Chapter eighteen
"I-,"
"Excuse me sir. Are you the one wanting the Isabella Islay?" a male voice came from behind Rylene. It was too respectful. Rylene found it irritating but with a hidden agenda.
Rylene turned towards the source of the voice.
He was tall.
He had a lean, wiry frame, not overly muscular, but with an energy in his movements that suggests agility of both body and mind.
There was a calm confidence about him, as if he trusts his mind to find a way through any challenge.
"I go by the name Micheal morgan. May i know your name sir?"
"Why don't we find somewhere else for this discussion? This place is too loud. Not to my liking," Rylene said.
"Very well. Please follow me this way," Micheal morgan said then led the way.
They both went to his office at the top floor of the building.
The office was spacious, more like a private suite than a simple workplace, with high ceilings and panoramic windows that offer a sweeping city view.
The walls were paneled with dark walnut wood, giving the room a rich, timeless feel.
A large Persian rug stretches across the floor, its intricate patterns adding depth and luxury beneath the polished hardwood.
"What an amazing office you have, Mr. Morgan," Rylene complimented
"Please have a seat," he said as he pointed at his couch.
The couch is a luxury centerpiece, designed not just for sitting but for making a statement.
Upholstered in Italian leather, the kind that feels buttery-soft to the touch yet strong enough to last decades. Its deep, rich tone — cognac brown and pearl white — gleams under ambient lighting.
Rylene smiled then went and sat on the couch. It gave off a comfortable feeling of being home but Rylene did not dare to relax. Micheal morgan gave off the vibe of being very crafty and clever.
On the low glass table in front of the couch rests a collection of fine spirits, each bottle itself a piece of art.
A crystal decanter filled with aged single malt whisky catches the light, amber liquid glowing warmly inside.
Next to it, a bottle of rare cognac — perhaps Louis XIII — with its intricate crystal design and golden stopper, sits like a treasure.
"I have not properly introduced myself, haven't i? I go by the name Raven Nocturne. I know you have not heard about it," Rylene said calmly.
He smiled. His smile was subtle and knowing, more of a half-smirk than a full grin, as if he was always in on some joke no one else has caught yet.
"You are right. I do not know of any Nocturne name in anyone's lips. It is my first time hearing it. Where do you come from?" he asked with a low voice while pouring a drink.
He doesn't raise his voice.
He doesn't need to. The danger lies not in what he says, but in what he chooses not to say. Every gesture, every pause, every flicker of his expression reminds Rylene that the danger of in front of her, she is not just in conversation — she is being played, maneuvered like a pawn on a chessboard already set for checkmate.