She glanced again at Atlas, who was still sitting calmly behind his desk. His posture was as solid as before, unchanged, like a rock blocking the waves. His gaze was fixed on the documents in front of him, unmoving, as if the young girl struggling with her existence in the centre of the room was nothing more than a shadow not worthy of attention.
"Give me back my book! Give me back my book! Give me back my book!" she muttered in a whisper full of lamentation. Her fists clenched tighter, her fingers desperately gripping the fabric of her skirt, while her eyes, unable to look away, were locked on the brown leather notebook lying alone in the corner of the desk, far beyond her reach.
As if sensing a subtle vibration in the air, Atlas glanced over. One eyebrow rose, hinting at unspoken suspicion. "Did you say something?"
Josie gasped, her body tensing instantly. She then forced a sweet smile that felt stiff on her face, like an imperfect mask. "Ah, no! Not at all," she replied quickly. "Just thinking of new ways to entertain you, Sir."
Atlas only nodded slowly, before pressing the pen back onto the paper. "Well then, good luck," he said, his voice now sinking into a silence that tickled Josie's irritation.
With a harsh breath, Josie snorted softly, and the word "jerk" slipped from her lips uncontrollably. However, when Atlas turned back to her, she quickly turned her face away, pretending to stare at the wall with exaggerated intensity, as if the painting there had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the office.
Atlas stared at her a few seconds longer than usual. His gaze was probing, like someone trying to solve a complex puzzle, as if trying to decide whether the girl in front of him was experiencing mild psychological distress or was just too wild in her creativity for her own good.
Josie herself did not dare to look back. Her neck stiffened, her eyes fixed on a painting on the wall that suddenly seemed very interesting for some reason. She even began to squint, pretending to examine the patterns in the painting, while trying to distract herself from her racing thoughts.
Calm down, Jo. You're a writer. You can write your way out of this.
Finally, Atlas's attention returned to his documents, the pen in his hand moving again, and Josie breathed a sigh of relief—too loudly, it sounded like a sigh that broke the silence in the room. It was the beginning of a mistake that could no longer be hidden. Soon after, Atlas's gaze returned to her, sharper and full of questions.
"Is my breathing bothering you now too?" Josie asked quickly, almost defensively. "If so, I can hold my breath."
Atlas did not answer immediately. He put down his pen with a slow movement, then interlaced his fingers on the table like a judge ready to pass sentence and stared at Josie with a flat expression that concealed a deep evaluation. His gaze slid over Josie, who was now curled up on the sofa like a small bird caught stealing breadcrumbs.
"You are always so dramatic, Miss Everhart," he said calmly, but his words pierced her heart.
Josie snorted softly. "I'm a romance writer, Sir Raymond. Drama is the blood that flows through my pen."
Atlas only smiled slightly. His eyes, which seemed to grow darker in the room, continued to stare at Josie with an unreadable gaze. "In that case, let's make a drama that can steal a laugh from me."
Laughter? she thought to herself, her heart now beating very fast. This man never even allowed his smile to exceed a thin line that was almost invisible.
But quickly, she pulled the corners of her lips upwards, forcing a wide smile that should have looked sweet on her face. "Ah, what a pity. The day is creeping towards evening and my time is up. I must take my leave, Sir," she said, her voice feigning regret.
Atlas still said nothing. He just stared at Josie with a blank expression. Not smiling, not looking angry, just silent as if waiting for something.
With exaggerated movements, Josie rose from the sofa, gently smoothing her skirt as she did so, then picked up her shoulder bag with a touch of style. She darted towards the door, gave Atlas a small nod, then said goodbye in a tone laced with sarcasm. "Thank you for your time, Major General. See you tomorrow or whenever you see fit to return my notebook and free me from this curse of 'mandatory entertainment'."
Josie's hand had just touched the door handle, the cold metal piercing her skin, when Atlas's voice sounded again—deeper, heavier, but this time carrying a lower tone, almost like a meaningful murmur.
"Miss Everhart."
Her steps froze instantly, the air in the room suddenly thickening around her. She turned slowly, raising one eyebrow in an attempt to feign calmness even though her heart was pounding wildly in her chest, like a trapped bird.
"Yes?"
Atlas did not answer immediately. He rose from his chair, walking slowly around his desk, his fingers brushing the brown leather notebook lying there. His touch was light, almost attentive, before he finally asked without looking up from the cover, "Have you written anything today?"
Josie opened her mouth, then quickly closed it again. "No," she replied, almost drowning in a soft murmur. "I'm waiting for inspiration to come."
Hey, how can I write if my notebook is still in your hands? she thought, a small grudge boiling in her chest, even though she regretted not being brave enough to voice her complaint directly to the man's face.
Atlas simply nodded slowly, but his eyes remained fixed on the notebook. "In that case, let me give you an opening line for the next page."
Josie furrowed her brow. "What do you mean?"
The man finally lifted his face, his sharp chin rising with a deep breath. His eyes now stared straight ahead, directly at Josie with an intensity that made the space between them feel even smaller. "Write about a man who is too stiff to laugh, but still chooses to listen to a chatty girl who never stops talking."
Josie's entire body froze in place. Her breath caught in her throat, as if Atlas had just thrown a rock into the frozen lake inside her. The chatty girl? Her lips trembled almost imperceptibly. Who was this chatty girl who never stopped talking? Clearly, all this time she had just sat there like a statue, unable to move—yeah, except when she quietly muttered hoarsely behind her teeth, and uttered little curses intended only for herself.
Atlas didn't grin, nor did he turn away. His voice then fell back like drops of ink into water, then slowly seeped into Josie's heart. "I want to know how the story ends."
Josie's hands clenched at her sides, her nails digging softly into her palms. But behind the boiling irritation, something quickly snatched hold of her wild imagination—the opening line. Suddenly her mind highlighted an important scene, a man standing stiff-shouldered at the window, while the girl next to him talked non-stop, her words flowing like an unstoppable river. The scene then grew, spreading from sentence to paragraph, from paragraph to chapter, as if the whole story exploded in his head in an instant.
"All right," he hissed, his voice sounding more like the scraping of paper than a word. "Let's see if the main character can laugh or not."
Her feet moved before her mind could catch up. Her steps were quick, almost hurried, leaving the room before Atlas could catch her expression. But behind the door, her fingers began to tremble with excitement. The world in her head was now spinning, the wheels of her imagination creaking to life, crushing all doubts.
For a writer, there was nothing more urgent than going home and immediately writing down every scene that was still burning in her head. Scene after scene popped into her head, making Josie's blood boil with excitement. Sweat began to dampen her palms as the ideas moved wildly in her head, jostling each other like a flock of birds trying to break out of the cage of her skull. Her fingers trembled, already sensing the shadow of the pen that would soon dance across the paper. If not captured immediately, all these perfect scenes would evaporate like dew in the hot sun.
Her feet moved unconsciously, walking down the endless corridors of Raventon Hall. The high ceilings with their sombre paintings of ancestors watched him with empty stares, while the floor along the corridor echoed his hurried footsteps. Every turn only led him to a new corridor, identical to the others, like a magnificent labyrinth designed specifically to torment hurried thinkers.
Why are these corridors so long?! she suddenly thought irritably. What kind of mad architect designed this hellish corridor? There must be some kind of curse that makes this hallway grow longer every time someone rushes through it!
Several servants stepped aside as Josie hurried past them. Everyone in this luxurious mansion knew who she was. Almost all of them knew her, and a group of servants had even nicknamed her Major General Raymond's failed personal entertainer. However, Josie didn't care about other people's opinions. Nothing was more important to her than the shadow of the writing desk in her room, where ink and paper waited to capture the storm of stories raging in her mind.
Everything else could wait, except for the birth of a story that demanded to be written immediately.
Maddie, one of Atlas' aides whose name was too feminine for a man, who for the past few days had been the only normal person she could talk to in that place, froze when she saw Josie darting by like the wind.
"Josie?" Maddie called, a little confused.
However, the girl did not turn her head in her direction. She just waved briefly and shouted, "Oh, hi, Lieutenant Vayne! Sorry, but I have to go home. I have to write first before this inspiration goes away!"
And with that, Josie vanished at the end of the corridor, leaving Raventon Hall behind, her hurried footsteps echoing, and the confused people in her wake.