AJS Roleplaying
Returning veteran
- Joined
- May 24, 2025
- Location
- The Emerald Isle
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The Irish Charm
A Roleplay Brought to You By: |
Adrian Locke written by AJS Roleplaying |
Eloine Quinn written by NurseMaxine |
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The Irish Charm (AJS Roleplaying x NurseMaxine)
- Thread starter AJS Roleplaying
- Start date
OP
OP
AJS Roleplaying
Returning veteran
- Joined
- May 24, 2025
- Location
- The Emerald Isle
Adrian Locke stood at the edge of the glass, sixty-one floors above a city still shaking off the night. Dawn traced faint gold along the horizon, turning towers into silhouettes and traffic into a silent ballet of lights. His coffee was untouched in one hand, cooling. The other remained loose at his side. He watched the streets with the same quiet intensity he brought to boardroom tables and courtroom negotiations, the kind that unsettled people more than shouting ever could.
Behind him, the penthouse was immaculate - an expanse of quiet wealth arranged with museum-like precision. The air smelled faintly of cedar and clean linen, untouched by life. Furniture in shades of smoke and stone stood in sculptural stillness, the grand piano untouched since its arrival. The apartment was beautiful, deliberately so, but it lacked any sign of someone who intended to stay. Near the fireplace, Thatcher stirred. The aging Great Dane exhaled, shifting on the only worn rug in the apartment, as if to remind the room that something living still existed within it.
Adrian didn't move. The silence was part ritual, part defence. He'd never trusted people who filled every moment with noise. He'd learned early that the ones who talked most had the least worth hearing. Silence had raised him, shaped him. And now, at forty-one, it was both armor and home.
The phone buzzed once on the counter. He ignored it. Tokyo markets had closed two hours ago. Berlin was opening. His day would begin soon - another round of meetings, leveraged negotiations, merger talks, all threaded together by men too wealthy to be honest and too proud to admit when they were losing. He would outmanoeuvre them all, because that's what he did. It was never personal. It was survival, sharpened into instinct.
He finally turned from the window and moved through the kitchen, sleeves rolled, shirt untucked, his bare feet near soundless against the tile. The eggs sizzled in the pan as he cooked with the same precision that marked everything else he did. He plated the meal without flair, poured another coffee, and let the act of repetition still his thoughts.
He lived alone. He preferred it. There was no chaos here, no mess left by someone else. He ran his life the way he ran his firm - with clarity, with purpose, and without sentiment. Women passed through occasionally, like guests in a well-managed hotel, but none stayed. Not because he feared attachment, but because he didn't believe in pretending to want something he didn't. He respected honesty, even when it came in the form of distance.
The apartment, like the man who owned it, was curated down to the last detail. No photos. No family heirlooms. No echoes of the boy who'd once lived in a town where electricity bills came with apologies and eviction notices. Adrian never looked back. Nostalgia was a weakness, and he had no interest in feeding ghosts.
He took his coffee to the window once more. The sky was brighter now. The city fully awake. Another day.
His phone buzzed again. This time, he picked it up. Fifty-six unread emails. A dozen tagged urgent. He ignored them all. One caught his attention - not because of who sent it, but because of how.
From: Celeste Warrick
Subject: Change of plans – Hope you'll join us
Attachment: .PDF
Adrian exhaled through his nose. Celeste. A socialite with an inherited name, a calculated laugh, and a particular gift for hosting events that felt like networking rituals disguised as decadence. She was clever enough to know her circles needed men like Adrian, and irritating enough to believe she belonged in theirs.
They'd crossed paths more times than he cared to count - benefit dinners, art auctions, the occasional photo op where she smiled too brightly and spoke in half-truths. He endured her the way he endured delays on the tarmac: an inevitability, not a concern. He tapped the PDF open. A sleek graphic appeared, minimalist and expensive: a photo of a massive white yacht lit against a dark sea, and a line of embossed silver text.
MIDNIGHT, FRIDAY — THE LYCANTHA
Private invitation only. No press. No strings.
And beneath it, a closing line he imagined someone thought was poetic:
"Come disappear for a while."
He stared at it for a moment. The Lycantha was infamous—Celeste's prized toy, a floating monument to wealth and curated indulgence. Champagne and secrets. Models and moguls. He'd never bothered to attend, despite annual invitations wrapped in silk envelopes or delivered by hand through mutual contacts. This one had arrived digitally. Hm. She must be scaling back.
He set the phone down, unread messages still blinking behind the unopened apps. The city churned below. Somewhere in the noise and hunger of it all, deals were being made. Alliances forged. Fortunes restructured. He would join the fray soon enough.
But for now, he considered the invitation, not with interest, but with calculation. A yacht full of men pretending to be gods and women pretending not to notice. A stage for excess. A distraction. And maybe, just maybe, a chance to shift something behind the curtain - out of sight, where real power liked to move.
He didn't RSVP. Not yet. But he didn't delete the message either.
Behind him, the penthouse was immaculate - an expanse of quiet wealth arranged with museum-like precision. The air smelled faintly of cedar and clean linen, untouched by life. Furniture in shades of smoke and stone stood in sculptural stillness, the grand piano untouched since its arrival. The apartment was beautiful, deliberately so, but it lacked any sign of someone who intended to stay. Near the fireplace, Thatcher stirred. The aging Great Dane exhaled, shifting on the only worn rug in the apartment, as if to remind the room that something living still existed within it.
Adrian didn't move. The silence was part ritual, part defence. He'd never trusted people who filled every moment with noise. He'd learned early that the ones who talked most had the least worth hearing. Silence had raised him, shaped him. And now, at forty-one, it was both armor and home.
The phone buzzed once on the counter. He ignored it. Tokyo markets had closed two hours ago. Berlin was opening. His day would begin soon - another round of meetings, leveraged negotiations, merger talks, all threaded together by men too wealthy to be honest and too proud to admit when they were losing. He would outmanoeuvre them all, because that's what he did. It was never personal. It was survival, sharpened into instinct.
He finally turned from the window and moved through the kitchen, sleeves rolled, shirt untucked, his bare feet near soundless against the tile. The eggs sizzled in the pan as he cooked with the same precision that marked everything else he did. He plated the meal without flair, poured another coffee, and let the act of repetition still his thoughts.
He lived alone. He preferred it. There was no chaos here, no mess left by someone else. He ran his life the way he ran his firm - with clarity, with purpose, and without sentiment. Women passed through occasionally, like guests in a well-managed hotel, but none stayed. Not because he feared attachment, but because he didn't believe in pretending to want something he didn't. He respected honesty, even when it came in the form of distance.
The apartment, like the man who owned it, was curated down to the last detail. No photos. No family heirlooms. No echoes of the boy who'd once lived in a town where electricity bills came with apologies and eviction notices. Adrian never looked back. Nostalgia was a weakness, and he had no interest in feeding ghosts.
He took his coffee to the window once more. The sky was brighter now. The city fully awake. Another day.
His phone buzzed again. This time, he picked it up. Fifty-six unread emails. A dozen tagged urgent. He ignored them all. One caught his attention - not because of who sent it, but because of how.
From: Celeste Warrick
Subject: Change of plans – Hope you'll join us
Attachment: .PDF
Adrian exhaled through his nose. Celeste. A socialite with an inherited name, a calculated laugh, and a particular gift for hosting events that felt like networking rituals disguised as decadence. She was clever enough to know her circles needed men like Adrian, and irritating enough to believe she belonged in theirs.
They'd crossed paths more times than he cared to count - benefit dinners, art auctions, the occasional photo op where she smiled too brightly and spoke in half-truths. He endured her the way he endured delays on the tarmac: an inevitability, not a concern. He tapped the PDF open. A sleek graphic appeared, minimalist and expensive: a photo of a massive white yacht lit against a dark sea, and a line of embossed silver text.
MIDNIGHT, FRIDAY — THE LYCANTHA
Private invitation only. No press. No strings.
And beneath it, a closing line he imagined someone thought was poetic:
"Come disappear for a while."
He stared at it for a moment. The Lycantha was infamous—Celeste's prized toy, a floating monument to wealth and curated indulgence. Champagne and secrets. Models and moguls. He'd never bothered to attend, despite annual invitations wrapped in silk envelopes or delivered by hand through mutual contacts. This one had arrived digitally. Hm. She must be scaling back.
He set the phone down, unread messages still blinking behind the unopened apps. The city churned below. Somewhere in the noise and hunger of it all, deals were being made. Alliances forged. Fortunes restructured. He would join the fray soon enough.
But for now, he considered the invitation, not with interest, but with calculation. A yacht full of men pretending to be gods and women pretending not to notice. A stage for excess. A distraction. And maybe, just maybe, a chance to shift something behind the curtain - out of sight, where real power liked to move.
He didn't RSVP. Not yet. But he didn't delete the message either.