CHAPTER 210: THE MUSE IN THE MARBLE LOBBY

My heels clicked softly on the polished marble while I turned from the reception desk, already mentally reviewing Adrien’s afternoon schedule as I made my way back to the elevators, the signed delivery clipboard clutched loosely in my hand. Adrien had been deep in a conference call, so a quick trip downstairs was no big deal. The thought of him, focused and intense, brought a small, private smile to my lips. Soon, I hoped, those little trips would be for things like picking up dry cleaning for our apartment. Oh my goodness. Did I just say that!??

But just as I reached the main lobby, a sudden swell of voices and a palpable tension made me pause. A small crowd had gathered near the security desk, their faces a mix of curiosity and discomfort.

Pushing through a few onlookers, I saw the source of the commotion. Standing in the center, looking utterly unbothered despite the glares, was a girl who looked no older than eighteen, maybe nineteen. Her posture was relaxed, almost languid, and her eyes, though currently fixed on a woman who was practically vibrating with indignation, held an unnerving sort of calm.

She was dressed in an oversized hoodie and ripped jeans, a stark contrast to the perfectly tailored suits and dresses that usually populated our upscale lobby. Her pink and black skunk hair was pulled into a messy bun, and she clutched a worn backpack, but there was an undeniable, almost regal, tilt to her chin. She looked like she belonged on the cover of some obscure, high-fashion magazine – so cool, and beautiful.

The indignant woman I recognized instantly: Brenda, from the Media Department. She was known for her notoriously loud voice and even louder personality, often reminding everyone within earshot that her "patron" was a high-ranking executive. Today, she seemed to be making it her mission to verbally dismantle the young lady.

"Excuse me, but who let you in here?" Brenda’s voice sliced through the murmurs of the crowd, sharp with disdain. "This is a professional establishment—not some hangout spot for delinquents!"

"I told you, I’m looking for my brother," she said flatly, her tone bored, like she’d explained it a hundred times already.

I hesitated, torn between stepping in and staying out of it—until Brenda’s voice rose sharply without necessity.

"Your brother? Do you have any idea

how many people try to pull that excuse to get past security? Do I look stupid to you?" Brenda crossed her arms, her red-lacquered nails glinting under the lobby’s chandeliers.

The girl barely blinked. Instead of replying, she let out a slow, deliberate exhale through her nose and rolled her neck as if Brenda’s tirade was nothing more than mild background noise.

"And what exactly are you wearing? Bet it’s all fake designer."

"How do you know that?"

"Well, it’s... it’s obvious! Look at you! That... that cheap material. There is only three piece of Lolita design that was sold and there is no way you have it"

The girl’s lips curved into a faint, almost pitying smile. She didn’t look at Brenda. Instead, she lazily tugged at the hem of her oversized grey hoodie, the one Brenda had just derided. "Four, actually."

A ripple of murmurs went through the small crowd.

"The fourth," the girl continued, her voice still a low, melodic drawl, "was a custom commission. The designer gifted it to his muse. He said she embodied the collection’s spirit of ’elegant rebellion’." She finally lifted her gaze from her hoodie and met Brenda’s, her eyes shimmering with a cool, unassailable confidence. "I’m the muse."

"Liar."

"Are you actually arguing with a teenager? Embarrassing." she said, her tone laced with a dry amusement that only seemed to infuriate Brenda further. "What I am wearing, fake or not, is none of your business. I need to see my brother and you are stressing me out."

Brenda’s face flushed an even deeper red. "Your brother? You definitely don’t have a brother working here! Security, can we please remove this... this nuisance?"

The girl just sighed, a sound of utter disdain. "You are disturbing my ears, old lady," she stated flatly, as if Brenda was an irritating fly.

I almost choked. Old lady.

Brenda was twenty-Six. The insult was so perfect, devastatingly so.

The young lady calling Brenda "old" was the breaking point. With a gasp that rippled through the onlookers, Brenda snatched a glass of what looked like fruit juice from a nearby coffee table – probably someone’s forgotten morning drink – and, with a swift, angry motion, splashed it directly onto the girl’s hoodie.

The liquid cascaded down the custom grey fabric, pulp clinging to the material like grotesque barnacles. A collective gasp, sharp and unified, echoed through the lobby. For a heartbeat, there was absolute silence, broken only by the faint, sticky drip of juice onto the pristine marble floor.

The girl didn’t flinch. She didn’t even gasp. She simply closed her eyes for a slow, measured second, as if absorbing the impact. When she opened them again, the cool amusement was gone, replaced by an unnerving, glacial stillness. "You," she said, her voice now dangerously quiet, "will regret this."

That was my cue. I couldn’t stand by and watch this escalate further. Brenda was out of line, and the poor girl was clearly just trying to find her family. Taking a deep breath, I stepped forward, my most composed and reassuring smile fixed on my face.

"Is there a problem here, Miss. Davies?"

My voice, calm and professional, sliced through the tense silence. It acted like a reset button, snapping everyone’s attention from the dripping hoodie to me.

Brenda whirled around, her face a mask of fury that curdled into a sneer when she saw it was only me. "Miss Miller? Stay out of this! This little hooligan is trying to cause trouble, and you’re just an assistant, this doesn’t concern you!" She practically spat the last part, her tone dripping with contempt.

My smile didn’t falter, but a steely glint entered my eyes. My voice, however, remained perfectly level, calm, and infused with an authority that Brenda, in her rage, seemed to vastly underestimate.

"On the contrary, Ms. Davies," I said, my voice cutting through the remaining tension like a finely honed blade. My eyes flickered briefly to the juice-soaked hoodie of the young girl, then back to Brenda’s flushed face. "My role as Mr. Walton’s assistant gives me direct oversight regarding the professional conduct of our employees and the smooth operation of this building. And right now, you are creating an unacceptable disturbance in our main lobby."

"This little brat came in here, disrupting everything, and you’re defending her? Get out of my way before I have you fired! I’ll make sure your career at Vantage and Cole ends today!"

I simply maintained my smile. "I understand you’re upset, Ms. Davies, but there’s no need for such language or for obstructing the lobby. Perhaps it would be best if we all resumed our work." My gaze swept over the gawking crowd, a silent command for them to disperse. To my surprise, it worked. People began to mumble and turn away, sensing the show was over.

"This isn’t over, Miller!" Ms. Davies shrieked, but her voice was already trailing off as she stomped away, muttering darkly.

"Thank you," The girl’s voice was quiet, but it cut through the air with the same unnerving calm as before. The ’thank you’ wasn’t effusive or dripping with relieved gratitude. It was a simple acknowledgement, a statement of fact. Her eyes, now fixed on me, were a startling shade of hazel, flecked with gold. They held no trace of the shock or humiliation one might expect. Instead, they assessed me with a sharp, unnerving intelligence.

"You’re quite welcome," I replied, pulling a clean, folded napkin from my purse. "Here, let’s get that off your top." I dabbed gently at the stain. "Are you alright? That was incredibly rude of her."

She nodded, accepting the napkin from me. "I’m fine. She’s just... loud."

"Indeed. Now, you mentioned you’re looking for your brother. Do you know which department he works in? Or his name?" I steered her towards the bank of private elevators, away from any lingering onlookers.

"Yes," she said simply.

I pressed the button for the executive floor. As the doors slid open, I gestured for her to step in. "Well, let’s see. If you know his floor, just press the button as we go up, alright?"