The Scent and The Siren

‎♡‧₊˚seven ‎♡‧₊˚

✧༺♥༻∞

─── ⋅｡ﾟ☆: ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅:☆ﾟ ⋅ ───

𓆩♡𓆪 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𓆩♡𓆪

✧༺♥༻∞

𓆩♡𓆪 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐦 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 @𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐛𝐚𝐞 𓆩♡𓆪

I stride inside the opulent 26-foot-wide penthouse I now call my home.

Designed with the unparalleled architectural grandeur of the gilded era by architects William G. Killian and James R. Turner and revamped by John Russell Pope in the 1900s, who also designed the National Gallery of Art, this Beaux-Arts six-bedroom prewar apartment was one of the many billionaires' row estates owned by my mother.

I purchased it from her at an exorbitant rate during the pandemic lockdown when I kickstarted my initial process of permanently relocating back to the city. The estate is a part of my inheritance, so I could have lived here while it was still owned by my mother instead of buying it from her, but that would have stripped me of peace of mind.

As I walk past the foyer, I notice a silk robe lying discarded on the carpeted central stairway, which I recognize belongs to Selene. I follow the direction of Mariah Carey's whistle notes arriving from the spacious, closed, state-of-the-art kitchen positioned to offer multiple panorama and citywide views through the glass walls.

My multifunctional best friend is standing in the middle of the kitchen in a cami slip with her brunette locks tied up messily as she demonstrates her perfect pancake-flipping skills while swaying her body to the music. She is lifting the two crispy bacon strips with tongs and placing them on a plate next to the stack of fluffy hot pancakes when she notices my arrival.

"How is it that your hangover is so pretty, and mine looks like I took a trip to a pile of garbage?" She accuses, lowering her oversized black Prada shades covering her eyes, probably to avoid the morning glare of the sun, and points the tongs in my direction. "You drank enough to kill a small horse last night. I hate that you look so miraculously fresh even on a miserable morning like this, pumpkin. I can barely manage to keep my eyes open."

"Remember I mentioned that Korean adversary-cum-friend I had in grad school?" I settle opposite her on one of the upholstered counter stools at the kitchen island and discard my jacket on the one beside me.

"The hot chaebol who wouldn't date you because your ego and wealth were bigger than his?" She mocks, handing me a piece of bacon. "How can I not remember him? There hardly exist men who can make the Rothschild women feel like mere mortals, and he was one of those very few." She chuckles, turning off the range and moving to the coffee machine.

"Bastard," I mutter, stretching my hand to grab the packet of treasure slims and the lighter lying on the thick edge of the ashtray next to the range and light one.

"Coffee?"

"Please." I nod, taking a puff of the cigarette. "I met him in Paris last week, and we partied the whole night. He introduced me to hangover cures from his country, so I can be a drunk hoe without worrying about waking up feeling like trash." I continue and point towards the open can of the 808 Dawn lying by the sink. "Those are my new best friends for life. I left you a note by your nightstand to drink one of them."