The quiet elegance of the Mandarin Oriental's suite was a welcome escape from the political chaos Alexa was used to. The room was a symphony of natural light, minimalist luxury. The floor-to- ceiling windows offered a breathtaking panoramic view of Geneva, amidst this there was a soft glow of her laptop screen.
The king -sized bed , dressed in a crisp white linens, was her workplace. She was lying on her stomach, propped up on her elbows, fully immersed in the glowing lines of code on her screen. She wore the light - blue linen top with its delicate scalloped edges, matching shorts, an outfit that was comfortable , casual.
She meticulously worked on the code of her new game model, her fingers flying across the keyboard. The rhythmic clatter of her typing was the only sound in the otherwise silent room. She was lost in her problem- solving, her mind fully engaged in a world she could control , a world of logic, rules, far away from the unpredictable, chaotic reality of her life.
The serene quiet of the suite was broken by a soft, respectful knock.
" Come in", Alexa said, her eyes not leaving the screen.
The door opened, James stepped inside, his presence filling the luxurious space with a calm professionalism that was both reassuring, familiar. He wasn't in a suit or formal wear, his outfit was a blend of stylish, comfortable. He wore a crisp, brown long-sleeved shirt with large front pockets, its sleeves rolled up to his forearms, paired with black pleated trousers that were both relaxed, sharp. The outfit was a stark contrast to the formal suits he wore in public, signaling that here, in the privacy of the hotel suite, he was more than a secretary — he was her best friend. He held a room service tray with 2 steaming mugs, a silent comforting gesture." The team is wondering of you need anything," he said, his voice was a low , even hum.
" Just five more minutes," Alexa said, without looking up. " This bug is driving me insane."
He placed the mugs on the side table, walked over the bed, looking at her, then at the lines of code. He glanced at the clock on the wall, the gold hands reading a crisp 4.30 pm. He watched her, a silent figure bathed in the glow of her screen. He took a single step toward the bed.
" Close the laptop", he said, his voice soft but firm. " It's already 4.30 pm. You need to get ready."
Alexa didn't look up. " No, there's still time", she said, her fingers a blur on the keyboard.
" This is important."
" So, is the auction," he replied, a hint of steel in his tone. Without a word, he reached forward, with a shift, decisive motion, closed the screen.
The sudden darkness was startling. Her head shot up, her eyes with wide shock. A sharp laugh of disbelief escaped her lips as she made a swift, practiced motion, punching him lightly on the arm.
" What the heck?" she exclaimed, her voice filled with mock indignation. He just smiled, a look that said, YOU KNOW I'M RIGHT. The playful punch, a habit from their years of friendship, was a sign of deep comfort , trust between them.
He walked over to the side table, picked up one of the 2 steaming cups, the fragrant scent of herbal tea filling the air. He offered it to her, his hand wrapped around the warm porcelain. She took it, her fingers curling for a moment.
Without a word, he moved to the open closet, pulled out a soft, plush white bathrobe, holding it for her.
" Here," he said , his voice a low steady hum. " Freshen up. I'll get the team to cone up."
Alexa took the robe, the warmth from the mug spreading through her hands. She took a long, calming sip from the mug, the warm herbal tea a gentle comfort that unraveled the last threads of coding focus. The silence of the suite was a small luxury , she cherished it before the makeover team's inevitable arrival.
With the mug drained, she rose from the bed, walked towards the bathroom . A sleek, expanse of polished white,gray marble. A large, minimalist tub sat invitingly in a recessed look, a spacious glass- walled shower promised a refreshing escape. Plush white towels were neatly stacked, an extra fluffy bathrobe hung on a hook.
She placed the empty mug on the marble counter , letting her fingers trace the cool , smooth surface. She ran her hands through her hair, pulling into a loose,messy bun at the back of her head. A few strands escaped, framing her face,softening her features. She unbuttoned the top, slipping it from her shoulders. Then she stepped out of the matching shorts, leaving the soft, casual outfit in a heap on the floor. She stepped into the glass-walled water,warm water immediately cascading over her.
Edmund entered , a small white towel in his hand that he used to rub at his damp hair. Another large towel wrapped low around his waist , clinging to his hips. Water droplets glistened on his skin, a testament to his recent shower. His shoulders were broad, his frame muscular , lean, a physique sculpted by years of discipline, training, a body that moved with the strength of an athlete.
He crossed the plush carpet, the silence of the room punctuated by the soft padding of his bare feet. He tossed the damp towel into the chair, sat on the upholstered stool in front of the ornate mirror, faint scent of the sandalwood from his soap lingering in the air. The low hum of the hair dryer filled the quiet of the room as he ran it through his damp hair, his reflection staring back with a focused intensity.
A soft knock on the door preceded the entrance of Lionel. Lionel carried a garment bag, the sleek black fabric hinting at the formal attire within it, a polished black box.
" Prince Edmund," he said respectfully, laying the garment bag carefully on the nearby chaise lounge, placing the shoe box on the floor." Everything is prepared for tonight. The black tuxedo, as requested. " He gestured towards the bag. " And the Flore One Cut Oxford shoes are inside the box. A stylist will be arriving shortly to ensure everything is perfect for the auction. " Lionel added.
Edmund nodded , his gaze still fixed on his reflection as he switched off the hairdryer. "Thanks, Lionel."
" Your welcome," he said, before quietly excusing himself , leaving the Prince for his preparations.
He rose from his seat, leaving the soft towel behind as he moved towards the garment bag. He unzipped it, pulled out the classic tuxedo his secretary had laid out. He worked with a quiet, practiced precision, smooth, black fabric of the trousers sliding over his legs, the crisp white shirt buttoned with a flick of his fingers. The jacket, with its perfectly tailored shoulders, satin lapels, settled onto him like a second skin,a suit of armor for the evening. He fastened the bow tie , his movements fluid, confident. I am no longer just Edmund, but the next Duke of Italy, the polished representative of my family's legacy.
His gaze fell to the black shoe box on the floor. He opened it , pulled out the shoes. The leather was flawless, mirror- like black, the single- piece vamp a testament to the meticulous craftsmanship. He slipped his feet into them, the shoes fitting him perfectly, each step solid, sure. With the shoes on, his transformation was complete.
A soft knock on the door announced the arrival of the stylist. He entered with a discreet smile,professional air, his kit containing an array of brushes, combs, styling products. He greeted Edmund with a respectful nod, immediately went to work.
With practiced hands, he coaxed Edmund's
already well- cut hair into a slightly softer, more refined style. He used product sparingly, adding just enough to give the golden strands a subtle texture, a natural-looking wave that framed Edmund's face. The side parting was maintained, lending an air of classic sophistication, but the overall effort was brilliant, adding a touch of approachable charm to his aristocratic features.
The stylist also sublty attended to Edmund's complexion, using a touch of matte powder to ensure his skin looking flawless under the bright lights of the auction. His movements were efficient, unobtrusive, enchanting Edmund's natural good looks without making him appear overly made-up. With the final touch, Edmund stood before the mirror, his reflection a picture of sharp, classic elegance.
Edmund descended into the elevator, the luxurious silence a stark contrast to the city's hum. When the door opened to the lobby, he was no longer just a man; the Prince of Italy, the figure of polished command.
Outside the hotel's entrance, a deep blue Rolls-Royce Phantom, waited at the curb, it's imposing silhouette a statement of quiet power. Lionel, who had gone ahead, stood by the car's rear door. He opened it for Edmund, a silent gesture of respect.
Edmund slid into the plush leather seat in the back. Lionel got in the front passenger start,with a nearly silent hum, the driver pulled away. The ride to the Museum of Art and History was a mere 10-15 mins, a short, calm journey through the beautiful city of Geneva.
The short car ride felt longer, a brief moment of calm before the storm. After exactly 10 mins, the Rolls-Royce glided to a stop in front of the Museum of Art and History of Geneva. The building, with its grand, neoclassical facade, towering pillars, was a silent witness to the city's history, beauty. Tonight, however it was a stage.
The museum's forecourt was a chaotic symphony of glamour. Dozens of cameras flashed in a relentless , blinding storm of light, their shutters clicking like machine guns. A red carpet, stretched from the curb to the museum's entrance, was lined with reporters shouting questions, fans screaming names. Limousines, luxury cars were a steady stream, dropping off the world's most influential, powerful figures: diplomats, movie stars, industrialists, old-money aristocrats. The air buzzed with energy, anticipation, the low hum of a thousand hushed conversations.
Edmund stepped out of the Rolls-Royce, the cameras immediately turned to him. He was a familiar figure, he moved with a practiced , dignified ease, his golden hair catching the light as he nodded to reporters. But before they could get any closer, a cordon of 2 security guards , Lionel moved with practiced precision. They formed a quiet, moving shield around him, their bodies a solid barrier between the relentless energy of the press and the prince.
He offered a slight, polite nod to the crowd, his composure a direct contrast to the frenzy around him.
He stood at the entrance of the museum, low murmur of the crowd a backdrop to his mounting frustration. The flash of cameras died down as the last of the initials arrived, leaving the air with a quiet anticipation. He glanced at his wrist, the subtle glance of his watch showing the time 7.00 pm. The auction was supposed to be starting now.
" She hasn't arrived," he said to Lionel, his voice low , tight.
Lionel, ever professional, offered a polite shrug. " Traffic can be very unpredictable, Prince Edmund. "
I knew it better. It wasn't traffic. This was a statement . It is a sign she didn't care about the rules , etiquette, or carefully orchestrated schedule. It's a sign she didn't care about the time. She is so much insufferable and unpunctual.
Then, amidst the lingering arrivals, a sleek white BMW pulled upto the curb. It wasn't as ostentatious as a Rolls-Royce, but it had a clean, modern authority that commanded attention.
Edmund's eyes narrowed slightly, a subtle shift that only his secretary, Lionel, standing beside him, would notice. His calm demeanor vanished, replaced by a focused, intense gaze. A figure stepped from the car.