Noe Vanitas No Carte Novels & Stories

I need to feel new, look new. “I think it’s an ability,” I continue softly, my fingers ghosting over another bundle. “But I didn’t have it before… not until Adrian.” Silence stretches for a moment before Neema hums, lining her cart with a few more items—Essenza Gold Repair Cream, Noir Bloom Lip Veil, and a Glass Drop Hydrating Mist. “Sounds like a mate-bond trigger,” she says casually. Just as we rounded the last aisle, heading toward checkout,fate decided to have a laugh.

“I’ve also arranged for you to make a brief speech during the unveiling. The Head Curator’s ecstatic.” Jared gave her a scowl. “They better grant that zoning permit. We’ve spent more than what was budgeted for this. And that painting came from the private collections of the Von Metternich’s. It’s probably worth more than some of our corporate shares.” The gentlemen uttered a meaningful ‘ohhhh’. “What painting is it, boss?” Carter interjected. “Fragonard, I think” he replied shrugging his shoulders in carelessness. “Draft a speech for me, Maris?”

The scent of the South cloying, stagnant, and arrogant, rose from the paper like a rot. Kaelen appeared in the doorway, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his eyes darting between us. Vivian was behind him, sinking to her knees, her face the colour of bleached bone. I turned my gaze to the letter. The handwriting was Noah’s. Elegant, preening, and filthier than a gutter. It was the script of a man who wrote with the precision of a surgeon and the entitlement of a tyrant who had never been told no.

Aria took in a sharp, ragged breath, her lungs burning as the smell of stale liquor and cheap paint in her memories instantly dissolved, replaced by the heavy, expensive scent of cologne, high-end champagne, and the underlying scent of sandalwood. ‘Huh? What the fuck?’ She blinked rapidly. The dim apartment so clear in her mind’s eye was gone. She was standing in the center of a sleek, subterranean gallery, surrounded by high-society vultures holding champagne flutes and looking at them through masks. Directly in front of her, mounted on an obsidian display easel under a harsh, clinical spotlight, was the piece Vane had introduced as a 'nameless contemporary marvel’ under the name card.

Noah studied the photograph. His expression became grave. "I was wondering when someone would come." Silence settled over the workshop. "You were expecting us?" "No." He corrected gently. "I was expecting Isabella's children." Without another word... He walked to the back of the workshop. Unlocked an old cabinet. And removed a long, weathered violin case. The dark leather was cracked with age. Its brass clasps had tarnished green. Across the lid... Burned into the leather in elegant script... Were two initials.

I pick up the phone, swipe the screen, and read the short paragraph written on the white background. Dear Ms. Nora, Thank you for submitting the portfolio of your recent work last Tuesday. I have reviewed the high-resolution images of the five Tuscan series pieces, and I would be delighted to host them in our upcoming autumn group exhibition next month. Please let me know when you are available to discuss consignment terms and installation dates. Best regards, Evelyn Reed I read the three sentences once. I read them a second time, making sure my eyes are not misreading the black font.

‘Did they just call me a scammer’ Anita yelled in ivory’s head, Anita cursed continually but ivory ignored her. ‘I didn’t get scammed; I got this map from a very powerful person’. ‘Alfred bring out your map; let’s compare it to ivory’s’ nara suggested. Ivory huffed in disbelief as she opened the map she held. They all compared the map and saw Anita’s map had more details than that of Alfred’s. ‘But how are you so sure that cave is where the ice lotus will be?’ nara asked with a frown. ‘The paper looks a little old’ indigo said ‘she probably got it from an old geezer’.

How much money does Noah have? A central island vanity with mirrors displays an array of cosmetics and perfumes. I pick up a crystal bottle and squeeze the plump. It smells of jasmine and something I’d never be able to afford. It’s reminiscent of the old-world spices we still have in our pantry back at The Towers. The place is completely stocked, a personalised boutique at my disposal.

I watched from the couch, confused, my mug of tea untouched and cold in my hand. The Woman who stepped in looked like someone who belonged on the cover of a luxury Magazine. Clipboard. Pearls. Glossy red Lips that curved with effortless command. “Good Afternoon,Mrs Johnson. I'm Vanessa, service manager of the Vogue gallery”. Mrs Johnson. The name still sounded foreign, like someone else's fairytale. Like something I had borrowed, not earned. Before I could react, She gave a polite nod and turned slightly towards the door.

No broken glass. Her eyes darted to the bookshelf. And froze. Something sat atop the spine of Vivienne’s journal. A black velvet playing card. King of Hearts. Drawn in silver ink, dripping like mercury. Isolde stepped closer. There was writing on the back. “Your move, ballerina. One hour. Velvet stage.” She backed away from the card as if it might burn her. Not again. Not another performance. Not another trap. But before she could think or breathe or run