Lamy
Arell nodded, keeping his expression neutral. "Thanks, Craig. It's been a good night."
Craig glanced around, then leaned in slightly. "Listen, before you head out, there are a few people I'd love for you to meet. Industry insiders, very influential. Could be a great opportunity for you to expand your network."
Arell hesitated. He wasn't sure if he was in the mood for more schmoozing, especially after the strange vibes he'd been getting all night. But "play the game" echoed in his mind.
"Sure," Arell finally said, keeping his tone casual. "I'm down to meet a few people."
Craig's smile widened. "Excellent. Just a quick stop, I promise." He motioned for Arell to follow him, and as they moved, Arell subtly signaled to Cam and Geoffrey to stay close. India, sensing something was up, stayed back with the others, giving Arell a brief nod of encouragement.
They walked through the corridors, the noise of the main event fading as they neared a more secluded area of the venue. Arell kept his senses sharp, noting every detail, every face they passed. The further they went, the more Arell's instincts told him to be on guard.
Finally, they reached a private lounge area, dimly lit and filled with the soft hum of conversation. Craig led the way inside, where a small group of people were gathered, talking in low voices. At the center of it all stood Jay Z.
Craig approached Jay Z with a confident stride, Arell and his team close behind. "Jay, I'd like you to meet Arell Rose," Craig said, his voice taking on a more formal tone.
Jay Z turned, his gaze settling on Arell. "Arell Rose," he said, a smile spreading across his face. "I've heard a lot about you. Congratulations on the nomination tonight."
"Thank you, Mr. Carter," Arell replied, shaking his hand firmly. He kept his expression respectful, but inwardly, he was wary. He had seen Jay Z at Diddy's party, and the things he had witnessed there were still fresh in his mind. The memories of those encounters, especially involving Beyoncé, were unsettling.
Jay Z gestured for Arell to sit down. "Please, make yourself comfortable. I wanted to talk to you about some opportunities. You're on the rise, and there are a lot of ways to capitalize on that momentum."
Arell sat down, with Cam and Geoffrey taking seats nearby. "I'm always open to hearing about opportunities," Arell said, keeping his tone neutral.
Jay Z leaned back, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. "We need more people like you in the industry, Arell. Young, talented, and with a real understanding of what it takes to succeed. That's why I'm interested in seeing how we can work together. I've got a few projects coming up, investments that could use a fresh face. I think you'd be a perfect fit."
Arell listened carefully, but his mind was already dissecting the offer. He knew the game, and while Jay Z's words were flattering, there was always more beneath the surface. Geoffrey had taught him to read between the lines, to understand the deeper implications of business deals.
"Sounds interesting," Arell replied, choosing his words carefully. "But I'd need to know more about these investments. What's the long-term plan?"
Jay Z's smile remained, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, maybe. "Smart man. The long-term plan is all about building something that lasts. We're talking about creating platforms, like Tidal, that give artists more control over their work and their earnings. But more than that, it's about creating a legacy, something that benefits the community and the culture."
Arell nodded, but internally, he was picking apart Jay Z's words. Platforms like Tidal? He knew the potential pitfalls there. Build it up, then sell it off for a profit, leaving the original stakeholders with a fraction of what it was worth. Jay Z was playing the long game, but Arell wasn't about to be another piece on his chessboard.
Before he could respond, the door to the lounge opened, and Beyoncé walked in. Her presence was magnetic, drawing the attention of everyone in the room, her eyes scanning before landing on Arell.
"Jay," she said, her voice smooth, "I didn't know you were entertaining guests."
Jay Z smiled, clearly pleased with the timing. "Just introducing Arell to some of the opportunities we've been discussing."
Beyoncé approached them, her gaze flicking to Arell. "Arell Rose," she said, a slight smile on her lips. "I've heard a lot about you. Congratulations on your success."
"Thank you," Arell replied, keeping his tone polite. But he made a point not to look directly at her for too long. The last time he had seen her, it was under circumstances he'd rather not recall.
Beyoncé continued to watch him, her smile never faltering.
As the conversation continued, Jay Z began to discuss the specifics of the investments, dropping names and projects that sounded impressive on the surface. But Arell's mind was already working, analyzing each detail for potential red flags. He knew that Geoffrey was doing the same, taking in the information with a critical eye.
After a while, Jay Z leaned forward, his tone taking on a more personal note. "Arell, you've got a lot of potential. I can see you going far in this industry, but it's all about who you align yourself with. If you're interested, I'd like to discuss how we can bring you into some of these ventures. You'd be in good company."
Arell met his gaze, his expression unreadable. "I appreciate the offer, Jay, but I'd need to discuss this with my team. We've got a lot of projects in the works, and I want to make sure everything lines up."
Jay Z nodded, clearly understanding the need for caution. "Of course. Take your time. But don't wait too long. Opportunities like this don't come around every day."
Arell smiled politely. "I won't. Thanks for the conversation."
Jay Z returned the smile, but there was a calculating look in his eyes. "Looking forward to hearing from you."
As the conversation wound down, Arell could feel the tension easing slightly. But just as he was about to excuse himself, the door opened again, and a figure stepped into the room. She was dressed in dark, flowing garments, her appearance striking in its severity. Her skin was pale, almost ghostly, and her eyes held a strange, unsettling intensity.
Arell felt a chill run down his spine as the woman's gaze settled on him. He didn't need an introduction to know who she was—Michèle Lamy.
"Michèle," Craig said smoothly, stepping forward to greet her. "So glad you could join us."
Michèle's gaze never left Arell as she spoke. "I was told there was someone here I should meet."
The tension in the room thickened, the air growing heavy with a darkness that seemed to emanate from Michèle Lamy herself. Arell's skin prickled as if the shadows were alive, crawling over him, suffocating him with an invisible weight. Every instinct told him to leave, to run, but his body wouldn't move. It was as though an unseen force held him in place, pinning him to the spot as Michèle's eyes bore into him.
"Arell Rose," Michèle repeated, her voice velvety, tinged with something almost predatory. She moved closer, her steps slow and deliberate, like a cat stalking its prey. "I've heard interesting things about you."
Arell's pulse quickened, but he forced himself to remain outwardly calm. "Likewise," he managed, his voice steady even though every nerve in his body was screaming at him to get out.
Behind Michèle, Geoffrey caught Arell's eye. Stay calm. Play the game. Everything will be okay. It was a small reassurance, but Arell clung to it, forcing himself to breathe evenly as Michèle continued her approach.
"I've been watching you, Arell," she said, her voice almost a purr. She reached out and touched his cheek, her fingers cold against his skin. "So young, so talented. But you have too much control, far too much for someone who hasn't made the proper… sacrifices."
Arell's stomach churned at her words, but he kept his expression neutral. "I've made sacrifices," he said carefully. "I've worked hard to get where I am."
Michèle's smile widened, but there was no warmth in it, only a chilling amusement. "Oh, I'm sure you have," she murmured, her fingers trailing down his cheek to his jaw. "But the kind of sacrifice I'm talking about… well, it's something a bit more… profound."
Before Arell could respond, the door behind him clicked shut, the soft thud echoing ominously in the room. He glanced over his shoulder, just in time to see Craig, Geoffrey, Cam and the other guests, including Jay Z and Beyoncé, being escorted out by several guards. The atmosphere shifted drastically, and suddenly, the space felt smaller, more claustrophobic. Arell's heart began to pound harder, and the urge to escape became overwhelming.
Michèle stepped back slightly, allowing Arell a glimpse of the room's new occupants. Other artists lingered in the corners, their heads bowed, eyes downcast as if they were deliberately avoiding his gaze. He recognized a few faces, including The Weeknd, who sat with his hands clasped tightly in his lap, his expression vacant and distant. The sight sent a shiver down Arell's spine. Why are they all just sitting there? Why isn't anyone doing anything?
A door clicked softly at the far end of the room, and two more guards entered, their expressions impassive. They positioned themselves on either side of Michèle, as if waiting for her command. The sense of danger grew, suffocating the room in a thick blanket of fear.
"You see," Michèle continued, her voice dripping with a dark kind of pleasure, "you've managed to get this far, but without the necessary rituals. I find that fascinating. Tell me, Arell, how did you achieve so much without paying the proper dues?"
Arell's mouth was dry, his mind racing to find the right words. "I just— I worked hard, stayed focused. That's all there is to it."
Michèle chuckled, a low, throaty sound that sent another wave of unease through him. "Hard work and focus can only take you so far, darling. There's more at play here, and you know it."
She moved closer again, the scent of her perfume—an odd mix of herbs and decay—filling his nostrils. Her hand slid down to his chest, her fingers tracing the outline of his muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt. "You're a handsome young man," she whispered, her voice taking on a strange, almost sultry tone. "But you have too much control. It's time to give it up, Arell."
The darkness in her eyes deepened as she leaned in, her lips nearly brushing his ear. "It's time to let go."
Arell swallowed hard, his mind reeling. He knew he needed to get out of this room, but the more he tried to think of a way to escape, the more trapped he felt. He could feel the eyes of the other artists on him, could feel the weight of their silent despair pressing down on him like a physical force. And then, before he could react, Michèle pulled away and reached into the folds of her robe, producing a small, ornate bowl and a knife with a curved, sinister blade.
The sight of the knife sent a jolt of fear through Arell, his breath catching in his throat. This can't be happening. This isn't real. But the glint of the blade in the dim light told him otherwise.
Michèle placed the bowl on a nearby table, and without a word, she drew the blade across her own palm. Blood welled up instantly, dark and thick, dripping into the bowl below. The metallic scent filled the room, sharp and nauseating. Arell's stomach churned, his heart racing as he watched the ritual unfold.
"Hold him," Michèle ordered, her voice as cold as ice.
The guards moved swiftly, seizing Arell by the arms and forcing him to the ground. Their grips were like iron, unyielding, and no matter how much Arell struggled, he couldn't break free. Panic surged through him, his chest tightening as the reality of the situation began to set in.
Michèle knelt beside him, her eyes gleaming with a twisted satisfaction as she held the knife above his chest. "You're going to say it," she whispered, her voice dripping with malice. "You're going to say you're a God, and you're going to mean it."
The blade hovered over his heart, the tip pressing into his skin just enough to draw a bead of blood. The pain was sharp, but Arell gritted his teeth, refusing to cry out.
"You're all sick," he spat, his voice hoarse with fear and defiance. "This is insane."
Michèle's smile never faltered. "Say it," she repeated, pressing the knife deeper. "Say you are a God, or I will carve the truth into you."
Arell's mind raced, desperate to find a way out, but the coldness of the blade, the iron grip of the guards, and the oppressive darkness of the room made it impossible to think clearly.
"What would your parents think of you now, Arell?" Michèle taunted, her voice a cruel whisper in his ear. "What would they say if they saw you here, at my mercy?"
The thought of his parents, absent faces, filled his mind but was quickly put off.
"Tell me," Michèle continued, her voice turning mocking, "where is your mother from?"
Arell gritted his teeth, the pain now radiating through his chest. "You're all sick," he growled, trying to fight back against the fear that threatened to consume him.
Michèle's eyes flashed with anger, and she pressed the blade even harder against his chest. "Answer me!" she demanded, her voice sharp and commanding.
"Plain American!" Arell shouted, his voice breaking as the pain intensified. "She's American!"
Michèle's expression softened, but only slightly. "And your father?" she asked, her tone now curious, almost intrigued.
Arell hesitated, the fear in his chest twisting into something else—an odd sense of defiance. "Jewish," he said, his voice low but firm. "My father is Jewish."
For a moment, the room fell deathly silent. Michèle's eyes widened in shock, the knife hovering just above his skin. The guards' grips on his arms loosened, and for the first time, Arell saw uncertainty flicker across their faces.
"Jewish?" Michèle repeated, whispering to herself.
From the shadows, a tall figure emerged, one Arell hadn't noticed before. The man stepped into the light, revealing himself to be Rick Owens, Michèle's husband. His expression was cold as he studied Arell with narrowed eyes.
"He must be lying," Owens said.
But Michèle shook her head, her expression still one of shock. "No," she whispered, "he's not lying."
Owens's gaze hardened, and he exchanged a look with Michèle. "You know the rules," he said quietly, but there was an unmistakable edge to his voice.
Michèle nodded slowly, the reality of the situation settling over her. The knife pulled away from Arell's chest, leaving a faint, stinging cut where the blade had barely broken the skin.
"We apologize," Michèle said, her voice now strangely formal. "We didn't know. This… changes things."
Arell's heart was still racing, but the fear was slowly being replaced by confusion. She hadn't expected this. Whatever twisted ritual she had intended for him had been interrupted, derailed by his simple admission of his Jewish heritage. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded, his voice shaky but filled with anger.
Owens stepped forward, his demeanor shifting from one of cold authority to something almost conciliatory. "We'll make this up to you," he said, his voice even but laced with the kind of seriousness that made Arell's heart race. "You'll be compensated, and we'll ensure that your… status is known to the right people."
Arell didn't fully understand what Owens meant by status, but he could tell it carried significant weight.
Michèle, still holding the bloodied knife, looked Arell up and down, her intrigue only deepening. "I must admit," she said, her voice soft, "I'm fascinated by you, Arell. You've accomplished so much without making the usual… sacrifices." She emphasized the word with a knowing glint in her eye. "No blood offerings, no pacts. It's rare—almost unheard of in our world."
Arell stiffened, the unease in his gut intensifying. "I told you, I've worked hard. That's all there is to it."
Michèle smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Perhaps," she said, her tone suggestive. "But know this: there are places where I cannot compel you, where I cannot force answers from you. Here, you're safe, protected by rules even I must follow."
The implication hung heavy in the air, and Arell's mind raced to make sense of it. She was hinting at something beyond this room, beyond this twisted game. Not here meant there were other places, other situations where her power—or whatever dark influence she wielded—could be used more freely. But for now, he was beyond her reach.
"I already told you everything," Arell said, his voice firmer now, cutting through the oppressive atmosphere like a blade.
Michèle's smile remained, but it was tinged with a strange, almost regretful sadness. "Perhaps you have," she murmured. "But there are many who will be very interested in you, Arell. We'll see how long you can keep your control."
The guards stepped back, their grip on him completely loosened, and Michèle gestured toward the door with a graceful, almost dismissive wave. "You may go," she said, her tone almost polite now. "Our business here is done. For now."
Arell didn't wait for another word. He stood, his body tense, and walked swiftly toward the door. His mind was still reeling, but his instincts screamed at him to get out, to leave this place and its dark, suffocating energy behind.
As he reached the door, he heard Michèle's voice one last time, softer now, almost a whisper. "Remember, Arell. Not everywhere is safe. Even for you."
He didn't respond. He pushed open the door and stepped out into the hallway, the sudden brightness of the lights almost blinding after the oppressive darkness of the room. Craig stood there, shocked as he saw Arell emerge seemingly unscathed and far sooner than expected.
"Arell," Craig started, his voice tinged with an edge of panic, "what happened in there? Are you—"
"Don't," Arell snapped, brushing past him without breaking stride. The last thing he wanted was to relive what had just happened, to explain it to someone like Craig who for certain set this up.
Geoffrey was waiting just down the hall, Arell didn't have to say anything—Geoffrey could read the tension in his muscles, the way his breath was still coming too fast, too shallow.
"Let's go," Arell said quietly.