Page 21 of Threads Of Madly Whispers

His eyes flicker, narrowing slightly. “Why were you late, Odessa?”

“Why am I here, Sebastian?” I challenge, my voice carrying more defiance than I intended. His gaze holds, his eyes darkening with something dangerous, and I swallow, feeling small under his scrutiny. “I missed my alarm,” I lie, but the words taste like ash.

His gaze flickers briefly, skepticism dancing behind his icy eyes. He lifts a hand, the action seamless, as a man suddenly appears from the shadows, dropping a manila folder into his hands before disappearing just as quietly.

“You shall go over this tonight,” Sebastian says, handing the folder to me, his fingers brushing mine. “Tomorrow evening, my driver shall pick you up and we will discuss the terms inside.” His eyes darken some more, his tone blunt as a blade. “I don’t take no for an answer, Odessa, and you should know better than to disrespect me with lies.”

The folder feels heavy in my hands, like a thousand secrets I’m not ready to know. His stare burns into me, unyielding. “I won’t ask again.”

I choke on the words, my throat tight, the lie tasting worse than anything I’ve ever swallowed.

“I had personal matters to attend to,” I murmur, my voice faltering.

Sebastian leans back in his chair, and the disapproval in his eyes is almost palpable. He stands, his voice cold as he speaks once more.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, “Savor the meal my staff has crafted for you and Oscar will escort you out, once you are done.” He stares at me for a moment longer, his gaze searching, as though expecting something from me. But before I can answer, he turns, disappearing behind the floral wall.

I’m left with nothing but the quiet hum of unease crawling up my spine. The garden that had seemed so tranquil now feels like a prison.

I glance at the folder again, my fingers trembling as I clutch it tightly. Something in the pit of my stomach churns, and the unease that settles there grows heavier with each passing second.

What is this? Why does it feel wrong?

Shouldn’t there be a spark of triumph, a quiet sense of achievement, as though I am finally on the threshold of the future I’ve imagined in the quiet corners of my mind? Yet all I feel is the pressure of inevitability, like a suffocating fog. It’s as though I’ve walked willingly into a web, each thread tightening around me, and now, I’m ensnared, unable to escape the very path I once thought would lead me to freedom. The promise of what I sought has become a dark labyrinth, and the walls are closing in.

Chapter 12

Thorn

The Thorns of Solace

She lied, her truth hidden behind the delicate curve of her lips, her eyes betraying her every word. They were the windows to her deceit, but I couldn’t help but want to pry it from her. To demand the honesty she buried so effortlessly beneath her beauty. Still, I knew I needed her to play along, to fall into the web I was spinning for us both, tangled in the ambiguity of this “agreement” that neither of us fully understood.

The air is still now, but beneath the silence, the soft rustling of the leaves sways with an almost melodic sigh. The night is heavy with an unspoken promise, the sky dotted with scattered stars. The weather sits uncomfortably in-between, neither warm nor cold, but something stirs in the air — winter’s approach, slow and inevitable. The earth, damp from the rain, gives off a deep, musky scent that intertwines with the bitter tobacco smoke I inhale, calming the storm of my mind, if only for a moment.

She’s become my knot to unravel, my stone lodged in the eye, a persistent torment that demands to be severed. Yet, each time I pull away, the craving only deepens. I am not better for it, nor am I free from it. The solitude I once embraced, the psychoanalysis, the cold distance that kept the madness at bay — none of it holds anymore. She’s a reflection I can’t escape, a constant force drawing me closer to something darker.

I let the hysteria slip sometimes, on the quieter days. I allow the frenzy to seep through, to color my thoughts, until it spreads like ink across the page of my mind. And in her, I see something I’ve never seen before, a spark that ignites the flames I’ve kept smothered. The way she moves, how her body bends with grace and falls with abandon, makes my pulse quicken. Her eyes, once filled with uncertainty, now glimmer with an unsettling peace — an invitation. She awakens something in me that I thought was lost.

I never cared for people—never found it worth the effort. Ballerinas, or anyone for that matter. They are fleeting, temporary things, their worth as fragile as the skin they wear. Humanity is a facade of greed, of flesh doomed to decay. I can see it in the faces around me, the fragility of their souls, but I never bother to look deeper. Their touch leaves nothing but ruin, detritus in its wake. Hypocritical, perhaps, since I too am made of the same flesh, the same bones, but I demand something more from them , something unattainable, something unreal.

But Odessa, she is different. She is something beyond what I have known. She is the anomaly in my cold world, the contradiction that calls to me like a forbidden whisper, pulling me into a world I’ve long abandoned.

My mother—she walks in the shadows of my past, her dance a memory that refuses to fade. Anastasia danced as ifthe night could stretch on forever, her every movement imbued with a life that no longer exists. She moved like her soul had been sculpted into each step, as though the world was made of rhythm and fire. Odessa dances with the same spark, the same ethereal glow, like a distant echo of what once was. The same brilliance I saw in my mother now flickers in her.

My father would watch her for hours, his eyes locked in a trance, unable to tear himself away. As a child, I couldn’t grasp the intensity of it, the way he seemed to breathe in her every movement, captivated by the beauty that I now understand only too well. It would stir something in him, an obsession I couldn’t quite touch until now, when I watch Odessa move, like a piece of the past resurrected.

She dances like a haunting melody that slips into your very bones, and I, a weary sailor lost in the storm, unable to resist the lure of destruction.

I flick the cigarette from my fingers, watching the embers fade into the ashtray, and turn back toward the office. The room is as it’s always been, as my grandfather left it—a shrine to the past. Shelves of forgotten books stretch to the ceiling, each one holding secrets too ancient to speak. The air smells of dust and leather, like time has stood still here. The set of café au lait armchairs sits silently in the center, and at the far end, the auburn desk waits, its surface cluttered with forgotten papers.

A portrait of Calix and my father dominates the space behind the desk. To the unknowing, they could have been brothers with the same dark hair and those same chestnut eyes that never revealed enough to understand. The knock on the door pulls me from the reverie of their eyes. Oscar steps inside, a file in hand, his face as expressionlessas always. His cold, distant gaze is the only thing I can rely on, the only thing I trust.

Oscar’s eyes are void, empty, yet he is as necessary as the air I breathe. He is not human, not in any way that matters. He’s a tool, a mechanism—unfeeling, precise. Perhaps it’s that very emptiness that makes him the only one I can stand to have near. He is the only one who understands that some things are better left unsaid.

“Evening, Mr. Moretti.”

I settle into my chair, the leather creaking under the weight of my presence. My fingers brush the desk, feeling the cold, polished wood beneath my touch as I turn my gaze toward Oscar. He follows suit, his movements purposeful as he takes his place across from me.

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