Early morning illuminated the opulence of Baroness Oramande’s penthouse suite. Espresso cooled on the barely used kitchen counter, and soft string quartet music soundtracked the sunrise. It was the Baroness’s favourite record; she found that it calmed her in stressful moments. This morning it wasn’t working.
Oramande paced the room, her elegant gown aflutter and dark hair in disarray from waking early. As her sharply dressed attendant summoned the courage to approach, she rounded on him aggressively.
“It is unacceptable that I have to explain this all to you again, Col,” Oramande snapped, her voice breaking a little.
The attendant, Col, watched with performative interest as she strode to the dining table, where the Compass Rose Cerite lay half-unwrapped. Col could already recite this lecture from memory, but he wasn’t being paid to talk back. Thank heavens.
“Exclusivity drives value in this market. All this is worth zero if a better, prettier gem appears tomorrow!” Oramande explained, gesturing wildly towards the artifact. In a quieter but no less steely tone she continued, “Col, I cannot allow this to become the second best Crystal Cerite in the galaxy, do you understand? Second best is the first of the worst.” Col wished he could never hear that phrase again, but it was one of the Baroness’s favourites.
Evenly, he began to respond, “Ma’am, the Museum already said they wouldn’t—“
“F*** the Museum,” Oramande seethed. After a moment’s pause, her anger became more calculating. “Call Montreau back. I have a better idea.”
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