Chapter 17: Mr. Hamilton's Studio

When Roxanne stepped out of the lobby, the evening sun caught the polished marble beneath her feet and cast long shadows across the driveway. She expected another glossy black sedan, the kind Brandon always sent, practical in its intimidation, faceless in its luxury.

But waiting at the lobby is something else entirely. The Mercedes-Maybach S-Class stretched before her like a statement carved in steel and chrome. Its long, elegant body shimmered in a two-tone finish—deep obsidian black flowing into a crown of soft silver that gleamed under the last rays of daylight.

Even without knowing much about cars, Roxanne could tell this isn’t just a car for her to use. This is a power play on wheels, the kind of car that demanded you look, demanded you understand exactly who sat inside.

The driver, dressed in a dark, immaculate suit, stepped forward the moment he spotted her. With a bow of his head, he pulled open the rear door. The handle slid out automatically, the door gliding open in silence, offering her a glimpse of the interior: cream leather stitched with perfection, subtle ambient lighting glowing like candlelight, and polished wood trim gleaming faintly.

For a heartbeat, Roxanne froze at the top of the steps, her sling bag heavy against her hip. The car’s mirrored wheels threw back her reflection in strange distortions, reminding her she looked out of place, just a teenager in worn jeans and sneakers, about to climb into a machine that probably cost more than her father's entire home and the barns back in Texas.

She swallowed, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. A voice inside her screamed at the absurdity of it all, riding in a Maybach just to buy stationery. She could already imagine the stares if anyone her age saw her stepping out of this rolling palace.

“Miss Romanov,” the driver’s low, courteous voice broke her hesitation, “the car is ready.”

She nodded quickly, as if afraid her pause would betray her discomfort. Without a word, she slipped inside, sinking into the cool embrace of the leather seat. The door closed with a muted click, shutting her off from the world outside.

As the Maybach purred to life and the driver pulled away, Roxanne let out a slow breath. She isn’t sure whether she belonged here or whether she even wanted to. But one thing is undeniable: every detail, from the whisper-quiet engine to the faint perfume of leather and wood, reminded her that she's no longer just Roxanne. She's being folded, moulded, and designed into a life far larger and far more suffocating than anything she had known.

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Mr Hamilton's Studio, Stationery Store, Manhattan

After twenty minutes of crawling through New York’s traffic, the car finally stopped in front of an exquisite store, Mr Hamilton's Studio. The facade rose tall and dignified, framed by sculpted columns and golden carvings that shimmered faintly when the light caught them.

Dark, polished wood and deep navy trim formed the backbone of its structure, while golden ornaments curled across arches and window frames like the strokes of a master painter’s brush. Above the doorway, the store’s name gleamed proudly in gilt lettering, crowned by a crest that looked more suited to a royal court than a shop sign.

“We’ve arrived, Miss,” the driver said. Roxanne sighed, letting her gaze linger on the sight before her.

“Another expensive thing,” she muttered. Before she could reach for the handle, the door opened for her. “Oh, thanks.”

“I’ll be waiting,” he replied.

Two bulky men in black suits stepped out of the black SUV parked behind the Maybach. Roxanne already knew who they were, the men assigned to shadow her, just as Alexandra had told her earlier.

“Alright.” Roxanne gave a small nod and walked into the store.

The inside of the stationery store feels less like a shop and more like a curated library lounge wrapped in luxury. Warm wooden shelves stretch from floor to ceiling, glowing with soft amber lighting that highlights neatly arranged books, journals, and premium stationery items. The shelves themselves are lined with elegant plants and framed artwork, giving the space a refined, almost intimate atmosphere.

At the centre, polished wooden counters display stacks of notebooks, fine writing instruments, and boxed sets as though each item were a collector’s piece rather than something to be casually used.

The lamps scattered throughout add a golden, homey glow, inviting customers to linger. Comfortable armchairs with plush cushions and small round tables tucked into corners encourage browsing at leisure, perhaps with a pen in hand and a new notebook ready to be claimed.

“Oh wow…” Roxanne muttered as she stepped inside, already thinking about what she might actually need for school.

Most of it was probably already covered by the school; Brandon had said as much this morning, but she shrugged it off. "Whatever. I’ll just grab whatever looks useful." She wandered through the aisles, tossing a couple of books she wanted to read, pens, and notebooks into her basket, when a tap on her shoulder made her turn.

“Look who it is,” a voice drawled.

She looked up to see a tall blond guy in the store’s uniform, smirking like he owned the place. “Cypress Creek High’s so-called princess. Poor little Cinderella. What are you even doing here, sweetheart? You can’t afford any of this.”

Roxanne’s stomach dropped. Hubert. Of course. The senior who’d chased her around back in junior high, before his family packed up and moved to New York. He used to brag nonstop about his dad’s new job in the city, like it turned him into royalty overnight.

Roxanne rolled her eyes. “Not your business, Hubert. Move.”

He stepped into her path, grinning wider. “Come on, look around you. This is a rich people store. And you? In those jeans?” He laughed under his breath. “You’ll ruin the books just by touching them. Tell you what—give me one date, and maybe I’ll hook you up with a discount.”

“Keep your discount,” Roxanne said flatly, brushing past him.

The dismissal hit him hard. His hand shot out, yanking her back by the arm. His voice dropped, sharp and mean. “Listen here, you little brat. Back in Texas, you were the big deal, the goddess everyone drooled over. But here? You’re nothing. There are girls in this city way hotter than you. You’re not special anymore—”

“Then let go,” Roxanne cut him off, her tone ice cold. “I didn’t come here to deal with you.”

Before Hubert could fire back, one of the men in black suits lunged, slamming him to the floor in one smooth motion. Hubert’s smugness turned into a startled yell as he was pinned down with ease.

The commotion snapped the manager out of his daze. He hurried over, panic in his eyes. His gaze swept from Hubert, the new employee, currently struggling on the floor, to the suited man holding him down, then finally landed on Roxanne.

And when he realised she was the girl who had stepped out of the Maybach earlier, all the colour drained from his face. “Shit.” He muttered.