The following week arrived on the tide of a bustling, relentless normality that felt both like a balm and a betrayal. The world, it seemed, was eager to move on from near-apocalypses and imprisoned warlords. For Alexa, this meant a return to the life she had carved out for herself long before ancient powers and silver-eyed captives had complicated everything, the life of a celebrity.
The studio was a cathedral of artificial light, a vast, white space where reality was meticulously curated. The air hummed with the quiet energy of a dozen professionals, stylists, photographers, assistants, all orbiting around her, the sun of this small, constructed universe. Alexa stood on a seamless paper backdrop, bathed in the glare of soft boxes, her body contorted into a pose that was both effortless and agonizingly precise. A stylist darted in to fluff a strand of her hair, the touch feather-light and impersonal.
"Gorgeous, Alexa. Give me that 'mysterious smile' again. Think of a secret," called the photographer, a man named Julian whose energy was as bright as his lights.
Alexa complied, her lips curving into an expression she had perfected over years. It was a smile that promised intimacy while maintaining an unbreachable distance, a smile that sold perfume, dreams, and magazine covers. Inside, her mind was a thousand miles away, in the damp chill of a dungeon, listening to a whisper. 'Until next time, kitten'. The memory gave her a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the studio's air conditioning.
She cycled through a series of outfits—a sleek, a black, strap gown that clung against her skin like a second flesh, a sharp, tailored pantsuit that projected an aura of impenetrable competence, a soft, flowing dress that suggested a vulnerability she certainly did not feel. Each change was a transformation, a slipping on and off of different skins. With each click of the camera, she felt a part of herself receding, the warrior-queen being neatly packaged for public consumption.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Julian lowered his camera, a wide grin spreading across his face. "That's a wrap! Absolute magic, darling. You were phenomenal, Alexa."
A collective sigh of relief went through the crew. The intense focus dissipated, replaced by the clatter of equipment being packed away and the easy laughter of a job well done.
"Yayyy!" Alexa exclaimed, the sound bursting from her with a forced brightness that echoed in the vast space. She stretched her arms overhead, feeling the vertebrae in her spine pop and realign, a release from the hours of unnatural stillness. The performance was over, for now.
But the curtain was not yet falling. Her two closest friends in the city, Chloe and Isabelle, had been waiting in the wings, and they descended upon her the moment she was declared free. Chloe, a fashion designer with a riot of curly hair and an irrepressible spirit, linked her arm through Alexa's. Isabelle, more reserved but with a core of steel, fell into step on her other side.
"You were magnificent," Isabelle said, her voice a calm contrast to Chloe's restless nature.
"And now," Chloe announced, her eyes sparkling with a mischief that Alexa immediately didn't trust, "we are celebrating. Dinner. Our treat. No arguments."
Alexa's buoyant mood deflated slightly. "Chloe, I'm exhausted. I just want to go home, order takeout, and not speak to anyone for twelve hours."
"Nonsense," Chloe chirped, steering her firmly towards the dressing room. "You've been locked away in that estate for weeks. You need fun. You need to remember what it's like to be adored by someone." She winked at Alexa.
The mention of the estate, reminded her of Lysander and it sent another unwelcome jolt through Alexa. She allowed herself to be propelled into the dressing room, too tired to mount a proper defense. It was only as she was changing out of the final photoshoot outfit into a simple but devastatingly elegant cocktail dress, another of Chloe's 'subtle' selections, that the trap was sprung.
"So," Chloe began, feigning nonchalance as she examined a bottle of nail polish, "we may have taken the liberty of making a reservation for three. Well, for four, actually."
Alexa froze, one arm halfway into her dress. She met Isabelle's gaze in the mirror. Isabelle had the decency to look slightly apologetic. "Chloe," Alexa said, her voice dangerously low. "What did you do?"
"It's just dinner," Chloe insisted. "With a lovely man that Isabelle's cousin knows. He's successful, he's charming, he's…"
"A blind date?" Alexa finished, her shoulders slumping. "You set me up on a blind date? You know I hate those more than anything." A vivid, humiliating memory of a previous setup, a man who had talked exclusively about his stamp collection for two hours, flashed through her mind.
"Argh!" she exclaimed, a sound of frustration. She wanted to scream, to dig her heels in and refuse. But the expectant, hopeful looks on her friends' faces, the genuine concern behind their meddling, wore her down. They were her tether to this other life, a life that was supposed to be simple. Maybe they were right. Maybe what she needed was a stark, pleasant reminder of that simplicity. A distraction from a pair of penetrating silver eyes.
"Fine," she relented, the word tasting like ash. "But if he mentions anything annoying even once, I am leaving through the bathroom window."
The restaurant was the kind of place that thrived on whispered exclusivity, all low lighting, polished surfaces, and a hushed atmosphere that made the clink of cutlery sound like a gong. Chloe and Isabelle, the traitors, had a table for two waiting for them, and after giving her exaggerated thumbs-up and encouraging winks from a discreet distance, they vanished to their own table, leaving Alexa feeling exposed and absurdly nervous.
She sat, smoothing the fabric of her dress, her senses on high alert. Every time the door opened, her head twitched up. And then he arrived.
He was, objectively, a handsome man. Tall, with a well-built frame that filled out his tailored suit perfectly. He had dark, well-groomed hair, a strong jawline, and a smile that was clearly practiced in its charm as he scanned the room before his eyes landed on her. It was a smile designed to disarm, to reassure. And as he approached, Alexa felt… nothing.
No, that wasn't true. She felt a sudden, involuntary surge of comparison. His stride was confident, but it lacked the predatory, almost visible grace of a man moving in chains. His smile was bright, but it didn't carry the subtle, mocking amusement that both infuriated and intrigued her. Unbidden, a frustrated sigh escaped her lips. Lysander. Why was he here, in her head, at this moment? He was a prisoner, a threat, a problem to be managed. He had no business invading her thoughts when a perfectly pleasant, handsome, and free man was walking towards her.