Illusive Eden - He Pretends He's the Hero

"How long do you plan to keep the bird caged?"

Ishmael was in his study, seated on his chair—going through files, when his friend and confiderate halts his movements with the question he raised.

Manager Cha stands there, the inquiry of the man seated on the sofa startling his fragile heart. Though he wore still, his resting face, successfully veiling the pressure he feels—compressed in the midst of two forebidding men.

Ishmael doesn't reply to him, continuing to bury the mind in work. The man with wavy chestnut hair—plunging down his shoulder, he clicks his tongue, annoyed by the ignorance flung on by his dear friend.

"Rude!" He scoffs, crossing his robust arms over the chest.

Ishmael breifly glances at him. "Leave. You can't stay here without reason."

"Mr. Cha, escort Mr. Ellis to the door." He directs his instruction to Manager Cha, eyes secured on the blue file in his hold.

"Hey, you can't kick me out!" He retorts back, feigning hurt in the eyes, yet he's introduced to a nonchalant Ishmael.

Manager Cha glances at the built man seated on the couch, dressed in jeans and long sleeved coral colored sweatshirt.

Sensing a gaze on him, he's met with the manager's pleading look, only to reply him with a shrug.

Manager Cha sighs closing his eyes. As he had composed himself, he stares at Mr. Ellis. "Let me escort you out Mr. EIlis." He forces out a tight smile at him.

He waves Manager Cha off with the motion of his hand. "You know the reason. I can finally meet the sister-in-law I dearly looked forward to. So when are you gonna acquaint me with her?" Mr. Ellis asks, greeting Ishmael's cold stare with a foolish smile painted over his lips.

Before either of them could part their lips to speak, a knock on the door interrupts the brewing traction in the room.

"Come in."

The door unveils revealing a maid with her head hung low.

"What is it?" Ishmael asks.

"Madam Neva refused to have dinner again." The maid replies, avoiding to meet her gaze with the master of the household.

Closing the file, Ishmael exhales a shallow breath. "You can leave. Don't bother her anymore."

"Yes." The maid replies, bowing her head deep, before she turns around and closes the door behind.

"You can retire for today." Ishmael says and stands up.

"I'm grateful Boss." Mr. Cha bows his head at him.

"Nothing good comes from a person who's shackled Ishmael."

The familiar voice has Ishmael's hold on the door knob still.

"I hope you know when to stop." The same stern, grim voice says.

"Do not meddle in my affairs. You know better, Jacob." Ishmael returns, glancing back at him under his pheripheral vision.

His dire, warning tone straining his grip on power.

Eyes riveted at Ishmael's retreating back through the open entrance, Jacob couldn't help but shake his head at his friend's adamancy.

---

With the abscence of a gentle knock, Ishmael divulges the doorway to their master bedroom.

There in the dark room, through a floor to ceiling transparent window, the luminescence of the pure moonlight falls on Neva's form, embracing her in an ethereal light. A stark contrast, aiding to avoid folding in with the sombre penumbra of the room.

With hushed steps, he approaches her closer, but she doesn't spare the mind to his presence. She's resting on the edge of the large cozy sofa, shrinking her form, appearing petite in the svelte, white night dress.

Her head lay sideways, supported by the backrest of the couch.

Her eyes vacant—she peers through the night, at the dizzy, shimmering gloomy sky.

Ishmael silently sits beside her, and reaches for the warm food kept on the glassed coffee table.

Uncovering the lid, he picks up the plate, taking a spoonful of rice, he brings it close to Neva's lips.

"Eat before it turns cold." He says, seeing her slighting him, with not even a blink of the cocoa eyes.

"Don't test my patience Neva," Ishmael warns, his voice stern, the hand holding the spoon—still in the air. Nonetheless, she regards him not.

He sighs, placing the spoon down on the plate. She has been this way for the entire week she was here.

Her form flickering fragile, she was always distant and quiet, and had never fancied to touch the food prepared for her.

She would lay there, peering through the window, as if she awaits for something; or rather, someone.

"Do you really think you can run away from me again?" Ishmael caresses her chin, turning her to face him—threading those devoid eyes with his own.

"Don't touch me," Neva shoves his hand away from her. Her gaze whirling back at the lush, looming woods surrounding the area of the mansion.

He frowns, his eyes rendering the warmth that gathers from her presence. Gritting his teeth, he harshly grabs her jaw and has her look at him.

"You don't tell me what to do," He bores his deep, haunting eyes into her solemn ones. He leans in close to her face, capturing those watercolor lips in a passionate, obsessive kiss.

She doesn't respond to him, so he pulls her closer, and bites her brims, until he could savour the metallic taste of blood drawn from her swollen lips.

As he severs away their connected lips, he glides away her mellow, wavy hair from her neck, grazing his lips on her fair tender skin, nibbling on the traces of claim he left on her.

"Forget the past. Love me Neva." He murmers, losing his senses; being so close to her soothing warmth.

"You disgust me." Neva remarks; and she slits the heartstrings—aching Ishmael crudely.

He forsakes the serenity derived from her, fastening the pained eyes with her cold ones.

"It doesn't matter. It's enough that you're here with me." Ishmael declares, swallowing down the soreness derived from a broken heart.

"Stop starving yourself," He says, bringing the spoonful of food near her mouth again. She glances away, only for him to seize her jaw and hold her still.

"Your aunt and uncle, they are under my consideration. You should know what I'm capable of." Ishmael threatens—and he could see her pupils quiver faintly at their mention.

He quirks an eyebrow, gesturing at the spoon with his gaze.

She glimpses at his indifferent eyes. The mirror of the soul—of her own, brewing hate towards the stranger before her. A barren drop of tear drizzling down her rosy cheek.

He was sickening to the core.