicing through the silence as a warning.
The music icon rises with the care of a sculptor crafting from glass. Each of her motion carved with precision, as though the air around her might crack under the weight of haste. She turned to Wesley, her voice low but firm. "Wesley, sit down and shut up."
His face twisted in disbelief, disappointment flaring in his eyes. "You're turning against me? Against your boyfriend? In favor of Ivy?"
The diva didn't blink. Her tone cut pure glass. "Wipe your mouth."
He froze, confused. "What?"
"There's some kind of slimy brown mass hanging out of it," she said, her words deliberate, pointed.
Wesley's hand shot up to his lips, fingers grazing the void where words once lingered. The room's air seemed to thicken, the tension unbearable.
The Singing sensation didn't wait for him to piece it together. She moved toward the window, her back straight, the glow of the sun casting her bronced silhouette in gold. The light outlined her as the dark warrior goddess of the Tuatha de Danann. She, placed on a battlefield, untouchable and commanding.
Her voice came again, calm and clear, each word a dagger. "It's shit."
Wesley falls silent, rising in one sharp motion. His chair protests against the floor, its screech slicing through the air as a razor's edge. The heavy lodge air trembles in his wake. He storms out, the slamming door leaving a final, unspoken threat hanging in the silence.
The atmosphere shifts, quieter but weighted, a sky before a storm. Tension clings to the walls. Everything, electric and stifling, pressing down on everyone left behind.
Ivy stands. Slow her movement, deliberate, as if she's shaking off invisible chains. She approaches the Queen of the place but halts, close to her boyfriend. Her eyes lock on him, piercing and cold, her expression carved from stone. He can't hold her gaze. Shame crumples his shoulders as he looks away. Without a word, she spins on her heels. The sharp click of her steps, a whip crack against the smooth floor. She strides toward the stairs by the panoramic window. The cool draft from her passing brushes Rachel's skin, sending an uninvited shiver down her spine.
The singing sensation watches Ivy climb the steps. Rachel's worry spills into the space Ivy left behind. The terrace door snaps shut, its sound fading into the pulse of the penthouse's machinery.
Sy leans closer to Bill, his voice a murmur. "What's your read on this?" Bill's reaction, not more than a glance, tight-lipped and seeking. Sy shrugs, defeated, his silence a gesture of helplessness.
Bill hesitates, his instincts tugging him toward the open door Wesley disappeared through. He follows, his steps careful, silent. The corridor stretches ahead, dim and cool. A sharp rhythm of Wesley's footfalls breaks the stillness. Then they stop.
Bill halts in the shadows, his breath shallow as he peers ahead. Wesley stands by the sleek touchscreen. That's the penthouse's AI console, its faint glow casting sharp lines across his face. His fingers move with precision. The screen responds in bursts of light that flash against the dim surroundings. In his other hand, his phonePad flickers, the screen alive with cryptic activity.
Bill's eyes narrow. The deliberate pace of Wesley's movements reeks of secrecy. Does he access the system? Or manipulating something deeper? The tension in Wesley's posture—coiled, calculating. He shouts one truth: he's hiding something.
Her Music royalty takes a breath and turns toward the stairs. Her steps are almost soundless, as though the weight of the moment has made her lighter. She emerges onto the terrace. The crisp night air brushes her cheeks and the distant hum of city lights breaks the quiet.
Ivy hunchs on a bench in the garden, surrounded by the meticulous lines of a Zen sanctuary. The soft glow casts her shadow onto the gravel. The slight tremble of her shoulders betrays her fight against tears.
The diva approaches, lowering herself beside Ivy without hesitation. She drapes an arm around Ivy, a quiet gesture of solidarity. Ivy stiffens, her breath catching as she registers the unexpected comfort.
"I'm sorry," the A-list headliner says, her speech a blade wrapped in velvet, its edge tinged with regret.
Ivy's head jerks up, her wet eyes flashing with confusion. "Why are you apologizing?" Brittle her tone, sharp as broken glass. "It's not your fault."
The Voice of a generation sighs, her hand squeezing Ivy's shoulder. But Ivy pulls away, her tone turning bitter. "Kyle, that idiot—he laughed with Wesley, didn't he? As if it was all a joke. And then he's surprised when I look for something else." She scoffs, her voice breaking under the weight of her own sarcasm.
"That's on Wesley," the Queen says, her voice steady. "Don't let him pin this on you."
Ivy exhales, the sound heavy with exhaustion. "If it were the first time, I'd believe it. But it's not. It's always so. I'm running away from it, Rach. From the memory. But I never get to where I'm running to. Instead, the memory catches up with me."
The New Jersey songstress presses her forehead to Ivy's, her words a steady anchor. "Don't let this fracture you. Stand tall. I'll mend what I can."
Ivy doesn't answer, her silence louder than words. Then she takes white powder out of her bag, "We share this?"
The music heroine squeezes her hand, then rises, her steps resolute as she heads back inside. The terrace grows quiet again, save for the rustle of the wind through the garden's delicate foliage. Ivy remains, her head bowed, her shadow merging with the ambiance.
The pop sensation glides through the lodge with an elegance that feels untouchable.
Rachels presence commands the space even as her gaze sweeps past its lavish corners. Her dress whispers against the polished floor. Then it catches the faint glow, but there's no trace of Wesley. Not in the cozy armchairs by the crackling fire, nor among the gilded frames lining the walls.
Without hesitation, she slips into the hallway. The mute thrum of distant conversations fades behind her. The air grows cooler here, the dim lighting casting long shadows along the paneled walls. She finds Wesley leaning against the edge of a small console table, his body taut, a bowstring. The faint light highlights the sharp angles of his face, his eyes cold and distant as he scrolls on his phone.
"What you did to Ivy was wrong," a weak lioness says, her voice firm but calm, a velvet blade.
Wesley keeps his gaze fixed, letting the silence thicken, until it hangs in the air as a second slap. At the end, he sets the phone down, his movements deliberate. "Wrong? No. That's on her. And on you."
Rachel's brow furrows, but she holds her composure. "Me?"
"You stood there," Wesley spits, his tone low but laced with venom. "You let her humiliate me. Didn't defend me. Not once." His voice rises, each word striking as a lash. "You turned on me."
The songbird steps back. Then, the weight of her shoulders shifting equals a crumbling foundation. She draws in a breath, letting it fill the space, quieting the air as the dust settles after a storm. "You're right," she says, her words sinking as stones in still water. "I should have done better."
Wesley raises an eyebrow. His mouth curls into a half-smile—equal parts disbelief and triumph.
"What do you want from me?" The Queen asks, her tone quieter now almost resigned.
"Money," he says without hesitation.
A flicker of something—anger, sadness, or weariness—passes over Rachel's face. She nods, her voice steady. "Fine. But I need you to apologize to Ivy."
Wesley lets out a sharp laugh, his head shaking. "Ivy? She owes me an apology. You both do. You think I'm going to grovel?"
The reigning pop queen locks eyes with the rapper shadowed in her orbit. Her gaze, become steady now, despite the invisible weight anchoring her shoulders. "I'm sorry," she says, her words slicing through the tension, a blade through silk. "I apologize for how I handled it."
Her words linger in the air, heavy and unresolvable. Wesley tilts his head, studies her, and then his expression hardens.
"And Ashley," the mother adds. "She needs to see you as a man in her life."
For a moment, his face cracks open, but the brief glimpse of fragility disappears as smoke in the wind. "I'll think about it," he mutters, his voice an empty echo.
The leading lady doesn't press the point. She pivots and moves away. But the sharp rhythm of her steps tapp out a quiet command against the hardwood. Each of her footfalls calculated, a soldier's march.
Wesley returns to the lodge minutes later. Now his face a stone slab, stripped of expression, a mask forged with precision. Bill watches him from the shadows near the entrance, his eyes narrowing. He doesn't move, doesn't speak, but the tension in his stance betrays his unease.
Wesley slips back into the room without a word. His presence seems a dampened flame—dull, yet smoldering beneath the surface. Bill's gaze follows him, calculating. There's something there, something out of reach. But now isn't the time. Not with the air in the room thick with the weight of unspoken words and impending storms.
In the background, the fire pops and hisses, the sound in a silence that feels more loaded than any argument. The diva steps back into the room moments later. Her face, calm and regal. The eyes flicker with something darker, something unresolved. The storm isn't over—not yet.
Ashley darts from Editha's side, her little legs a blur as she races toward the elevator. The polished floor reflects her bright sneakers. The squeaks echo through the corridor as bursts of youthful defiance. She strikes the button panel with the punch of a pocket-sized champion. The girl spins her grin a banner of victory.
"That's the wrong button, Ash," Editha calls out, her hands anchored on her hips. Her tone hums with the weight of a lecture about to drop.
Ashley's smile spreads the same way sunlight breaks through clouds. Her confidence appears a fortress. "Nope!" she sings, her voice a bright arrow, sharp and unwavering as if carved from the confidence of youth.
The elevator responds with a soft ding. All doors glide open, revealing a police officer. He looks more surprised than authoritative.
Ashley narrows her eyes, leaning forward with a detective's intensity. Her small head swivels left, then right, as if she's scanning for clues in the hallway beyond.
The officer freezes his confusion a still shadow across his face. He glances at the pint-sized investigator, the thought of her more a charm than a challenge.
Nearby, a guard chuckles, stepping in as Ashley starts plotting her next move. "Hey, kiddo. You're on the wrong floor. You live three up."
Ashley's triumphant glow dims as a flickering bulb. Her shoulders droop, and she crosses her arms with theatrical flair. "I know," she mutters, her bottom lip jutting out in a pout so exaggerated it could win awards.
Minutes later, the penthouse erupts with Ashley's grand reentrance. She bursts into the room as a living melody, her voice soaring as she belts out the opening lines of I Would Be So Lucky.
"In my imagination," she sings, sweet and pitch-perfect, "there is no complication—"
Every head swivels toward her, expressions ranging from wide-eyed surprise to unrestrained delight. Her tiny frame commands the room. That's a charisma, impossible to ignore, her voice weaving its way through the air as a golden thread.
Editha fills the doorway, leaning as a lazy vine against the frame. A smirk tugs at her lips, arms crossed, as she waves her hand with the air of someone saying: Don't look at me.
Ashley finishes her impromptu performance. A dramatic flourish, her eyes sparkle as she takes a mock bow. For a brief moment, the heaviness lingering in the penthouse dissolves. In the lash of an eye replaced by the warm, radiant glow of her innocent mischief.
Ash twirls through the room with uncontainable glee. Her small feet pivot with surprising grace. The polished floor becomes her personal stage. A pint-sized diva commanding the spotlight. She pirouettes straight into Rachel's arms, beaming.
The mother catches her with the grace of a dancer, laughter spilling from her as water over smooth rocks. Her voice spreads through the room, a warmth that paints the air, sunlight after rain. "Should I worry?" she asks, the words a playful tug on the edge of a storm.
Ashley hides her face against Rachel's shoulder. The girl's giggle vibrates through her little body. She peeks up, her dark eyes sparkling, polished onyx. "I met a boy," she confesses in a breathless rush, as though sharing the world's most guarded secret.
The mother arches a brow, her lips curving into a half-smile. "Aren't you a little young for that?"
From across the room, Editha smirks, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Boy? That's no boy—that's a grown man," she quips, wagging a finger as if a seasoned storyteller.
Ashley twists in Rachel's arms, her face scrunching with indignation. "No way! He's … bigger than I thought! He's twelve or somethin'." Her giggles spill out again, her nose wrinkling as she tries to stifle them behind her hands.
Wesley, a shadow at the room's edge, pounces on the moment to claim victory. He sinks to one knee beside Ashley, his smile a mask of rehearsed warmth with a hint of longing. "Hey, sweetheart," he murmurs.
Ashley freezes, startled by his sudden closeness, then narrows her eyes with suspicion. "Do you need money from my mommy?"
The room erupts in laughter. Sy and Bill leading the charge, their chuckles loud and unrestrained. Even the pop star hides a grin behind her hand, while Wesley's face tightens.
The moment interrupts by Ivy's return. She steps in from the terrace, the sharp scent of the day clinging to her. Eyes, red and puffy. A glassy shine betrays the cocaine-induced brightness masking her tears.
"Ivy, I wanted to say—" Wesley starts, his voice a rare tremor in the calm of his usual bravado.
Ivy glides past him with a poise that borders on regal, cutting him off with a dismissive flick of her wrist. Her focus lands on Ashley. "Don't fall for him, Ash," she says and looks at Wesley, her tone sweet but edged with warning.
Wesley turns to the star, searching for an anchor in the storm. He knows Ivy tells Ash so that his mother will hear the advice. Rachel's gaze meets his, a silent warning passing between them as she tilts her head. Not now. Ivy's walls are thick, and he knows better than to rattle them.
Ashley, blind to the storm brewing around her, leans into her mother. She whispers, a bold secret-spilling from her lips. "You'll never guess who he is."
The star of all stages tilts her head with exaggerated curiosity. "Hmm… could it be… Peter Pan?"
Ashley's jaw drops, her expression narrowing in mock betrayal. "I was gonna tell my mommy that!" she exclaims, spinning toward Editha in disenchantment.
The indignation melts, snow under the sun. In a heartbeat, Ashley throws her arms around Rachel's neck. Showering her cheek with a flurry of eager kisses. "Can he take me to school, Mom? Pleeease? I wanna show him to the other kids!"
The Mother chuckles, her smile unwavering. "You've got big plans for him, huh?"
Ashley nods. Her grin stretches as a crooked moon, revealing the empty space where her front tooth once stood. "He knows Nana and Pop-Pop! He says he's my big brother and he's gonna look out for me!"
The room hums with a gentle warmth, the kind that softens sharp edges and fills empty spaces. Ashley stands beside Rachel's chair now, her small fingers curling a lock of her hair into a loose spiral. She sweeps her gaze across the room, a veil of mystery cloaking her. Then her whisper shatters the stillness, cutting through the air. "He talked to me real nice."
Rachel's smile deepens, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "What nice thing did he say, baby?"
Ashley shrugs, then sighs, her hands flitting through the air as if startled wings. "I dunno. I caught half of what he was sayin'. But the way he said it? It was pure honey."
The laughter that follows feels lighter this time. It threads through the penthouse as a melody, lifting the spirits of everyone present.
Except Wesley, who stands off to the side, his smile faint but his thoughts unreadable.
And then, as if the scene itself decides to turn the page, the world fades—
A taxi hums. That sleek, streamlined design glids through the city streets. The headlights refracts against the glass towers. In the backseat, Marcus sits still, his posture impeccable. Gloving fingers rests. With a slow, deliberate motion, he unwinds the scarf from his head.
The driver glances up in the rearview mirror—and his eyes widen. "Oh, crazy, Mr. Rothko is in my taxi!"
Marcus exhales with a patience that suggests he has endured far greater indignities. "I am not Jasper Rothko," he states, enunciating each syllable with crisp precision. "I suffer from an unfortunate resemblance."
The driver whistles, unconvinced. "I would have believed it, considering the premiere of your film." He catches the withering look in the mirror and clears his throat. "Ah, sorry, it slipped out."
A weighted silence follows. The driver senses that his passenger's tolerance for plebeian prattle is thin.
Marcus adjusts the cuffs of his suit. His voice carries the clipped disdain of a man who considers Hollywood a vulgar sideshow. "Show business. Film actors, showmasters, pop singers… a ghastly breed, the lot of them."
The taxi slows to a seamless halt in front of the Waldorf Astoria. Marcus steps out. His presence swallow by the golden glow of the entrance. He leavs the driver to wonder whether he had, in fact, chauffeured Jasper Rothko in disguise.
And then—
A squeal cuts through the air.
"Oh my God, it's him!"
Before Marcus can react, a group of fans swarms. A wave of perfume. Flashing cameras and excitable voices.
"Jasper! Jasper! Over here!"
A pen into his hand. A glossy headshot appears as if conjured from thin air. Hands reaching out—shaking his, patting his shoulder, tugging at his sleeve. The scent of hairspray, designer cologne, and anticipation presses in on him.
Marcus hesitates for only a fraction of a second. And then, like an actor stepping onto the grand stage, he transforms.
"Hey, hey, y'all—one at a time, yeah?"
Gone is the aristocratic British enunciation. His tone now rolls smooth, casual—American. A dazzling smile spreads across his face, effortless as if he's been waiting for this moment all evening.
"Always a pleasure to meet the fans," he says, signing an autograph with a flourish. "What's your name, sweetheart?"
The girl in front of him vibrates. "M-Melissa."
"To Melissa, with all my love," he says, scrawling the words, then winking as he hands it back.
A man claps him on the shoulder. "Huge fan, bro! Can I get a pic?"
"Course, man," Marcus says, draping an arm over the guy's shoulder and flashing a grin for the camera.
More hands, more voices. Someone hugs him. Someone brushes their fingers along his cheek. "I'm going to the premiere of 'Run all Nights' today," a breathless woman gushes.
Marcus tilts his head, the picture of gratitude. "That means the world to me, darlin'. We poured our hearts into that one."
More flashes. More embraces. And through it all, Marcus plays his role to perfection.
Then, with the ease of a man slipping back into the shadows, he steps into the Waldorf Astoria. His charming smile fades, the mask dissolving.
His shoulders straighten. His face hardens. He strides through the grand lobby. The ghost of Jasper Rothko vanishes. Marcus Gallagher comes back—calculating, cold, and unimpressed by the spectacle of fame.
Marcus strides into the grand lobby of the Waldorf Astoria. The lieutenant colonel rolls his shoulders like a man shaking off an unspeakable horror. He dusts off his tailored suit with meticulous care. The diplomat flicks at his sleeves as if they become contaminated with the grime of the lower classes. His face twists in revulsion.
"Disgusting," he mutters. The Brit abandons his charming American act. He slips back into the clipped arrogance of British aristocracy.
A bright-eyed hotel receptionist beams at him from behind the marble counter. "Mr. Gallagher! Welcome back!"
Marcus lifts a single hand, a pope declining to bless a congregation. "Wet wipes. Immediately. And something with antibacterial properties. To be honest, are the colonialists always this pushy?"
The receptionist's smile falters. A tiny battle wages in her expression—professionalism versus the deep and burning desire to kill someone. She retrieves a small pack of antibacterial wipes, setting them on the counter like an offering.
Marcus snatches them up and sets to work, wiping his hands, then his face, then—for good measure—the edges of his ears.
The receptionist clears her throat. "So… you got mistaken for that movie star again, huh?"
Marcus exhales through his nose, eyes fixed on his task. "How many New York women have kissed me? I am certain I'll be suffering nightmares."
She leans against the counter, the barest trace of amusement in her voice. "I promise you, no woman in New York would've kissed you if they knew you were Marcus Gallagher."
Marcus freezes for half a second. The wipe lingers in midair. Then, with practiced composure, he resumes his disinfecting.
"That," he says, shaking his head, "must be what it felt like working in the chemical fight during the Great War. What a staggering source of bacteria! I believed for a moment that it was 1917 and I stand in the trenches of France."
The receptionist's lips press into a thin line. "Yeah, well, welcome to New York."
Marcus tosses the used wipe onto the counter like a discarded contract. He straightens his suit. "Yes, quite," he mutters, before striding off toward the elevator, radiating disinfected disdain.
Marcus strides toward the elevator until a not-familiar lilt rings out.
"Jasper! Oh my God, I knew I'd see you here!"
He turns. A blonde woman, tanned, wrapped in an overpriced cashmere coat, beams at him as friends. Her perfected smile is pure red-carpet energy.
Marcus shifts, slipping into his borrowed identity like a method actor possessed. His clipped British tones vanish. It becomes replaced by the warm, all-American charm of Jasper Rothko.
"Well, if it isn't my favorite star, Madison Steele!" He grins and opens his arms enough for an acceptable hug. The actress obliges. Her expensive perfume clings to his suit like an unwanted autograph.
She steps back, her eyes scanning the lobby. "You here with anyone?"
"No, no, I'm all alone," he says, leaning in enough to hint at intrigue.
She touches his arm, her manicured nails grazing the fabric. "You know your movie premieres tonight, right? But we could do something on Saturday. You and me."
Marcus's face lights up with boyish excitement as if she handed him the Holy Grail. "Oh yes! There's a fantastic Lego store at 636 Fifth Avenue! Huge event tomorrow. You won't believe it—they're displaying some absolute masterpieces! A more than 13 feet Empire State Building. And get this—King Kong is hanging right at the top!"
The actress blinks. Her smile falters. "What?"
Marcus vibrates with enthusiasm. "But the absolute best thing—they've got a Death Star! Massive! So many intricate details, I have to see it."
Madison stares at him, searching his face for signs of irony. Finding none.
"I meant dinner, Jasper. Something normal. Like adults."
Marcus looks appalled. "We can eat a hot dog while we watch! There are street vendors everywhere!"
The actress's horror is immediate and all-consuming. "You know, Jasper, I remembered—I have an appointment tomorrow." She steps back. "Let's… let's postpone it for another time."
She turns on her heel and all but power-walks toward the exit.
Marcus watches her go, then grins—a devilish, satisfied smirk as he dusts off his lapel. He reverts to his aristocratic British self. "New York women and I have no common interests."
The elevator doors slide open. He steps inside without a backward glance. The doors close.
Back to Rachel's penthouse. Wesley, lounging with his usual slouch and a half-empty glass of whiskey, smirks. "Your trophy brothah?" His words drip with sarcasm, his Boston accent sharpening the edge. He tips his glass back, taking a long sip.
Ashley blinks at him, confused, but the adults exchange knowing glances. Rachel's mood tightens, her posture straightening as her smile fades. "Wes, can't you let her have her moment?" Firm her tone and brook no argument.
"Sure thing, lovah," Wesley replies with a mocking sweetness. His eyes flash with irritation. He sets his glass down harder than necessary, the sound a punctuation mark to his faux submission.
Ashley tugs at Rachel's sleeve, her whisper a thread woven between them. "I don't think Peter trusts Wesley."
The room erupts as a storm, laughter rolling through it in waves. Editha bends at the waist, her hand fluttering in front of her face as if swatting away smoke. "That's what he meant by BG Count Ego of Street." That she says and snorts as she drives the old nickname straight into Wesley.
Wesley's jaw tightens, his hand twitching toward his glass as if the thing grounding him. "Real funny, Eddi," he mutters, his voice a slow burn.
But before he can launch into a retort, Ivy cuts in, tossing her braids over one shoulder. "I already fell in love with this Peter Pan kid, and I ain't even met him yet." She flashes Wesley a grin sharp enough to cut glass.
The tension simmers in the air, static, before a summer storm, the kind that makes your hair stand on end. Wesley's face hardens, but he doesn't rise to the bait. Instead, he leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, his silence louder than any retort he could've mustered.
Wesley leans forward, his voice a coiled spring ready to snap. "Tell me, Ivy, where's your home?"
Ivy doesn't miss a beat, a wicked grin lighting her face. "New York City, you mass-ass-hole. Boston's nice this time of year. What, they won't let you back in?"
The room goes dead silent. That kind of silence that feels thick, charged, the moment before lightning strikes. All eyes flick between them, but Ivy revels in it. She tilts her head as if a boxer daring their opponent to throw the next punch.
She leans forward. Her speech drops into something low and deliberate, the kind of tone meant to sting. "And while we're at it, Wesley, here's a little Latin lesson for a pusillanimous: Ultra meum rectum est." She pauses, savoring the confusion flickering in his eyes. Then she smirks, adding, "Translation for the less cultured? Means: This grows beyond my ass."
Ashley breaks the tension with a burst of laughter. "She said ass!" Her giggles bounce around the room, bright and unaffected.
Rachel's sharp glance at Ivy cuts through it.
The Queen of the Night takes a long sip of her drink, her jaw moving, but she says nothing. Wesley catches her look and misinterprets it as solidarity.
His face hardens, and a bitter grin stretches across his lips. "Oh, look at Miss Ivy. Real proud of her vocab, huh?" His accent drips with derision, but there's a faint crack in his bravado. "That what all your fancy education got you? Feeling smart now?"
Ivy shifts a breath's width. She tips her head to regard him as one might a passing jester on the street, amused but uninterested. The faint floral scent of her perfume lingers in the air as she smiles, the kind that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Proud enough to spot an empty suit when I see one. Thanks for confirming it."
She leans back into her chair, tugging at the edge of her blouse with languid ease. Her eyes narrow, studying him as she decides whether he's worth her energy. Silence hangs between them, a challenge and a dismissal all at once.
Wesley shifts on the couch, his usual cocky slouch feeling more forced now, it's armor instead of comfort. His jaw twitches, and his voice cuts through the tension as a dull blade. "Can you show more decency in your actions? But I guess you can't even spell the word."
Ivy doesn't blink. "D-E-C-E-N-C-Y. Decency." She spells it out as if she's teaching a kindergartener, letting the precision of each letter sting. Then her smile turns razor-sharp. "Your turn. Spell pusillanimous."
Wesley's nostrils flare, his grin returning, though it's lost all its warmth. "If ambition alone made icons, you'd be on Mount Rushmore."
Ivy doesn't even flinch, her manner cool as ice. "And your career's on pause. Same as your stream count."
The air feels electric now, charged with the weight of unspoken truths and bruised egos. The here ruling diva sighs. She sets her glass down with deliberate force, but she says nothing, letting the room simmer. Ashley, untouched by the tension, hums to herself. Her earlier giggles linger as whispers in the corners.
Clash. The sharp sound of glass shattering on the floor cuts through the air, not unlike a gunshot. The Singing sensation stands, her hand still poised from the throw, her face tight with anger.
"Are you finished?" Her words slices through the room, sharp and commanding.
Everyone freezes, eyes darting to her. The energy in the lodge shifts—tension crackling, static before a storm.
"Sure, my heart, we are," Wesley mutters, his Boston drawl heavy with mock sweetness. Without waiting for a response, he strides toward the exit.
The Voice follows. Her heels click against the hardwood floor, each step echoing in the thick silence. She catches up as Wesley reaches the apartment door. The sensor picks up his movement. A door glides open with a mechanical hum. Two uniformed police officers stand guard.
Wesley's tone, quiet but cold as he steps toward the elevator. "I'm done here."
Rachel's tone softens, frustration creeping in. "What's this about, Wes?"
He whirls around, his face a storm cloud. "Am I your break clown?" His shout bounces down the corridor. The scene draws side-eyes from the officers and curious glances from within the lodge.
"Don't shout at me", the diva snaps back, her hands balling into fists.
Wesley inhales, his chest swelling as if a storm brews inside. He casts a glance at the officers, their faces stiffened. The statues now stir to life. Wes hisses through his teeth, "What's wrong. You wanna know?"
Rachel's tone softens further, a touch of vulnerability slipping in. "Yes, I do. Tell me."
He throws his hands up, his voice rising again. "Should I come back in there so you can ignore me? Who were you three whispering about all this time?"
"Nobody," the music icon says, her words calm but brittle.
"Don't treat me like that trash-talking Gucci logo Ivy and think I'm stupid honeybunch. Who touched you?" His words are cutting, his Boston accent sharpening them.
The songstress steps back, her stance folding into a shield. "Nobody," she repeats, the words softer, a breeze carrying the weight of a storm.
Wesley's eyes narrow. "You're dismissing me in front of your crew over a harmless joke about Editha and you. I'm less important than everyone else in that room?"
"Don't you think you're exaggerating?" Rachel's tone, firm, though her wide eyes betray her disbelief.
Wesley takes a step closer, his tone darkening. "Oh yeah? Did you check that ambition's shadow when she mocked me? Huh?"
The pop star doesn't respond. The silence between them feels the same way as an open wound.
He sneers, his words laced with venom. "Right. It's different when it's your little lesbian Editha, huh?" His shout echoes down the hallway, far too loud now.
Inside the lodge, Editha's nails dig into her lip, her dark eyes burning with fury. Across the room, Sy sidles up to Bill.
The manager's expression mixes up with exasperation and amusement.
"Rach's dad said that Brit-officer shakes up entrenched hierarchies," Bill murmurs. He leans in as a whisper on the wind. He flicks his hand toward the chaos by the door. "Forgot to mention he's so good, he doesn't even have to be here to spark a wildfire."
Sy lets out a low whistle, watching the fallout unfold as a spectator at a prizefight. "Man, if this happens with his absence, I'm terrified to see what goes on when he's in the game."
"I'm sorry, Wes." Rachel's voice softens, her smile meant to soothe. She reaches for his arm, her fingers brushing the sleeve of his designer jacket. "Let's go out tonight. Have a nice evening, you and me."
But Wesley almost did not glance at her. His expression hardened with a mix of disdain and stubborn pride. "A little late for that, don't you think? I got plans, Rach. You can't abandon the world because a cloud passes over your sky."
He shrugs off her touch as if it were fire. "And truth becomes told, I'm done for the day."
Wes strides away, his polished shoes clicking against the marble floor. The automatic door yawns open with a cold breath. He slips past the rigid sentinels standing guard outside.
The pop legend lingers, her breath coming fast, frustration bubbling below the surface. When she returns to the lodge, her entrance feels heavy. Weight with the invisible aftermath of Wesley's departure. A stifling silence hangs over the room.
Ashley's wide, worried eyes are the first thing the mother notices. The sight twists something deep in her chest.
"Are you arguing because of me?" the child asks her small voice not much above a whisper.
The Queen releases a breath, her chest a heavy tide, as she kneels to trace her daughter's curls. "No, baby. No."
"MC Bimbo acts as an asshole." Editha blurts, her tone as cutting as a knife. Her face turns crimson.
Ashley bursts into laughter, the sound ringing out as an unexpected bell. Then does Editha seem to remember she's speaking in front of a seven-year-old.
"Eddi, what's that about?" Rachel's reprimand lacks energy, her words more automatic than forceful. She straightens, brushing her hands on her hips. "Wes is right, anyway. He deserves better."
"What?!" Ivy erupts, her outrage crashing through the air, reverberating as a clap of thunder.
Editha's gasp comes next, sharp and hurt. "Excuse me? For your information, I'm quoting your new bodyguard!"
The air in the room feels charged, thick with unsaid words and shifting emotions. The faint hum of conversation outside the suite hovers as a distant echo. It become softened by the plush carpet and the heavy drapes that guard the windows. In the corner, a vase of white lilies casts its subtle scent into the mix of cologne, sweat. The faint metallic tang of tension mix it up.
The pop star stands still, her silhouette outlined by the dim light of a nearby floor lamp. An enigma in her expression, she slips into a private moment that no one else witnesses. Her shoulders square, but the taut line of her back speaks of a battle fought within.
Across from her, Sy lounges in his chair, legs crossed, hands steepled under his chin. His smile dances on the edge of condescension. His gaze, sharp and assessing, as if a chess master anticipating the next three moves. Bill, meanwhile, leans forward on the sofa, his elbows digging into his thighs. He watches the Voice as though she's a lit fuse, ready to explode.
The star turns. Her movement, deliberate. Her speech cut through the heaviness as a beam of light. "Hey," she says, directing her attention to Ashley, her tone soft but tinged with a playful lilt. "If you meet Peter Pan, invite him to dinner, okay? I want to thank him for protecting your grandpa."
Ashley's face lights up, her earlier pout vanishing as though it never existed. "I will!" she exclaims, her joy bubbling up the same way soda fizz does, filling the room with a much-needed buoyancy.
Ivy, draped over the arm of a velvet chair as a queen on her throne, flashes a grin sharp as a blade, savoring the moment. "Vibe-certified," she declares. She taps her manicured nails against a glass of white wine she hasn't touched in hours. "I'll take the day off and keep you company."
From his corner, Kyle groans, the sound theatrical and drawn out. "Why do you always ditch me?"
Ashley twists in her seat, her small hands clasped as she delivers a royal decree. "But you're not invited," she declares. Her voice wrap around the words as velvet. Flawless British cadence pull a wave of stunned laughter from the room.
Everyone except Ivy, who locks eyes with Ashley, her glare a blade poised to strike. "Careful," she warns, though the words carry no weight. Ashley giggles, untouched by the threat.
Kyle rises as a storm, the chair scraping a harsh protest against the polished floor. Without a glance, he strides out, his exit sending a quiet tremor through the room. Ivy's eyes follow him for a moment, but the spark in her gaze stays fueled by the cocaine, too wild for any thoughts to settle.
Recovering with a practiced ease. Ivy tosses her dyed blonde hair. The golden strands catch the light. Forms a striking contrast against the warm bronze of her skin. It frames her face, as a celestial halo. It lends her an air of defiant elegance as if the sun itself had chosen her as its muse. Her confidence shimmering, an impenetrable shield. "Forget him," she says. Her voice, bright and conspiratorial as she locks eyes with her celebrity friend. "Let's get out of here, Rach. Movie night. Something action-packed."
Editha, the pragmatist, steps forward, already reaching for Ashley. "Don't worry about the munchkin," she says with a wink. "I got her. You two go."
Songstress glances at Editha. Her lips curl into a small smile of gratitude before she looks back at Ivy. "We're going to eat too," she says. "But where?"
Ivy's grin turns mischievous, her eyes gleaming, as if a fox in the henhouse. "New York's huge," she muses, tapping her chin. "So many options." Her smile widens, and she lets the name drop as if a gauntlet. "The Waldorf Astoria."
Rachel's eyebrow arches, her skepticism cutting through Ivy's bravado. "Do you want him announced at the reception? We can't waltz in there, Ta-Ta. You'd hate it if a fan pulled that on you."
But Ivy's self-assurance grows a force unto itself. She tilts her chin, her lips curving into a smirk. "Rach and Ivy can do that. Others can't. He'll wonder that we found him—and impressed by how smart we are."
For a heartbeat, the Vocal powerhouse lets the words linger in the air, fragile as glass. Her features melt. Ice under a warm sun, a flicker of affection breaking through the armor of her composure. The tension in her shoulders unravels. She exhales a quiet wind carrying away the room's heavyweight.
Oblivious to the shift, Ivy already scrolls through her phone. Her thumb blurs against the screen as she checks movie times. The singing sensation watches her for a moment. Her lips quirk in a private smile before she turns back to Editha and Ashley.
The laughter, tension, and swirling chaos of the suite linger. The microcosm of Rachel's world—part performance, part reality, all fragile and fleeting.