Zara had been waiting at the bar far longer than her patience liked. The Derby crowd was thirsty, and the poor bartender was drowning in orders from men who thought waving their programs counted as manners. She leaned an elbow against the counter, clicking her tongue with mock despair when a tray of champagne flutes sailed past her untouched.
“Story of my life,” she muttered under her breath, reaching to adjust the brim of her hat before straightening. Just then, a stranger brushed past close enough that she shifted to avoid a spill—only for the rim of her glass (half-full at last) to nearly tip against his sleeve.
“Careful, trouble” she said quickly, steadying it with a laugh. “I’d hate to be the one who sends you home smelling like bubbly. Not the sort of souvenir you want from the races.” With a quick flick of her wrist, she signaled the bartender again, as though sheer persistence might win the day. Her friend asked for a drink, and she'd be damned if she didn't leave victorious.
Her eyes flicked over him with quick curiosity—the posture, the cut of his suit, the air of someone who didn’t exactly belong in the rabble. Recognition hovered at the edges, though she couldn’t place him outright.
All day, Alexander had been avoiding studio sycophants —their groveling grated worse than the brass band murdering Cole Porter. Just as he maneuvered confidently through the throng, a sharp laugh reached his ears, followed by a champagne glass nearly baptizing his brand new Brioni suit. Instinctively, his hand shot out to steady the glass, his fingers curtly brushing her very own as a result.
He turned fully, taking in the wide-brimmed hat framing sharp cheekbones, the crimson lips curved in what he considered a challenge. “I'd trade a case of Dom Pérignon for the name of the woman who nearly christened my best Suit."
Two fingers, one of which adorned with an infamous Halperin family ring, signaled the harried bartender and just like that, had him frozen mid-pour. "Two of whatever the lady's having," While his declare was made, his gaze never once left the young woman’s intense eyes. A smug smirk curled around his lips as he spoke again: "Consider it hazard pay.” His new nickname trouble lingered. He’d been called worse by better. "Trouble?" His voice dipped low, a velvet threat wrapped in amusement. Little did she know, his name alone opened doors or slammed them shut, depending on his mood.
"Though," he continued, all the while plucking the glass from her hand with practiced ease, "if you’re trying to sabotage me, darling, aim for the script next time. Spilled ink hurts worse." The roguish wink he’d directed at her all but emphasized the humorous undertone of his voice.
out and about again, but this time with security in tow, scarlett headed for the same diner she'd been in when she'd crossed paths with eion and made an unlikely friend. she'd enjoyed the homely food and the atmosphere so she had to come back to visit again. she'd been unable to get away by herself this time which was a shame, because she hated the fuss that being well-known caused.
as she entered, she threw the waitress an apologetic smile. "i'm sorry for all this," she gestured to her two security guards standing outside, "i told them it wasn't necessary but my team insisted." she huffed out an exasperated breath before composing herself. "could i just get a table for one please?"
Frida wiped down the counter with more vigor than necessary, the familiar scent of coffee and frying bacon doing little to soothe her irritation. Another celebrity. Just what her lunch rush needed. She glanced at the woman hovering near the entrance. Scarlett something-or-other, if the tabloids plastered across the breakroom were to be believed. The apology was nice enough, Frida supposed. Polite, even. However, it didn't stop the two brick walls in suits outside from making her regulars hesitate at the door. Old Man Henderson had already shuffled past twice, peering in like he expected a shootout.
“Sounds exhausting.” The comment slipped although it had only been meant solemnly for herself. Her chin jerked toward the empty booth by the window - the one farthest from her other customers and framed by some giant plants. "Sit there if you’re hoping for some privacy. That table is often overlooked." Frida handed her a neatly folded menu, wrapped in worn leather, adorned with hand-carved ornaments on its edges. A friendly smile curled around her lips as she prepared paper and pen to take the order. “What would you like to drink? The owner’s especially proud of our cocktail selection. Just a tip”
There was something about this woman that fascinated her in more ways than one. She was both charming and intimidating in a very unique way and Leyla couldn't help but feel the pressure upon her shoulders as she listened to Maeve, despite her carefully chosen words. "Let's just say, my job is even more interesting than I could have ever imagined. Sometimes it feels like straight out of a Hollywood movie." It may have sounded a little exaggerated but it really wasn't. Between the violent side of their business and the questionable side activities or hobbies some of her family members pursued, she would probably be labeled as insane, if she ever told anyone about it. Leyla couldn't hide the slight hint of concern reflected in her eyes when Mrs. Riley spoke about her well being. She could tell the other woman was not okay but she didn't contradict her either. Instead, she just nodded slightly. "I'll prescribe you something different. Sometimes the body gets used to the ingredients after a while. But please be mindful and follow the instructions." It was merely a suggestion but one she was hoping would be followed. "Have you told anyone? Sometimes it helps to talk about it to someone you trust." Leyla didn't want to overstep but she was genuinely worried about Maeve's condition and the fact she was keeping it from her family.
When the prescription request was made, Maeve's gaze remained locked on Leyla’s face, tracing the subtle tightening around her eyes. Her awareness about the obvious lie she had just been served, was evident upon her expression. However, it didn’t cause her any sign of guilt or concern but sharp delight of a challenge recognized, if anything. This doctor saw more than most dared to. And Maeve knew all about its perks and dangers.
Maeve's painted lips curved, not in warmth, but in cool acknowledgment of the doctor's perceptiveness. "Told anyone?" Her voice was silk over steel, low enough for her words to seem to materialize only in the space between them. "My dear doctor, in my world, vulnerability is a luxury traded for bullets. And my family has other matters to concern themselves with. There is no need to bring this … obstacle to their attention. Have I made myself clear?”
Her headache pulsed behind her temples, a familiar, unwelcome drumbeat, the ever present reminder of the ticking time bomb inside her very own head. "The prescription is urgent. The current -inadequacy- coincides with certain... - escalations- in my responsibilities." Her crimson nails tapped once, sharply, on the armrest. A silent period to the sentence followed her statement. The implication was clear: the headaches worsened when blood was spilled, when deals turned sour, when the delicate balance of her family's empire was threatened. And more so, when her dearest were involved.
"Every Saint has a past and every Sinner has a future"
〈 michiel huisman / 40 / he/him〉 see ALEXANDER HALPERIN over there? they have quite a reputation for being DECEPTIVE. some would beg to differ & say that they’re more FOXY. rumor has it they are a PRODUCER FOR KEYSTONE FILM STUDIOS. the FORTY year old has been around los angeles for FORTY YEARS. just keep an eye on them — in this city, everyone’s hiding something & it’s only a matter of time before their true colors shine through.
Alexander Halperin was born under the dazzling, artificial lights of Hollywood, a scion of one of its most powerful dynasties. From the moment of his birth, the air he breathed in their palatial Beverly Hills estate was thick with the scent of money, ambition, and the intoxicating promise of inherited power. He was his father’s firstborn, the undisputed heir to the cinematic empire Mr. Halperin had meticulously built.
His early childhood, bathed in the golden glow of a Los Angeles sun and the silver screen's reflected glory, was a tableau of opulence: sprawling gardens, an army of nannies and tutors, and the constant murmur of glamorous adults discussing deals, stars, and studio politics. He was groomed for greatness, every tutor, every social event, every whispered expectation, pointed towards his eventual ascent to the throne.
But this gilded cage began to show its cracks as Alexander approached his seventh birthday. His mother, a woman of breathtaking beauty but limited intellectual curiosity, had grown increasingly restless. She was the quintessential trophy wife, perfectly coiffed arm candy, yet the endless rounds of luncheons, charity galas, and studio parties had long since lost their shimmer. Her boredom, a slow, corrosive poison, culminated in an affair, a desperate reach for something real, or at least, something new. When his father, a man whose own dalliances were an open secret in Hollywood circles, discovered her transgression, the ensuing explosion rocked their carefully constructed world. The hypocrisy was lost on no one, least of all the young Alexander, though he couldn't articulate it then. His father, fueled by a wounded ego rather than moral outrage, filed for divorce, swift and brutal, cutting his wife out of his life with the same decisive hand he used to greenlight a picture or fire a director.
His mother, stripped of her position and her luxurious life, retaliated with the only weapon she had left: her son. She wouldn't let Mr. Halperin see Alexander, twisting the knife by spinning a narrative of betrayal and whisper to her child his father had found a younger woman and built a new family with her, in which there was no space for him anymore. He didn't fit into the Halperin's picture perfect family image.
The lie, repeated with cunning consistency, took root in the boy's impressionable mind. He began to believe he had been discarded, replaced, an inconvenient relic of a past his father wanted to erase. The occasional, desperate telephone calls from his father, often intercepted or sabotaged by his mother, did little to soothe the sting, only serving to reinforce the idea that he was an outsider looking in.
Not long after, the rumors solidified into reality. His father indeed married a vibrant, younger woman, and soon, a half-brother arrived, christened Johnny with his cherubic face and his father's undeniable charm, was instantly labeled the "golden boy" of the new Halperin dynasty. Alexander watched from a distance, feeding on newspaper clippings and the hushed gossip of his mother's dwindling social circle. He saw the lavish birthday parties, the photographs of his father beaming, the articles praising Johnny as the bright new hope. A deep, festering resentment took root in his soul. How could this child, born of a lie and a replacement, be given everything that was rightfully his? Johnny hadn't earned it, hadn't fought for it, yet it was all handed to him on a silver platter, a mockery of Alex’s birthright. The envy was a constant companion, a sharp, cold object in his gut, growing with every passing year.
As Alexander entered his twenties, the bitter experiences of his youth had forged him into a formidable, albeit damaged, individual. He learned early on how to navigate the shark-infested waters of his mother's resentment and the cold indifference of his father's new life. He honed a public persona, an impeccable facade of charm and sophisticated politeness. He could smile on cue, deliver the perfect diplomatic phrase, and exud an air of effortless grace that belied the simmering rage beneath. He was meticulous in his appearance, always impeccably dressed in the finest suits, his dark hair always slicked back just so, his eyes, often described as 'piercing,' revealing nothing but what he wished to show.
Beneath this polished exterior, however, lay a mind that was manipulative and cunning, sharp as a razor, and foxy in its approach. He studied people, dissecting their motivations, their weaknesses, learning how to pull strings unseen. He understood the intricate dance of power in Los Angeles, the unspoken rules of the studio system, observing his father's empire from the periphery, learning its mechanics, its vulnerabilities. He was a silent predator, biding his time, carefully constructing his moves.
The opportunity he had subconsciously craved for years had finally arrived. His younger half-brother, the golden boy, Johnny, had met an untimely, recent end. The news, though delivered with all the usual hushed condolences, had set something alight within Alexander. The path was clear, the throne momentarily vacant. All the resentment, the envy, the years of feeling cheated and cast aside, coalesced into a singular, burning resolve. Alexander Halperin, the firstborn, the rightful heir, was ready to step out from the shadows of his carefully constructed life and reclaim what should have been his all along. Let no one be fooled by his impeccable facade; a fox had finally found its moment to strike.
Zion let the smoke curl up toward the ceiling, slow and unhurried, before shifting enough to give her his full attention. She’d walked in like she owned the place—or maybe like she was daring someone to tell her otherwise. Either way, she wasn’t the usual kind of trouble that drifted across the Dunbar floor.
“The night, the band, the drinks—take your pick,” he said, voice roughened by whiskey and cigarettes, but smooth all the same. “Me, I don’t believe in wastin’ any of ‘em. But you…” His eyes traced deliberate from the bright silk clinging to her frame, up to the cocktail she cradled, then finally settled on her face with a knowing steadiness. “You’re sittin’ here sellin’ cocktails like you’re on the payroll. Maybe you’re the real entertainment tonight.”
There was a pause, stretched long enough to feel like the opening hand at a card table, the kind where no one yet knew who had the better play. He leaned an elbow against the bar, posture easy but alert, like a man who didn’t miss much and wasn’t about to start tonight.
“Careful, though,” he went on, tone low and edged with something between amusement and warning. “Around here, favorites come with a price. Sometimes more than the rum’s worth.”
His cigarette burned low, and he flicked the stub away, eyes never leaving hers. “So tell me, darlin’—are you just here to drink, or should I be expectin’ somethin’ else walkin’ in with you?”
An ever so mischievous smirk curled around the very corners of her crimson painted lips, matching the ardent spark in her gaze upon meeting his own. “Why pick, if you can enjoy all at once?” Her daring voice didn’t hide the underlying challenge she offered freely to the handsome stranger. “I like the way you think! Life’s too short. Don’t go wasting any of it.” Her curious eyes followed his every move deliberately and clung to him like a bee to honey. This man provided the kind of temptation Frida would never even try to deny herself. Head tilted only enough to reveal her slender jawline, she leaned in closer, a soft chuckle advanced her words:” Yeah? Maybe in this case I should seek out the owner of this place and send him my bill. Or at least make a deal and get free drinks.” Then followed words whispered in sweet seduction. “Depends on what kind of entertainment you’re looking for.”
Eyes steadily locked on each other, the pause didn’t quite unsettle her, if anything it only added to the palpable tension between the pair. “If the night ends half as promising as it started, it will be worth the price.” The almost empty wallet in her purse would beg to differ and yet here was Frida, spending more on a cocktail than she would make on a work day as a waitress, flirting with a captivating stranger. As she leaned in, inhaling deeply, she breathed in the smoke of his cigarette. “Care to share, handsome?” The smoke however wasn’t what she was out for. Oh did he not know she was indeed trouble, although the innocent kind, compared to half the gruesome individuals in this city, which in fact, dear Frida was still blissfully unaware of. Her brows quivered only slightly when he called her darlin’ and Frida could not conclude her imagination from running wild at the utmost alluring sound of his voice. “A drink was the original plan, yes. But then…”
When his personal chef unexpectedly got sick, Cruz decided to grab dinner on his way home after a long, exhausting day. The evening air was cool but comfortable, as he entered a modest, cozy restaurant, tucked away from the chaos of the main street. He chose this place because it was one of the rare ones, where even someone like him could stay unnoticed at least for a little while.
Choosing a booth by the window, Cruz settled heavily onto the seat and sighed, before he took the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Almost immediately, a young waitress approached and placed the menu carefully before him. He paused and offered her a brief nod in thanks, before letting his eyes roam over the menu. “Is that chili burger any good in here? Be honest.” His expression was serious but not completely unfriendly either, while he waited for her response.
Although small and cozy compared to many other lavishing places throughout this city, the diner had been known amongst citizens for its particular charme and delicious food. Guests never ceased to come back, keeping the staff busy. Today had been no exception and so there was no time for a break, therefore she was indeed looking forward to finish up and leave. However, it would have to wait until the last guest had paid and left.
A leather covered menu was handed to the gentleman seated by the window, greeted with a friendly smile and tired eyes. “Here you go, Sir. What would you like to drink?” Her quip sounded gentle and kind, while she waited for his response. To her surprise he had made up his mind rather quick, much unlike most guests ever had. “The kind of man who doesn’t waste time. Very well.” Her joke was not meant to offend, yet Frida had no filter and often stepped on someone’s toes without intention. “I’ll have you know, Sir, most of our clients say it’s the best in the city but you’d have to try for yourself in order to be able to judge.”
As Los Angeles stretched out below in all its glory, Maurizio found himself at a secluded overlook on the Hollywood Hills, bearing his own reasons for being awake before the city. The air was still crisp, carrying the faint scent of earthy woods and distant sea salt, enveloping his every sense, as he inhaled profoundly; piercing blues reflected the deep indigo shade of the very sky above, which now slowly faded into soft rose and golden hues. He'd just finished a rigorous run, his built frame moving with an almost unnatural grace, not a bead of sweat seemingly out of place, while he went about his daily routine.
The bodyguard stopped at the very edge of the clearing, facing the rising sun, allowing himself to just be present in the moment and admire the beauty of nature itself. His dark, impeccably tailored jogging attire did little to hide the toned musculature beneath, or the faint, intricate patterns of tattoos peeking from under his sleeves and collar – tiny hints of a deeper story he was adamant to leave where it belonged — buried deep within the indefinite abyss of his past. He turned slightly, catching the nascent light, his eyes unmistakably exuding an enigmatic aura, a quiet power that was both intriguing and subtly intimidating without trying. Clearly enjoying this solitary moment of peace and quiet, his breathing evened out slowly, his focus unmarred; yet there was an underlying alertness ever present and stirring within upon realizing, he wasn't as alone as he might have thought. His gaze briefly swept over the panoramic view of the dormant city, before it settled on the approaching figure. With no surprise in his oceanic blues, no immediate reaction beyond a calm, almost analytical observation, he gave a small, acknowledging nod and offered a short: "Good Morning". - for his manner's sake; not because he was particularly in the mood for a little chit chat.
A free spirit like no other, Frida often found herself drawn to the most unlikely places and situations. Early morning hikes in the hills were no scarcity in the runaway’s unconventional life. Nevertheless she never failed to even surprise herself, not always in a positive manner but certainly never in risk of boredom either. However, she couldn’t recall ever having stumbled upon this particular spot before. But if it was frequented by eye-catching, handsome strangers like the one her gaze had just caught, she most definitely had to remind herself to revisit more often. Faintly colored lips naturally stretched into an ever so soft smile at the pleasant view before her. Whether she was more intrigued by the panoramic landscape or the dreamy creature itself remained locked in the deep shadows of her untamed mind. “Good morning to you too. Mine has most definitely started good, considering the charming view. I hope yours hasn’t been too terrible either?”
featuring: @born2fight (maeve riley)
where: the stag's head
The Stag's Head was quieter than usual for a Saturday night — quieter in a way that made Eoin’s skin itch. The sort of quiet where every word carried and every pair of eyes was half on their pint, half on the door. News traveled fast in this city, but death traveled faster, and Johnny Halperin’s had reached even the regulars who didn’t know the boy’s name until last week.
Eoin sat at one of the corner tables, his coat still on, the weight of a fresh cigarette pack resting between his palms. He wasn’t sure if Maeve had chosen the place because it was public — or because it was theirs. The truth was, he still didn’t know her well enough to guess.
When she came in, he didn’t stand. Just tipped his head, a faint greeting, and let her make her way over.
“City’s gone quiet,” he said once she sat, voice low enough to keep it between them. “Not the peaceful sort. More like everyone’s holdin’ their breath. You hear about Halperin?” He didn’t wait for an answer — the whole world had heard. “Poor bastard’s face carved up like some kind o’ warning.”
His eyes flicked to her, trying to read what the death meant to her — if it meant anything at all — and coming up empty.
“Wonderin’ if we’re supposed to take it that way.”
As soon as the Stag’s head came into her eyesight, Maeve was greeted with courteous nods, polite bows and whispered kindness. Whether it was gallant gestures or out of respect for who she was remained uncertain. Upon approaching the entrance, the door had been opened by one of the gentlemen gathered outside for a smoke. The smell and vapor enveloped the femme as she stepped through the haze the nicotine left in its wake. She made an entrance like the boss she was, deliberate steps, a confident posture and disarming smile paired with the right amount of rugged spirit never ceased to amaze those around her. And Maeve, she was indeed very well aware.
One brief glance around the vastly familiar space, her eyes immediately gravitated towards her dearest of all. Slightly tinted lips twitched into a faint smile at the sight of her only son. The one she’d thought lost forever, up until only a few years ago.
All obstacles aside, he was now sitting right here, by her side and that was truly and utterly all that really mattered.
“What an utmost friendly greeting.” Maeve chuckled with a rare whiff of mirth sparkling in her eyes, as she pulled out the chair across from him and settled in smoothly. At first she listened to his words quietly, her head tilted ever so slightly while she nodded briefly in a silent agreement about the quietness and whether she had heard about the Halperin boy. Every last soul surely had heard by now. And Maeve was always ahead. She had to be. “Can’t say I’m surprised he ended up like that. He’s been barking too loud one too many times for sure.”
Fortunately for the Riley’s sake, not everyone always got what they deserved. At least not on their end of the food chain. Eoin’s gaze was held steadily by her own, which carried an unusual warmth only he could draw out. No matter the circumstances, she would always look at him the way only a mother could ever look at her child.
“Not us. I doubt it. Their inner circle and affiliates maybe. But we’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Doctor’s confidentiality was something Leyla took very seriously and even though she knew the stakes and who Mrs. Riley was, she wouldn’t betray her principles. She knew how important it was for her patients, her included. A friendly smile formed upon her lips as she approached the lady in the fancy restaurant. It wasn’t usually her scene but of course she wouldn’t have dared to say no. Besides it was a beautiful place so she wasn’t complaining. „Good morning, Mrs. Riley.“ Leyla greeted her politely before she took the offered seat. „Your family keeps me busy. But nothing extraordinary.“ She assured, not for their understanding of extraordinary anyway, which was a bit funny considering any normal person would beg to differ: injuries because someone likes to prove himself in street fights or crafts new weapons and the test goes wrong or other not quite legal actions were their - and with that now also Leyla‘s - daily business. „How have you been?“ She asked carefully addressing her condition without actually mentioning it.
A very vigilant gaze remained ever taut on the doctor’s own, all the while Maeve listened to her every word attentively. Crimson painted lips, matching the color of her neatly manicured nails, faintly softened at the corners, evoking half a smile, soon followed by an amused laughter. “Busy is a nice way to put it. Very creative indeed. I can only imagine.” Upon the indication of her very own medical condition, a sheer layer of something more serious, more dreadful washed over her facial expression. Only because she allowed it to. “I’ve been quite alright.” A white lie. Maeve leaned in a notch, her voice dropping significantly lower in order to ensure not a single soul was able to listen in. “However, I’ll need you to prescribe me something different. Stronger. This weather is not exactly favorable for my situation.” There was no doubt her headaches worsened gradually, nevertheless she could not and would not show her discomfort to anyone but her medical staff.
The music hit just right tonight. Something slow, rich, dripping with brass and smoke. The kind of sound that curled through the air like a promise—half-sin, half-sacrament. From his perch near the end of the bar, Zion Walker let it wash over him, one arm slung across the back of the leather booth like he owned the whole damn world. Technically, he just managed this corner of it. But The Dunbar pulsed with the kind of life that made a man feel bigger than he was.
Central Avenue glittered outside, but in here, the real stars were on the floor. A velvet haze hung over everything: cigarette trails, perfume, sweat, ambition. Couples twirled under the golden light. Men in tailored suits shook hands over deals worth dying for. A woman laughed like she meant it. Somewhere behind it all, the underground poker room murmured with tension.
Zion sipped something dark and neat from a cut-glass tumbler, ring tapping lightly against the side. “A little slow for a Saturday,” he commented, smug facetiousness oozing with each word. He wore a suit tonight—sharkskin gray, crisp shirt open at the collar, no tie. Decadent. Intentional. He dressed like a man with nowhere to be but everywhere to rule. His smile was lazy. His eyes were not.
It was a good night. Which meant he didn’t trust it one bit. His gaze swept the room again. Familiar faces. New ones, too. Some trying not to look his way. Some looking too hard. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he lit a cigarette, exhaled a slow curl of smoke, a smirk unfurling as he did so, he turned to the person closest to him "If tonight gets any prettier, I might just fall in love."
Sleek black heels clicked with every poised step towards the bar, long raven hair cascading down her back in a sultry manner when she leaned over the counter to place her order. “A daiquiri please. Don’t be stingy with the rum.” Her cheerful voice quipped playfully at the amused bartender. Delicate silk hugged her every curve in a tight dress, revealing just enough and yet not enough for the hungry eyes around her. The sound of a rich, deep voice she’d never heard before, piqued her interest. “It’s only ever as slow as you allow for it to be.” Frida bluntly challenged the handsome stranger to her left, all the while turning slightly so that she was able to face him fully.
A curl of smoke, originating from his cigarette, shrouded her view temporarily. Nevertheless, her gaze perceived his appealing features. “What with? The band? The drinks? The night itself?” Her warm hues locked onto his very own for the briefest of moments before her attention was turned back to the bartender who’d just happened to serve her drink. Slim fingers wrapped around crystal glass, bringing the sweet liquid to her lips and nipping on it. A low hum approved of the cocktail before she set it back down onto the counter. “I think I found a new favorite. You should try!”
Malik leaned back in the plush leather booth at Dunbar, a family owned pub, which, —although he may have been a little biased —was indeed his favorite place to go, whenever he was in the rare mood for a night out. The dim lighting cast a warm glow across the rustic wooden bar, where familiar faces busily poured drinks and swapped stories during the usual evening hustle. As head of the Walker syndicate, Malik was used to commanding attention and respect; yet here, in this homely establishment, filled with laughter and music, he encountered a brief moment of solace. One, that wouldn’t quite last for much longer than a heartbeat but still; he’d take what he could get. Chief Walker savored this moment, his calloused fingers firmly holding onto the glencairn glass of amber liquor, appreciating the complexity and nuances of the spirit. He took a small sip, letting it coat his tongue first, then he paused, allowing the flavors to develop —a rich bourbon with notes of caramel— and relished its soothing warmth, as it settled comfortably within him. It was moments like these, that reminded him, why he worked so diligently: to protect what mattered most—his family. He’d failed them once, he wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
The gentle clinking of glasses drew his gaze to a figure seated next to him. Their eyes met briefly, his gaze intense but not threatening, as Malik eventually broke the silence between them with an easy question, projected more for hospitality than necessity: “What’s your poison tonight?”—It wasn't often one received such attentiveness from someone usually buried under responsibilities higher than most could fathom, but sometimes… wonders did happen and Malik never ceased to surprise even himself.
Dark, silky hair waved down petite shoulders, completing the elegant look of a classy dress and matching accessories. Nothing was ever left to chance when it came to the head of the Rileys - not her looks, not a single word of hers and most certainly not the honed smile displayed upon crimson painted lips. With confident yet graceful strolls, she approached the familiar figure with a natural ease, no sign of fear or caution upon her features. Her unexpected appearance in the Dunbar was anything but coincidence but her true motives would never be revealed to anyone but herself. Once standing right in front the man, dark curls bounced ever so slightly under the soft impact of her head tilting to the side. “How about you give me your best shot, Walker? Let’s see what you can do.”
Was it merely a simple challenge or more so a concealed provocation on her part? The question remained unanswered to onlookers and the Chief himself, with Maeve carefully planting the seeds of her next, carefully planned strike. In a world ruled by men who thought themselves to be superior and invincible, she had learned to leave a mark of her own along her path to victory and success. As she awaited her drink, she took the seat next to him with no permission asked prior. “Worry not, I come in peace. This time.”
Sharp red nails grazed over her forehead, ready to draw blood at the insane headache she had on her. Cold mornings and moody weather became her worst enemy these days, resulting in an increasing difficulty to hide her life threatening secret. To avoid suspicions amongst those close to her and more over ones who were not, she was in dire need of stronger pain killers. She had called for Dr. Balik, requesting her to meet at Mel‘s restaurant for a casual appearance of the encounter, should anyone witness it. Her observant gaze ever aware of her surroundings as it was met with the doctor‘s very own. „Good morning, Doctor. Please, take a seat.“ Maeve‘s hand gracefully motioned at the empty chair across from hers with the conviction of someone who wasn’t used to ever taking a no for an answer. „It’s been a while, dearest. How is everything? Anything I need to concern myself with?“
Slender legs crossed, she sat on the plush sofa in the large living room of the Riley estate. Perfectly manicured nails tapping on the wooden table as she waited. And waited. Punctuality was a virtue, and certainly none her nephew possessed. It was no surprise but just as irritating nonetheless. A peek at the antique wall clock. 20:18. almost twenty minutes late. The audacity! Only Cormac would dare. A sigh escaped her crimson painted lips. Then, she finally heard the sound of the front door opening. Her eyes darted to the slightly ajar door of the parlor, gaze firm and demanding as it met her nephew‘s. „You’re late.“
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