The Last-Minute Rush
The phone call with my mother had finally ended. Her voice, soft but firm, still hung in the air like the faint trace of her perfume—something floral, something familiar. I let out a slow breath, my chest heavy with emotions I couldn't quite name. Sadness? Regret? Maybe just exhaustion.
Then—beep, beep, beep!
The sharp, sudden sound of my alarm cut through the quiet like a knife. My head snapped toward the screen.
4:00 p.m.
My stomach dropped.
"Shit."
The word slipped out before I could stop it. The party—my party—was supposed to start soon, and I was nowhere near ready. Guests would be arriving in just a couple of hours, and here I was, still standing in the middle of my living room, lost in my own thoughts.
Panic shot through me like lightning. My heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my throat. No time to waste.
I sprinted down the hallway, my bare feet slapping against the cold marble floor. The bathroom door flew open, and I practically threw myself inside, twisting the shower knobs with shaky hands. Water exploded from the showerhead, hot and steaming, filling the room with a thick cloud of mist.
I didn't wait for it to warm up. I stepped in, the scalding water hitting my skin like tiny needles. My fingers worked fast, scrubbing shampoo into my hair, soap across my arms, my legs—hurry, hurry, hurry. Every second counted.
The moment I turned off the water, I leaped out, dripping wet, my breath coming in short gasps. A towel hung nearby, and I grabbed it, rubbing myself dry so roughly it felt like sandpaper against my skin.
Clothes. I needed clothes.
I burst into my room, my eyes scanning the wardrobe. My suit—black, sleek, expensive—was still hanging there, but the fabric was wrinkled from being stuffed in the back. Unacceptable.
I snatched it off the hanger just as a soft knock sounded at my door.
"Come in!" I barked, my voice sharper than I meant it to be.
The door opened, and there stood Alfred, my butler, as calm and collected as ever. His expression didn't change, not even when I shoved the wrinkled suit into his hands.
"Alfred! Iron this. Now. I need it back in five minutes."
He gave a small, polite nod. "Of course, sir."
And just like that, he was gone, moving silently down the hall like a shadow.
I didn't have time to stand around. My earpiece was still in, and I tapped it, barking orders into the mic.
"Security—get to my room. Now."
Within seconds, two massive figures appeared in the doorway—my bodyguards, both built like brick walls, their faces unreadable behind dark sunglasses.
I thrust the guest list at them, my fingers trembling slightly.
"Nobody gets in unless they're on this list. Nobody. Understood?"
They nodded in unison, their movements perfectly synchronized. It should have made me feel better, but my stomach was still twisted in knots.
With that handled, I took off running again, my bare feet slapping against the floor as I dashed through the mansion.
**The banquet table—**covered in silver platters of gourmet food, tiny hors d'oeuvres glistening under the chandelier lights. Perfect.
**The bar—**stocked with rows of expensive liquor, champagne bottles chilling in ice buckets. Good.
**The sound system—**already thumping with a deep bassline that vibrated in my chest. Excellent.
Everything was in place. Thank God.
I sprinted back to my room, my lungs burning. Alfred had already returned, my suit now crisp and wrinkle-free, draped neatly over the chair.
I didn't even thank him. I just grabbed it and dove back into the shower—again.
This time, the water was even hotter, almost unbearable, but I barely felt it. My mind was racing too fast.
Then—knock, knock.
"Come in!" I called, my voice bouncing off the tiles.
The door creaked open, and Alfred's silhouette appeared through the steam. Without a word, he set down a fresh towel and my freshly ironed suit, then disappeared just as quietly as he'd come.
I turned off the water and stumbled out, my skin pink and raw. The mirror was completely fogged, but I didn't need to see myself to know I looked like a mess—hair wild, eyes wide, breath uneven.
I dried off quickly, the towel rough against my damp skin, then attacked my room like a tornado.
Straighten the duvet. Fluff the pillows. Hide the clutter.
Everything had to be perfect. Tonight, I wouldn't mess this up.
I yanked on my suit, my fingers fumbling with the buttons, the cufflinks. The fabric clung to my still-damp skin, making every movement stiff and awkward. The more I rushed, the harder it got—buttons slipping, fabric twisting.
A glance at the clock sent another jolt of panic through me.
6:30 p.m.
Time was running out.
I bolted downstairs, my polished shoes slipping slightly on the marble steps. The living room was eerily quiet, the calm before the storm.
My throat felt like sandpaper. I needed something—anything—to steady my nerves.
I yanked open the fridge, the cold air hitting my face like a slap. My fingers closed around the first drink I saw—something fizzy, something sweet.
The can hissed as I cracked it open, and I gulped it down in one go, the cold liquid burning my throat.
For the first time all day, I stopped moving.
I slumped into the nearest chair, my legs finally giving out. The silence pressed in around me. The adrenaline faded. My eyelids grew heavy.
Just ten minutes. That's all I needed. Ten minutes to breathe.
But exhaustion hit me like a truck. The empty can slipped from my fingers, clattering to the floor.
And just like that—I was out.
To Be Continued.