Page 27 of Threads Of Madly Whispers

He tilts my chin with a single finger, lifting my gaze to his. “Should you lie to me once more, then perhaps you should,” his thumb softly traces over my lips, smudging my red lipstick. The act is sensual and I detest how my legs shiver and how my body hums with the need for him to caress me more, to slip his finger into my mouth and force me to suck on it. The touch ignites something inside me, a tremor that spreads through my chest and coils in my stomach.

“Maybe you just do not deserve all my truths.”

“I do not deserve anything of you,darling, but I won’t demand any less.”

His words stir a tempest within me, each syllable pushing against the walls of my composure. The certainty in his voice, the unwavering belief in his power, only deepens the chaos in my mind, unraveling me further.

Curse him and his gorgeousness.

“The agreement, sir.” I try to break away the thickening tension between us before things turn scandalous.

I see the flames burning in his eyes, wrapped in something so dark. He doesn’t ask—he takes. Not of greed but of a power kings fight to garner. With his hand in mine, he guides us down the hallway, and once again, the surroundings capture my attention as a pirate is entranced by land. He is the treasure I long to possess, to keep hidden in the depths of my gaze, forever out of reach yet ever consuming.

He opens a door to what I assume is his office, a room filled with towering bookshelves that seem to stretch endlessly. With an effortless gesture, he pulls a chair out for me to sit, before moving across the room to take his own seat. I release the envelope I had been clutching tightly, placing it gently on the table. He opens it with calm precision,setting the stapled document on top, its contents now laid bare between us.

“Mr. Moretti –”

“Call me Sebastian.”

A lump lodges itself in my throat and the heat crawling up my neck is almost pathetic.

“Sebastian, while most of the clauses look benevolent, a few do not.” My mind might have been a jumbled mess mere seconds ago but I refuse to blur the lines. Not when the uncertainty of my future is hanging on the edge of a crumbling cliff.

“There is no reason I should share the same roof with you, not when my time at Haven is coming to an end soon.” He listens and the slight twitch of his lips makes me ponder if he cares for what I have to say or maybe it’s amusement I am mistaking it for indifference.

“Is that all, Odessa?” He folds his arms onto the table and leans forward.

“I want a say in where and who I dance for. I want the acknowledgment that despite you being my boss, I am well deserving of everything you are offering me, and that you will not take advantage of my —”

“Oh, but there is nothing I would have you do, that you wouldn’t have asked for. Keeping you under the same roof is with the intent to invest in a liable manner, because you’re nothing but an investment.”

Investment. That sends a sort of strange feeling swarming through my body. One that I have no desire to put a name to.

“Not all eggs will hatch, I suppose, but I’m willing.”

After what feels like an hour of boardroom debate, I grab a pen and sign. The moment I drop the ink, our agreement feels cemented, and similar to that of selling your soulto the devil. I do not miss the spark in his eyes either, one that promises hell, because after all, the devil is in the details.

“Shall we? My staff have prepared us a meal.” He offers me his hand, and as we leave his office, the realization that this might be my next home leaves me queasy.

“Essa honey, always remember how the devil will invite you to his house. You will enter willingly, but never leave willfully.”

Chapter 15

Thorn

Twirling Toward Oblivion

Plato saw beauty as an eternal flame, a spark that stirs the soul and draws us irresistibly toward what we cherish. To him, beauty was not merely an object but a reflection of deeper truths, a bridge between the mortal and the divine. It captivated the heart without reason, needing no explanation, only recognition. Aristotle, ever the pragmatist, believed beauty could be measured, dissected, and understood through harmony, proportion, and order. To him, it was something tangible, residing in symmetry and balance, a quality that could be defined and studied.

Yet, beauty is a shape-shifter, slipping through the fingers of philosophers and poets alike. It resists confinement, refusing to be pinned down by theories or rules. Across time, myths have bloomed from the soil of this elusive word, stories spun in an attempt to capture its essence. Beauty can be found in the fleeting glow of a sunset, in the rough edges of imperfection, or in thequiet ache of longing. It waits in moments both grand and simple, defying logic and embracing feeling.

David Hume, in his wisdom, spoke of beauty’s intimate connection to the imagination, whispering, “As near is Fancy to Beauty, as the prick to the rose, the stalk to the rind, the earth to the root.” In these words, he reminds us that beauty and fancy are inseparable, twined together like vine and trellis. One feeds the other, blurring the lines between what is seen and what is felt, between the tangible and the ephemeral.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

It’s art and not everyone can appreciate it.

She is living art, exquisite and untamed. In the tender glow of candlelight, she becomes something otherworldly, a vision that steals breath and thought alike. Her hair, a cascade of whiskey-silver strands, shimmers like liquid metal, reminiscent of scattered pearls glinting under a moonlit tide. Each strand tells a story, and I find myself captivated by its allure, drawn to the mystery it whispers.

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