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Chapter Thirteen
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2025-02-28 19:14:38
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Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The Phoenix Chapter Eighty-Three
𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧The words hang in the air like smoke—thick, disorienting, and hard to breathe around.“Aretha’s gone missing,” I say again, but even to my own ears, it sounds surreal. Unreal.Marcos scoffs, tipping the gin bottle in disbelief. “No, no—what the hell are you talking about, mate? I literally saw her today at Yemaya’s. That's the reason for this drunk fest, remember? She was fine. Despite our argument and everything that happened afterwards, she was fine.” He leans forward, brow furrowed, alcohol-glazed eyes struggling to make sense of the dread washing over my face.Nathaniel’s narrowed gaze flits between us. “Explain, Cam. Properly.”I nod once, curtly. “I just got a message from the bodyguards I hired to watch over her. She left the apartment at 10:35 to grab something from the store down the road. The street CCTV captured her walking back out a few minutes later but then there's a glitch and a couple of minutes on the tape are missing before it continues on at past 11p
Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The Phoenix Chapter Eighty-Two
𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐧The call comes just after ten-thirty, a clipped “Get down here, mate. I bet an ‘I told you so’ is in order,” followed by the thud of the receiver. It'd been Marcos’s voice—slurred but audibly desperate.So I aim the Jag toward Monarch’s Hideaway, the members-only labyrinth we haunt when we want to forget how much money we make. The place rises like a dark embassy on the riverfront: black glass, back-lit onyx columns, a discreet gold crown over the door, and no nameplate needed.Inside, the club swallows you whole. Crystal chandeliers drip from a ceiling painted midnight; mirrored walls refract violet strobes over tufted leather banquettes. The VIP lounge sits on a mezzanine above the dance floor, fenced by curved brass rails. It’s the sort of room that’s too opulent to have memories while every night wipes the slate clean with more champagne.Marcos is slumped over the onyx bar, hugging a bottle of Navy-strength Plymouth Gin like it’s an oxygen tank. Nathaniel perches b
Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The Phoenix Chapter Eighty-One
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚The flat feels too quiet, as though every cushion and lampshade is holding its breath, listening for the front door that never opens. Marcos’s cologne still lingers on my jumper—warm cedar threaded with pepper—and it claws at my lungs each time I inhale. I trace slow, useless laps around the coffee-table, phone clutched like a flotation device. Guilt sits in my chest like wet sand: heavy, cold, immovable.When Yemaya finally rings me at 10:17 p.m., according to the taunting blue digits, I jab accept on my phone screen before the second buzz.“Baaabe, please don’t kill me,” she pants. Behind her a DJ hammers out club-house bass and someone shrieks with champagne-fizzed delight. “Lord Agilolfings' twenty-fifth anniversary gala has gone full Shakespearean tragedy. The soprano’s lost her voice and is currently sobbing on a pile of caviar canapés, the ice sculpture melted into something that looks suspiciously X-rated, and I’m now playing the part of harp-wrangler. All in all,
Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The Phoenix Chapter Eighty
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚My lungs forget how to work.I’m still astride his thigh, skin flushed a tomato red and my pulse thundering beneath my skin, when the words fall from his lips:I’m in love with you, Aretha.The living-room air turns solid. I feel it settle on my shoulders like armor I never asked to wear. I push shaky palms against his chest, climb off his lap, and take three unsteady steps backward. My knees nearly buckle, the rug rippling beneath my indoor slippers.“Aretha?” Marcos calls, his voice akin to raw silk while it drips with hope lacing his fear.I can’t look at him. Not with the confession echoing in my skull, not with the slick reminder of what I’ve just done still damp between my thighs. My gaze fixes on the coffee mug on the table, on the lace curtain stirring in the draft—anywhere but the man who just handed me his heart.“Say something.” The plea in Marcos’s tone makes my own chest ache.“I—” My throat locks up tight and when I try to force a swallow, it hurts as though
Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The Phoenix Chapter Seventy-Nine
𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐬I don’t even get a full knock in before the door yanks open, revealing the woman who has plagued my mind and every waking thought since I first laid eyes on her.Aretha stands there, eyes sharp and blazing, mouth drawn tight like she’s been sharpening her words for days. The sight of her—barefaced, in a loose hoodie that swallows her frame—should comfort me. Instead, it cuts deeper. Cold fury dances in her gaze.“You’ve got some nerve showing up here,” she snaps. “Coming here like nothing happened.”Her voice slices through the hallway, venom laced in every syllable. I open my mouth, but she beats me to it.“I saw enough. Harriet’s hands all over you like you were hers to touch. You didn’t even try to stop her.”“That’s not what happened,” I say, breath tight. “You walked in at the worst moment—”“No,” she bites out, stepping back just enough to let me enter, “I walked in at the exact moment I needed to see what kind of man you are.”I limp in, my ankle still aching with
Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The Phoenix Chapter Seventy-Eight
𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐬I hear the knock before I even glance at my front door, slow and deliberate—two quick raps, followed by silence. My first thought is that it's Aretha again, coming to visit. My heart lifts a little, foolishly hopeful, though I know deep down that it’s too soon for her to be here. Not after how she'd responded to my words the last time.I limp over, slowly, the ache in my ankle a persistent reminder of how fragile everything feels right now.When I open the door, however, my heart sinks to my stomach because it's not Aretha who's standing on the other side. Instead, it's my colleague...Harriet.She’s standing there with a too-bright smile and a bag dangling from one hand. Her perfume hits me before her words do—something sharp and floral, thick enough to choke on.“Surprise,” she says, stepping forward just enough to make declining her visit awkward. “I brought soup.”I blink, caught between disbelief and irritation. “Harriet, you didn’t have to—”“I wanted to,” she inter
Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The Phoenix Chapter Seventy-Seven
𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐬Her lips are still on mine when I feel her pull away—just slightly, like she’s remembering herself. Like she wants to forget that for a second, we weren’t pretending.I notice the moment her kiss changes. A little more urgency, a little less heart. She’s using it now—using me—to bury something deeper.It stings more than I want to admit.She’s not ready.I knew it before tonight, but now I feel it.Still, I don’t press.I kiss her back, gently, one more time before I feign a flinch and hiss.“Shit. My ankle,” I lie, leaning back with a dramatic wince.She jolts up like she’s touched a flame. “Oh my God, I’m sorry! I wasn’t even thinking—are you okay?”“Yeah,” I say, not meeting her eyes. “Just twisted wrong.”Her hands flutter at her sides, unsure what to do. For a second, she looks like she might bolt.To make her comfortable, I give her an out. “Let’s just sit. Watch something dumb. Keep it chill.”She nods quickly. “Yeah. That sounds good.”But it’s not good. Not reall
Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The Phoenix Chapter Seventy-Six
𝐀𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚By the time noon rolls around, I’m practically vibrating with restlessness.I’ve powered through two meetings, edited four proposals, and smiled at people I don’t even like. My coffee’s cold. My inbox is full. But my mind—my mind is somewhere else entirely... or rather, on someone else.Marcos.It’s not unusual for us to go a day or two without texting. But lately, we’ve been close. Closer than I ever imagined we’d become. There’s an ease between us. A current I don’t want to name.Still, I haven’t heard from him since yesterday. That silence lingers, like a pause in a song you know too well. The kind that makes you wonder if something’s changed.I glance around the breakroom, then pull out my phone and shoot him a quick text:"Hey. Just checking in. You okay?"I hit send before I can overthink it.Seconds pass without a response, then minutes.I tell myself not to take it personally. He’s probably busy. Or sleeping. Or ignoring me. The last thought burns more than I want
Aretha Hawthorne: The Rise Of The Phoenix Chapter Seventy-Five
𝐔𝐧𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧The bass doesn’t thump here—it prowls. Heavy, hypnotic, primal. It coils around the flesh and glass of The Black Fortress, a fortress of sin carved from obsidian glamour in the belly of Yerevan. Outside, it wears the face of an elite club: mirrored doors, velvet ropes, godless wealth. Inside, it breathes sex and shadows. Past the layers of bodyguards and biometric scans, past the velvet-smothered corridors and diamond-threaded curtains, lies the VVIP lounge—where pleasure turns into a weapon.Bodies twist, moan and beg wantonly.My eyes blur from champagne and perfume and sweat. They’re all touching me—hands, lips, mouths. They moan my name, but I don’t hear it. All I can hear is power in every whimper.A girl writhes beneath me, her nails digging into my back. Another straddles my thigh, whispering filth into my ear as she guides my hand between her legs. Their kisses are mindless, desperate.“Harder,” one pants.“Don’t stop, please—don’t fucking stop.”They don't know
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