Choice returned the receiver and made her way to the elevator. The elevator doors opened at the fifth floor, she stepped out of the cubicle to find Gerard waiting at the reception.
"Come with me ma'am," he said and led her into the studio.
Choice was awed by the interior design of the studio, greatly done, clean and beautiful. She stood staring at the superstar, the centre of attraction, as the camera clinked at him; his Kingly aura never changed no matter where he stood or sat.
God! He was breathtaking.
He shifted his gaze to her direction and gave out a charming smile, as he threw his coat over his shoulder, supporting ìt with a finger, and dipped his hand into his pocket.
He had that aura of a King that was feared by all, though he wasn't in an attire.
He was smiling at her.
She looked behind her to make sure.
How hot!
Like an inferno melting ice.
He melted her to water.
She held her breath. She couldn't stand him, he was staring intently at her, and his brown eyes shone like diamonds. She tried to hide from his taunting gaze and ended up falling a laptop to the floor, the sound echoed in the room and drew all attention to her.
She didn't hear the clinking of the camera anymore.
Mother Mary. What was she going to do?
She picked up the laptop and turned slowly to find all eyes staring at her. Ray had a frown on his face. She swallowed, urging herself to remain calm.
"Who's she? She looks so beautiful."
"Her legs are wonderful."
"Could she be a model?"
"If she's not, she should become one, and that dress, it's unique."
Choice took a few steps backwards; she wanted to hide in a hole.
Ray noticed she was stirring the whole room. "Everyone, out!" He commanded in a deep voice, leaving the background.
With that heard, the room emptied in a few seconds.
Gerard stood behind Ray waiting to watch another episode of the couple's fight.
Ray's brows furrowed as his glare went from Choice to the broken laptop in her hands. "Is something wrong with you upstairs?"
She didn't look up at him and apologized, "I'm sorry, it was a mistake."
"A mistake? You always make mistakes...."
She cut in hoarsely, "I just said I was sorry, right? Then why yell at me and act all perfect like you don't make mistakes yourself."
The big boss make mistakes? Impossible.
"You know what, you're gonna pay for that laptop you broke 'cause that," he pointed a finger at it, "the amount it's worth can buy your descendants and generations to come a thousand times."
She dropped the laptop on the table.
Bang!
"Yeah yeah! Rub how wealthy you are to my face. Why this way over a laptop when you know you're capable of getting a new one no matter its cost."
"Me? Well, I won't be the one to get it, you will. It's only worth three hundred thousand dollar."
Her eyes widened in shock. "Three hundred thousand?! I don't even have a quarter of that amount in my account. Don't be so heartless, President Ray. Spare me on this one. Where am I going to get such money from?"
"Steal, beg, borrow. I don't care." He said, nonchalantly.
The door was thrown open by a familiar figure who walked into the studio immediately.
"The favorite manager is back!" Maxwell bellowed, his arms outstretched in a gesture of exuberant self-celebration.
Maxwell.
A name synonymous with Ray's inner circle, a friendship forged in the flames of time, tested and unyielding. Ray's best friend and manager. He had gone on a one-week leave and was back.
Maxwell, his excitement undimmed by Ray's stoic demeanour, embraced his best friend but was met with a sobering reality as Ray remained unmoved, his body rigid and his face a cold sculpture of indifference
"Welcome back, Manager Max," Gerard greeted, his words seasoned with professional decorum. "How was your leave?"
Maxwell, his smile a beacon of cheerfulness, responded with enthusiasm. "It was the best time ever, I had fun!"
Raymond spoke with a hint of bitterness, the words dripping like acid off his tongue. "Sure you did," he uttered, his eyes averted and his expression steely.
Maxwell did not let the awkward exchange go unnoticed. With furrowed brows and a hint of concern, he turned to his best friend, his tone a gentle prod of inquiry.
"Bro, what's with the attitude?" He asked, his question a tender nudge towards the truth.
It was unlike Ray to harbour such an aloof facade; his temperament usually a predictable landscape of camaraderie. Maxwell sensed something amiss, a dark cloud gathering on the horizon of their friendship, its contours still vague and undefined.
"I had a very long day and I'm stressed out." Ray lied.
MaxwelI knew he lied.
Before he could interrogate Ray further, his gaze caught the female figure he trailed passed earlier, his hands clasped as he moistened his lips. "Where the hell did this damsel come from, heaven?"
A tiny smile lit Choice's face.
Ray's eyes fixed on his best friend, and his words an arrow of honesty, struck with a bluntness that left no room for ambiguity.
"That isn't the kind of girl you should be admiring, Max; she's way below your standard." Ray stated, his tone measured and unequivocal.
Her smile disappeared like the last rays of a sunset; she felt the sting of Ray's words like a slap across the face.
Max's gaze shifted back to Ray, his words a surrender to his best friend's judgement.
"Guess you're right, bro. So, hitting the bar tonight?" He asked, his voice an invitation to their usual social rituals.
"No, like I said, I had a busy and work-loaded day, and what I need now is rest, not a drink," Ray left the studio, and Gerard followed, accompanied by choice.
Maxwell stood there, alone, a confused expression on his face.
In the car, the sound of the engine hummed a symphony of purpose, the rhythmic rumble propelling the sleek machine forward with ease.
Choice, demure and poised, was seated in the front passenger seat, her presence a contrast to the business-like demeanor of the uniformed chauffeur.
At the back, Ray and Gerard, the latter absorbed in his laptop, conversed in hushed tones, their words a symposium of information.
"I already booked first-class tickets for the flight to South Africa tomorrow, Face-of-Africa has three hotel reservations ready in Oyster Box Hotel..."
Ray interrupted. "We won't be needing those rooms, we're staying at my manor there in SA." He declared, his words laced with the unmistakable power of a man accustomed to having his way.
Gerard, unfazed by the sudden change, adjusted his words with practiced ease.
"Should I pass the message to the CEO's assistant?" He inquired, the question a well-crafted show of deference.
"Don't bother," Ray replied, his words succinct and unyielding.
"Okay, big boss, also director Hope reported that the filming of 'The Twelve Descendants' will be wrapping up next week. Following your orders, I arranged the rest of your flights, Ghana, Ivory Coast, China, US, Paris, then London, Colombia, The Bahamas, and Australia, and there's just a week to attend all the shoots." Gerard reported, his tone measured and precise.
"Well, if there's any magazine shoot I don't make it to, we'll pay them double whatever compensation they ask to cover their loss." Ray said.
Choice being curiosity piqued by the conversation, turned towards the men, her eyes inquisitive and full of wonder.
"Can I come? I've never been on a plane before," she ventured, her words tentative, a touch of wistfulness coloring her tone.
Ray's voice gruff and unyielding, responded with a quick and firm rejection.
"No. 'Cause I wouldn't want mistakes," he declared, his words weighted with an enigmatic finality.
She slowly sank back into her seat, her frown a silent declaration of discontent, her words a brittle whisper that cut through the silence like a shard of ice. "So arrogant."
Calling President Raymond arrogant? The chauffeur heard that clearly, but didn't dare react.
The words crashed like a hurricane upon the chauffeur's ears, but his shoulders remained straight, his posture rigid, and his face an impassive facade of self-control.
He didn't know who she was but at that moment, she spoke to Ray in the manner only one person ever dared to.
Ray's twin, Zara.
Arrogant, he thought, his mind a mirror of the word, but his lips stayed sealed with the glue of deference.
His eyes remained fixed on the road, his hands steady on the wheel, as he swallowed the laughter that sought to emerge, his discipline a fortress against the waves of reaction.