03||

|The two worlds|

"Did you take care of that douchebag?"

Ryan nodded, then realised she wasn't looking at him, so he spoke. "Don't worry. He was just an employee in the company. He was here to take his files home but coincidentally saw you and recognised you. Ronald will take care of it."

Leona planted the cigarette between her teeth, immediately lighting it up with the tiny violent bluish frame.

"Smoking is not allowed on our premises," Ryan let out, though he knew that wasn't not gonna intercept her actions.

The thick mass of the grey smoke ascended in spirals, blurring her vision for a second, and a pungent smell stains the air.

"There's an exception for me." She glided ahead, turquoise eyes never abandoning the canvases drenched in colours. 

Ryan couldn't argue on that. Leona Pierce surely was an exception, Ronald proved it by allocating a holiday to the whole damn team cause the winter hair beauty wanted to take a quick tour of the company. The enormous crystal building was vacant so she could peacefully enjoy the arts hanging around, without worrying about her identity.

"What did the CEO say?" Ryan captured the picture of the paintings.

"Singing the same song. To get back to LA."

Ryan hummed. "He looked a bit dull when I met him."

"His whore wife must have hit his head with another bombshell." She walked around the foyer.

Currently, they were on the thirtieth floor of the art firm— the floor that her creations rule.

Four years working for Leona, and still, it was out of Ryan's comprehension that why the woman who possess the colours, play with it like trinkets, allure the world with the inks, why she lived in black and hide behind the tattoos. She never endured any other tint to kiss her skin rather than raven fabric. Her paintings differed cause reds, blacks and greys were the only colours she ever used. 

"Isn't everything is too brilliant?" she asked, a strange smile slithering on her lips as she eyes the portrait of a girl sleeping on thrones and besiege by the rosy petals. 

"It is. My ass was bored working with you in your black apartment. Now my eyes are blessed. I am so happy that I can jump off the building," the man dramatically said, making her roll her eyes.

Ryan earned the card to talk bullshit with her just two years ago. The initial year of his job was a nightmare. He was terrified to death by her withering glares, ghosting smiles, icy voice, and just everything about Leona.

Then one night, he found her crying, clasping her family picture close to her crippled heart and the man knew that she is just a wounded mess, a beyond splinters of diamond glitters, a masterpiece that the world failed to cherish.

 

"Let me know if you need help, I can surely move my limps to push you down," she offered, walking on the desolated rooftop that is garnished with fragile sunrays. Leona sprawled her arms above her head, exhaustion swirling in her blood and gradually soaking into her bones.

Ryan gasped. "How cruel! You wouldn't even find a manager if I died."

Chuckling, she breathed out heavily. Her lazy intoxicating eyes drone in the vista of the dynamic Los Angeles city, where numerous souls land with a dream, and few die with their dream. She was one of those souls. A happy naive girl with embellishing stars in her eyes determined to make America sing her name and to wear that pearly garland of Miss. USA beauty pageant.

The breathtaking view of towering crystal turrets, brisk boulevards, faint cacophonies of chatters and vehicles occur as a throne stuck in her heart that just kept seeping deep and deep with every passing flash.

"Make the arrangements, I want to leave as soon as possible," she demanded, voice stern and cold. The silk strands floated like clouds of thunder behind her.

"The arrangements are made. Thought the earliest flight I could get was at night," Ryan murmured, indeed perceiving that she's going to hate this.

Leona sigh, the sheer frustration mocking her skin, "Can you- Forget it." She turned on her heels and seize furious steps to the exit.

"Where are you going, Leona?" Ryan asked when the undertows of panic awakened every nerve in his body.

"To tour my dear homeland," her tone weaved in profound satire jolted the man. He uttered profanities under his breath before following her.

.

.

.

His heart was demolished at every step he put forth on the creamy and gloomy titles. The prodigious roars of people agonizing, pull the strings of his thumping heart. His perfect eyebrows crunched in a deep frown and plump lips in a poll-like straight line. 

Tayson could feel his throat simmering with perishable wildfires at the familiar smell of medicines. The bitter aroma and mild smell of lemon dish wash were imprinted in his senses. He loathed those smells with every bone in his body.

Clutching the steel doorknob, he halted and closed his eyes. Tayson drew a deep breath to ease his dark heart and rumbled, "It's okay, Tayson. It's alright."

He forced the silvery textured portal open and the wind knocked out of his lungs when his eyes landed on the most beautiful and vital woman in his life. She was usually in her pale blue hospital garments. Her extraordinarily blue eyes stabilized on the work as she smoothly moved her hand, engraving the pencil and pouring her soul on the blank piece.

"Hey, precious," the greyish eyes man beamed, strolling into the hospital room. His presence and voice instantly brought a million-dollar smile to the pale lips of the lady.

"Tayson," her voice was like mists in deep mountains that will eventually fade, just like her.

Collecting the fragments of his heart, he settled in front of her as the metallic stool resonated a ringing echo. The woman quickly concealed her treasured sketchbook and straightened her posture.  The luster on her cheeks due to his presence was palpable to Tayson.

The woman's tired eyes rake from his silky hair cascading over his forehead to the deep burgundy shirt hugging his healthy body and she smiled in leisure.

"Handsome as always, son," she spoke, eyes twinkling in alleviation.

Tayson chuckled. "I owe it all to you, ma'am."

"Aye!" she dwindled her blue eyes playfully. "Your father will be offended."

"Let him. He knows that you are my favorite." Tayson puckered lower lips, allowing all the manly charms, killing arrogance, and smug smirks to slip away from his grasp. He just wished to crawl in his mother's lap and ask her to serenade him a lullaby as he conversed with her about his day, complain to him about his work and hear him talk about some random situations.

"That's for now. I am sure I will be replaced once you found your special one," Roseline smoothly uttered the words, ripping a grunt from him and the look saying not-again-mom.

"After you and dad, I am the only one special for me," The man cooly stated, not knowing how destiny was going to slap him hard across his cheek with a little surprise.

Roseline rolled her eyes, "Just like your dad. Full of himself."

"Come on, mom, this face," he pointed his finger at his face with a cheeky smile and continued, "is responsible. I can melt woman's panties with just a smile and ra-"

A stinging slap on his arm sparkled a manly laugh through him and his mother's disgusting glare that soon ousted with a smile. 

"I want to meet the one before I voyage to hell, hero."

"Mom!" He started with a tone, ready to explode a bomb of protests but his mother subdued him by sweeping the locks of his hair away from his forehead. She looked at him lovingly, and a teary smile united with her lips.

 "We shouldn't fight against fate, Tayson," she whispered, body trembling like a dry leaf in snowy winter. 

Tayson held her fragile hand, too frightened to hold it tight and kiss the back of her parched skin. "We will fight. We will fight until fate gets tired and gives up. I won't ever forgive you if you leave me, got it? You have to be there to watch me get my first film. You have to be there to watch me be the CEO of our company. You just have to be there, mom. With dad, with me." 

This piece of Tayson was foreign to the Universe. The sexiest walking male in the realm, the natural charmer, the hot Casanova, and the cold director of Huxley Visions, was, in reality, a soft creature fighting a demon in the contour of cancer that had been hunting his mother for four years.

The angel who gave birth to him, who abandoned her model career so she could have him, who undoubtedly had been the best wife to his father and the best mother to him, was slowly fading away in front of his eyes and he was helplessly watching her. Roseline was the only one who could tame Tayson. The woman knew how to deal with the storm and tranquil him down with just a look of her eyes. With every passing day, Tayson was brutally breaking piece by piece, it was a fucking torture to watch his mother squirming in pain.

"This is my last wish. I want to meet the woman who will steal your heart and the angel who can light up your life."

"Too bad, I want someone who can hold on to me in darkness."

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