Ava sat in the leather armchair, her notebook balanced on her lap. The crackling fireplace behind her cast flickering shadows on the walls, dancing over the rows of books and the polished wood of the violin. She watched Alexander as he settled into the chair opposite her, his movements measured, deliberate, like a man who controlled the rhythm of the room.
"Before we start," she began, her pen poised above the page, "I need to ask—why now? Why grant this interview when you've avoided the press for so long?"
Alexander leaned back, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Timing, Ms. Harris, is everything. Sometimes, the story chooses its moment. And sometimes, the storyteller chooses to let it unfold."
Ava frowned slightly, his cryptic response doing little to quell her unease. "Your readers are fascinated by your work," she pressed. "They say your stories feel personal, almost as if you've lived them. Is that true?"
A flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—crossed his face. "Every writer leaves pieces of themselves in their work," he said, his tone almost playful. "But the truth, Ms. Harris, is rarely what people want it to be."
Her pen moved across the page, recording his words. "You talk about truth and perspective often," she noted. "Do you think your readers would see you differently if they knew the man behind the words?"
Alexander's gaze darkened, and for a moment, the room seemed to grow colder. "The man behind the words," he repeated, his voice low. "Tell me, Ms. Harris, do you believe in masks?"
"Masks?" she echoed, caught off guard.
He leaned forward, his piercing gray eyes locking onto hers. "We all wear them. To protect ourselves, to deceive others, to survive. The question is—what happens when the mask becomes the face?"
Ava's breath hitched, the weight of his words sinking in. She forced herself to stay composed, scribbling notes even as her mind raced. "So, which are you, Mr. Rhea? The mask, or the face?"
He smiled—a slow, enigmatic curve of his lips. "That, Ms. Harris, is for you to decide."
The tension in the room was palpable, the air heavy with unspoken truths. Ava shifted in her seat, determined to steer the conversation back to safer ground. "Your latest book, The Unfinished Symphony, has sparked a lot of speculation," she said. "Many believe it's your most personal work yet. Would you agree?"
Alexander's gaze lingered on her, unreadable. "Personal," he murmured. "An interesting choice of words. Perhaps it is. Or perhaps it's simply another story."
"Then why the title?" she pressed. "Why unfinished?"
For the first time, Alexander seemed to falter. His fingers tapped lightly on the armrest of his chair, a rhythm that mirrored the erratic beat of her heart. "Some things," he said softly, "are never meant to be finished."
A chill ran down her spine. Before she could ask him to elaborate, a faint chime echoed through the mansion—a grandfather clock marking the hour. Alexander rose smoothly from his chair, his sudden movement startling her.
"It's getting late," he said, his tone abrupt. "We'll continue this tomorrow."
Ava blinked, taken aback. "Tomorrow? But we've barely scratched the surface."
He turned to face her, his expression unreadable once more. "Patience, Ms. Harris. Some stories are best revealed in chapters."
He strode toward the door, his silhouette framed by the flickering light of the fire. Just as he reached the threshold, he paused, glancing over his shoulder.
"Oh, and Ms. Harris," he said, his voice carrying a strange, almost ominous weight, "be careful what you wish for. You might not like the answers you find."
And with that, he was gone, leaving her alone in the oppressive silence of the study. Ava stared at the door, her heart pounding.
For the first time in her career, she felt as though she was no longer just the storyteller—but a part of the story itself.