The Scent and The Siren

‎♡‧₊˚two ‎♡‧₊˚

✧༺♥༻∞

─── ⋅｡ﾟ☆: ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅:☆ﾟ ⋅ ───

𓆩♡𓆪 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𓆩♡𓆪

✧༺♥༻∞

~ 𝟏𝟑 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐨

"Do you understand how hard it is for me to meet your demanding requests?" I caterwaul low under my breath as I bite into a pain au chocolat dipped in café crème. "Remind me again, why am I doing this for you aside from the very reason that I must be a masochist?"

The cool evening Parisian breeze gently blows my hair through the rolled-down window as the Maybach smoothly glides across the intimate street lined with quaint fromageries, delis, cafes, and boulangeries.

"Perhaps because my pink taco had to endure a humongous pain to welcome you into this world. That rationale should suffice to answer your rude question, pumpkin." The woman who is first the CEO and Co-Chair of The Rothschild Group and then my mother supplies a mirthful response packed in that posh, husky rasp with clear diction from the other side of the call.

Sighing, I wipe my fingers on the napkin and lift a deep puff of black slims, looking out the window. The effervescent sparkling lights are superimposed over the golden lights, illuminating the solid outlines and arches of the Iron Lady standing like a beacon near the Seine in the distance. It beckons me to climb atop the iron edifice in its twinkling mantle and relish champagne at the Champagne Bar while admiring the scintillatingly romantic ambiance of the city shimmering with gleaming lights in the dark.

"You choose to mock me instead of addressing my worries, but you need to understand that I'm not a 15-year-old to be dismissed so easily," I set the seat to recline at 43 degrees and shift my attention to the iPad lying on the fold-down table next to the ashtray.

"Is that what you think your mother does?"

"Undoubtedly," Squashing the remainder of my black slims, I raise the iPad to eye level and focus on the document I'd been reading before being interrupted by the call. "Do all mothers bully their children, or are you an exception?"

"An exception, I should hope." She purrs teasingly, her voice hardening the next instant.

"You're not taking me seriously."

"And how else do you suppose I am to treat an ardently disobedient daughter who fails to tend to her mother's humble requests? As the heir to The Rothschild Group, you are expected to maintain an uncomplaining stoicism, which you fail to abide by on repeated occasions. Do you realize the immense despair that the attitude of the irreverence of yours brings upon me?"

If there were a trophy for the most exaggerated mother, it would belong to her. It has been 29 years, and I have yet to see a version of her that has nothing to do with melodrama when it involves her children. Being vehemently assertive in her professional and personal life is something she deems her birthright. Her devious stratagems are hors concours. Jennifer Ophelia Rothschild is, without a shadow of uncertainty, the most callous, manipulative, and tenacious person I've ever met, and I happen to have met many so far.

"My gosh, you're impenetrable." I straighten up in the seat, slamming the iPad on the surface of the fold-up table a little too hard. "I rescheduled my work engagements to accommodate your abrupt demand when you did not even extend me the polite courtesy of requesting the favor yourself. You had your assistant do it, for god's sake. You're too busy to acknowledge my existence until you need me, yet I am the ardently disobedient daughter?"