Chapter 33: 33
In the shadows of the dimly lit hallway, the maids darted like specters, their whispers barely audible over the eerie silence that enveloped the mansion. Each footstep against the marble floor seemed to echo like a foreboding omen, amplifying the tension that hung heavily in the air. The young masters, their faces veiled in a mask of simmering rage and frustration, observed the chaos unfolding before them with chilling detachment.
As the maids vanished around the corner, leaving the brothers to confront the aftermath of their deeds, Andrew Aron’s voice sliced through the tense atmosphere, dripping with venomous fury. "Eight billion lost, all because of that wretched brat, and you expect me to remain calm?"
Steven, the youngest among them, interjected with a calm demeanor that belied the storm brewing within. "Twenty-two billion lost on my end, but that’s inconsequential compared to the whereabouts of Nix. My men lost track of him the moment he stepped out of that hotel. Is such a disappearance even possible?"
Thomas, his voice tinged with resignation, poured himself a drink, his movements heavy with the weight of their predicament. "Paris is Nix’s playground. Trying to locate him would be futile, given his cunning nature."
Amidst the chaos, their elder brother Charles remained silent, his stoic facade unwavering. Despite Nix’s audacious takeover of AN Group and its subsidiaries, Charles sensed that there was more to the unfolding drama.
"An inexperienced youth, rising from obscurity to build an empire without traditional backing or loans," Charles mused, his gaze fixed on the swirling liquid in his glass. "We must uncover the truth behind Nix’s sudden ascent."
Andrew, seeking answers, speculated about a secret benefactor, but Charles dismissed the notion with a wave of his hand. "The true question lies in Nix’s past. What led him to amass such wealth with origins shrouded in mystery?"
As Steven mentioned spotting Carmela with Nix, Charles’s lips curled into a sardonic smile. "She appears to hold significance to him," he remarked, his eyes glinting with a calculating gleam. "Deal with her as you see fit. The sooner we neutralize Nix, the sooner we stem our losses."
With a final decree, Charles strode purposefully towards the door, leaving his brothers to ponder the dark path ahead.
In the tranquil setting of her garden, Carmela, immersed in her artistic process, sought solace and inspiration through the strokes of her paintbrush. With each dab of color, she delved deeper into her creative realm, driven by an insatiable quest for satisfaction.
"Why choose this serene sanctuary over your studio?" Tom’s inquiry pierced through Carmela’s focused concentration as he observed the vivid splashes of paint adorning the ground.
Ignoring his query, Carmela seized a brush, determined to refine her creation before the paint dried. Tom, ever the gentleman, offered assistance, handing her the tool she required, silently admiring her artistic prowess.
With meticulous attention to detail, Carmela transformed the chaotic array of colors into a cohesive masterpiece, eliciting a bewildered yet intrigued reaction from Tom. Seeking validation, she eagerly solicited his opinion, only to be met with an unexpectedly optimistic response, prompting a playful chuckle.
Undeterred by his skepticism, Carmela passionately defended her artwork, unraveling its profound symbolism with eloquence and conviction. Yet, Tom’s skepticism lingered, prompting Carmela to reevaluate her approach.
Amidst their exchange, Tom seized the opportune moment to present Carmela with a promising opportunity by introducing her to a potential collaborator eager to harness her talent. Entrusted with vital contact information, Carmela’s enthusiasm soared, her determination to seize this lifeline evident as she swiftly transitioned from artist to job seeker.
Armed with newfound hope and clad in corporate attire, Carmela embarked on her quest for professional fulfillment, propelled by the promise of a brighter tomorrow.
Nervously, I awaited the arrival of the owner of ND, my heart racing with anticipation. Armed with a list of contacts provided by Tommy, I embarked on a series of inquiries, hopeful that fortune might smile upon me and yield more than one job opportunity. As I surveyed the opulent surroundings of the grand house, I couldn’t help but notice the owner’s penchant for darker art, a taste that intrigued me.
The sound of approaching footsteps prompted me to rise to my feet, bowing respectfully as I prepared to introduce myself. Yet, as I looked up, my words caught in my throat, disbelief washing over me. Fate seemed to be playing a cruel joke as I found myself face-to-face with an unexpected figure.
"You’re the artist I’ve heard about?" Nix queried, his presence sending a flurry of conflicting emotions coursing through me.
"Are you following me or keeping tabs on me?" I interjected, unable to contain my frustration.
His response, delivered in a chilling tone, only fueled my ire. With a scoff, I made to leave, but his firm grip halted my escape.
"Work for me, and you’ll be compensated handsomely," he whispered, his words tempting yet tinged with manipulation.
I recoiled, maintaining my resolve despite the allure of his offer. "Do you expect me to work for you and repay you with your own money?" I retorted, determined to preserve my self-respect.
As I stormed off, his parting words lingered, "I am your only viable option, my beloved. In time, you will come to recognize that," a veiled threat hanging in the air. Brushing off the encounter, I hailed a taxi, my mind racing with uncertainty.
Arriving at my next destination, I presented myself with poise, only to be met with unexpected rejection. Disheartened yet undeterred, I contemplated my next move, contemplating whether to call it a day or press on.
My thoughts swirled, thick and sluggish like the grey clouds gathering above the Parisian skyline. The pain in my chest never really left it only settled, waiting to rise again when I was too weak to fight it. I sat hunched over in the quiet corner of my flat, staring at nothing and everything all at once, until my phone buzzed violently against the wood of the windowsill.
Unknown Caller. The caller ID showed and I hesitated but then I still answered.
"Hello."
The voice on the other end was direct. "Miss Carmela, I’m calling on behalf of the Director of the National Theater. He would like to meet you... tonight, if possible. There’s a matter of mutual interest to discuss."
For a moment, I forgot to breathe. My chest loosened.
"I’ll be right there," I replied, cutting the call and holding onto the words like a lifeline.
I left the flat with nothing but my coat, a notebook, and hope. The Paris night was already stretching her limbs across the sky, brushing dusky hues over rooftops as the scent of fresh rain teased the air.
Hailing a cab wasn’t difficult as this city was always alive. The driver, a grizzled man with tired eyes and jazz humming from the speakers, gave a brief nod as I slid into the backseat.
"Rue Saint-Honoré, s’il vous plaît," I murmured, watching the raindrops race across the window.
The city unfolded like poetry gritty yet romantic. Neon signs flickered to life above flower shops and cafés. A couple kissed under a streetlamp like they were in a film. A homeless man clutched a soaked blanket, staring blankly into a puddle that reflected the Eiffel Tower in distorted fragments.
Life continued, indifferent. Leaving me to clutch my coat tighter.
When the cab pulled up to the restaurant, my breath hitched. It was upscale too upscale. The kind of place where women wore perfume that smelled like money and men never raised their voices.
Inside, the lighting was warm and intimate, casting long shadows against the ivory walls. A hostess guided me with a practiced smile to a table near the window.
And there he was.
He stood to greet me. Mid-50s, composed, but with a face I recognized from somewhere perhaps a gala, or an article in the arts section. His eyes studied me, not cruelly, but with the weight of someone who’d already made half a decision.
"Carmela," he said, extending his hand. "I’ve heard quite a lot about you."
"Hopefully good things," I replied, trying to keep the tremble out of my voice.
We sat, and he ordered a red Bordeaux without asking. Confident. In control.
"I’ve seen your performances," he began, "and I must admit, you leave an impression. There’s something... raw about you. Unfiltered. The kind of artist that gets under the skin."
I couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto my face. For once, someone wasn’t trying to fix me. Just see me.
But then his tone shifted.
He folded his hands. "Still, I have my hesitations."
I leaned in, heart sinking.
He continued, voice low. "I cannot speak of the nature of your relationship with Nix Dean, but I must caution you if you do not address whatever issue exists between you, it may hinder your prospects for employment."
My stomach clenched.
"Mr. Dean has made threats against my business. And his reputation suggests he is not one to make idle promises." He paused, fingers drumming the table. "I suspect others may have received similar calls."
I froze hearing that as the rest of the conversation blurred. I responded where I had to, nodded where I must, but a storm had begun brewing behind my eyes one even the Paris rain couldn’t wash away.
Outside, the sky had cracked open.
Rain poured relentlessly, drenching the pavement and my coat. I had no umbrella only the crushing realization that even here, Nix had his claws in everything.
I walked without direction, letting the rain soak through my hair, down to my bones. The streets were quiet save for the splash of passing cars and the occasional murmur of lovers huddled under awnings.
"Why must I suffer such a fate?"
The words tore from my lips before I realized I was speaking. I tilted my head to the sky as if it owed me an answer. But all it gave was more rain.
I pulled my phone from my soaked bag. The screen flickered..Tommy was calling. But the droplets blurred the display, and my trembling hands refused to cooperate.
"Damn it," I whispered, voice cracking.
A flash of headlights suddenly blinded me. Horn blaring.
I stumbled back, slipping on the slick cobblestones, knees scraping against stone. Before I could scream
A handkerchief. White. Drenched. Pressed against my mouth.
Panic erupted in my chest as I thrashed, but the world tilted.
Gunshots followed and then a scream. Tires screeching. Foreign voices French? Arabic? Russian? I couldn’t tell what they were saying and my limbs turned to lead. I was lifted and then dragged into another car and handed to another set of people
Then... darkness followed.
Within the confines of a new prison, I found myself bound to a wooden chair, a needle piercing my skin, injecting a heavy lethargy into my veins. As darkness encroached upon my senses, a chilling realization dawned: I had been snatched away, a pawn in a game of shadows where the rules were unknown, and escape seemed an impossible dream.
"Name, Carmela, age: 18 and would turn 19 in a few days’ time, a mutism patient who finds joy in painting, was adopted by the sole owner of T&C Construction Group, who died a few months back, and you were declared the next owner of the company and would only be able to take charge if you’re married before the age of twenty-two," a man who looked to be in his early 40s read out before letting out a laugh.
"Do you want to know what I find strange about everything? No one in your adoptive family knew that your adoptive mother was fully loaded and had such a company, and overnight she made you the sole owner of the company and died the next day... well, just three months after you were sold off to Nix because your adoptive siblings couldn’t pay off their debt, unknown to them that you’re the key to their fortune. Don’t you find it strange?" He came closer, raising my face to meet his before dropping it and walking away. Although I couldn’t make out much sense of what he was saying, I could vividly remember Mr. Dean asking me to read an article about T&C Construction Group, and the article did say that the owner was anonymous. So what does he mean by grandma is the owner?
"You look confused, my dear, so let me explain..." He took a seat before me. "You see, your adoptive mother or grandmother, as you address her, is the owner of T&C Construction Group, and she made you her heir with the only condition that you get married before the age of 22, unless your inheritance would be auctioned off... I hope that’s understood." He picked up the glass beside him before filling it.
"Now let’s talk about Nix Dean. Have you ever wondered why he brought you under his care despite the fact that he could have given your adoptive family enough time to pay back? It will be my pleasure to tell you, my dear. You see, knowing you have no knowledge of business, any man that gets married to you would be hitting a jackpot of wealth," he smiled, looking at me, and I looked away, not wanting to believe the garbage he was spilling.
"There’s no use not trying to convince yourself otherwise because I know that young man more than you think you do. He never does anything that doesn’t profit him, so listen up... seeing you’ll be turning nineteen in a few days, he’ll surely propose you become his wife," he placed something in my pocket before taking a step backward.
"If what I say turns out to be true, then feed him that because that’s the only way you can get your freedom back... and I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself from the start, I’m Steven Aron, Nix’s fourth uncle."