Gilded Cage: Grand Closing [2]

The luxurious lobby of Faure Tower was quiet—eerily so. The sharp clink of rich clients' heels and the soft murmurs of assistants and staff were absent, the only sound being the faint hum of the elevator in the background. The marble floors were glossy and flawless, the towering glass walls stretching up to the ceiling, letting moonlight pour in from the skyline outside.

This was the Faure brand: immaculate, clean, cold, and silent. 

Lucille lounged in one of the plush chairs in the empty building's lobby. The skyscraper was usually used as a hotel for the ultra-rich, but the entire estate had long been cleared out for the show this year. Only the buzz of paparazzi and special statements being made by producers outside echoed against the walls. The young woman casually draped her arm over the leather chair as she stared at nothing in particular with a self-satisfied calm. 

Lucille finally took a sip of her champagne, feeling a well-earned celebration. Her little trick had gone well. She knew they would never cut the broadcast on such an important announcement—it would damage their image. If there was anything her father was trying to avoid, it was a brand scandal right before the season aired.

Her phone buzzed on the glass table in front of her. She glanced at the screen, seeing a notification from the Love's Triumph production team. Her brows furrowed slightly, but she didn't bother answering. She let the message sit, unread, as the seconds ticked by. She had no urgency for any of this. No urgency to play her part. She knew the routine, knew her father's plan—he had drilled it into her head for years.

She took another sip of her drink.

'Guess this means he'll be around full time.' Just as that thought finished, a loud bang came from behind her.

Lucille sighed, her head tipping back to rest against the soft leather. Her fingers absentmindedly tapped a rhythm on the armrest, a rhythm that felt like a countdown. She didn't look. She didn't need to.

As she lazily swirled the bubbly drink in her hand, the familiar cold and calculating presence of her father filled the room. He breezed by her, his faint smoky cologne filling Lucille's senses as he took his seat in the chair across from her. A few steps behind him stood his bodyguards and personal assistants, both out of earshot.

She raised her head to look at her father. He was wearing his usual sharp suit, the same color, the same cut, as if he'd been sewn into it. There was no room for deviation in Gregory Faure's world, after all. And that was exactly what Lucille had just done.

"Lucille."

"Father," she replied lazily, her tone flat. She didn't sit up, didn't try to put on any semblance of enthusiasm. "What is it?"

He looked at her, his sharp gaze scanning her as if trying to find the slightest indication of something—anything he could use as leverage in this exchange.

'He has no way to reprimand me. Even if he did, he wouldn't use it so soon when he has the most to lose. The announcement has been made. 'Who knows what she might do now if I upset her and ruin this season?' Those are probably his thoughts at the moment.'

After a moment of silence, Gregory spoke first.

"You know what's about to happen, right?" He leaned back and folded his hands.

She shrugged, grabbing at her phone and scrolling absently. "I'm sure I'll figure it out."

Gregory's lips tightened into a thin line, but he said nothing. There was no need to waste words. He had been through this with her before. He had expected this kind of reaction—the apathy, the disinterest.

After all, it was his empire, not hers. His dream, not hers.

"Look," he began, his voice softening slightly, "I know this isn't ideal for you, but this is important. The show is bigger than ever. And you... you have the potential to elevate everything. To make this season legendary."

Lucille finally looked up at him, her eyes meeting his with an almost bored expression.

"Yeah, yeah. The Prince and the Pauper love story, right?" She sat up slowly and crossed one leg over the other. "I'm just supposed to act like I care about this whole thing, like I'm some hopeless romantic. But you know it's all bullshit. It's all a game for ratings and clicks."

Gregory paused, his gaze sharpening. "Don't talk like that. People want to believe in love, even if it's manufactured. You're the face of the brand, Lucille. You're the one who keeps the wheels turning."

Lucille snorted, leaning back again, unfazed by his words. "Sure, I'm the face. But you're the puppet master, aren't you?" She shot him a knowing glance, her tone almost taunting. "You've been controlling me my whole life. And now, you've set up this little game where I have to pick from a bunch of guys, play pretend, and get married for the cameras."

Gregory's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. He never did. Lucille wasn't just the product of his empire—she was the final product, the culmination of all his work.

"I don't have time for this," Gregory said, his voice hardening, his patience thinning. "The producers are already putting together the casting. You'll need to choose your men soon."

Lucille raised an eyebrow. "Im not choosing which guys hearts to play around with for your game. That can be you producers sin to hold."

Gregory's eyes flashed, but he kept his cool. "You don't have to choose, but you'll need to make a decision in the end regardless. The show doesn't wait for anyone."

"We will see about that," she muttered, half-distracted.

There was a brief silence, the kind that filled the room with unspoken tension. Finally, Gregory stood up, adjusting his suit.

"You'll be fine," he said. "You always are." His tone was dismissive, but there was an undertone of something else—something cold, something like a promise.

"Going off-script to make some statement about yourself is one thing. But refusing to let the strings tug the way I want is another."

Gregory held strong eye contact with Lucille as she sat below him, a visual representation of their dynamic.

"If you want to see me as a puppet master, then I'm sure you can understand what happens when you need to tug too hard at a puppet's strings. It breaks. In the end, it's the puppet that becomes useless and is thrown away while the master just acquires another. I'm doing this for the betterment of the family and your future, Lucille. Keep that in mind and keep moving forward."

Lucille bit her tongue to keep from saying anything back. An argument would do nothing. She had been here before. All her father heard was himself. All he saw was himself. If he said Lucille's future was better one way, then there was no changing his mind, even if Lucille herself objected. Simply put, there was no point in talking back because, at the end of the day, a narcissist only hears himself.

So Lucille kept her down, breaking eye contact to control herself.

"You have all these billions and all these workers. Don't be a brat and throw it all away."

He turned and started to walk out of the room, his entourage scurrying after him. When she heard his footsteps fade away, another pair overtook them—a sound she recognized as Mira's sneakers.

The worn-out grey shoes came into Lucille's sight first as her head stayed lowered.

"I told you to get new shoes," she sighed, finally looking up at Mira's face.

"What can I say? I don't accommodate well to change," Mira joked in a comforting manner, picking up Lucille's phone and heels, which she had taken off and set aside.

Lucille got up, her huge dress trailing behind her. Now that the announcement was made, Lucille was truly feeling the weight of it all. The thought about how big of a change this show was going to be on her life.

"I guess that makes two of us."

They both walked in silence for a minute before Mira spoke.

"Hey," she said gently. "I know that was tough. Are you okay?"

Lucille stared ahead with a faint click of her tongue.

"Yeah," she muttered, her tone flat. "Just another day, Mira. Just another day."

Mira hesitated, then took out her phone and opened it to show Lucille the bright screen.

"Well, the public seems to be taking it well. The Love's Triumph hashtag is trending, and people are already nominating men for the cast. Some are even calling you the 'new and fresh diva of the show.' It's all over social media."

"I guess that's good. At least there are people out there enjoying this shit show of a situation."

Mira smiled, though there was a hint of sadness in her expression. "If you change your mind about helping with the casting, let me know. It might help with... control."

Lucille turned to her friend, offering the faintest of smiles. "I told you, Mira. I'm not playing this game. Let the producers pick their pawns."

Mira didn't press the issue further. She just gave Lucille a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "I'll leave you to it. But just remember, no matter how crazy this gets, you're not alone."