The room wasn't large by any stretch of the imagination, but it was well-furnished in rich, jewel-like greens and purples. The carpet, impossibly plush in shades of divine chocolate, was the sort of thick, silken pile that encouraged one to sink their toes deep into it. Front and center, backed up against a set of wide french windows with silk Arabesque-patterned curtains, was an impossibly huge solid wood desk, stained so dark a red that it almost appeared black. But perhaps the most impressive part of the room was the man who sat behind the desk. Well-groomed, he moved with a power that spoke of a physical prowess that was hard-earned. The thickly knit sweater he wore draped comfortably across his broad shoulders, sleeves pushed up to reveal muscled forearms sprinkled with dark hair.
Business meetings. There were times he hated meetings. He hated listening to the droning of old, rich men who wanted to speak about parcels of land or other investments. He hated listening to their laughter that devolved in to wheezing coughs. He hated the necessity of it all.
Oscar Berlitz was not fond of those he considered weaker than himself, and as he steepled his fingers and graced each noble with an independant glance, he couldn't help but think about how simple it would be to crush the entire lot of them. He couldn't help but think about the places he'd rather be. His office was large, yes, but times like these it felt almost stifling.
Rolling his shoulders, Oscar pushed his chair back from his desk and rose to his feet. He made his way to the windows behind him. The office overlooked a small rose garden, and even from where he stood he could smell the light floral fragrance of the roses he tended to.
"You've got the Stein property, then, Oscar?"
"Soon."
"What of the Kaspar land?"
Oscar was silent for a long time.
"I've heard word that the mother is ill. Soon."
The group of old men talked amongst themselves briefly.
"How do you ... well, what is your intent, Oscar?"
Oscar turned to face the small group of old men, his gaze honing in on the bushy-mustached one who had asked the question. Oscar couldn't remember his name. Lifting his brows, Oscar's lips twisted in a little half-smile.
"Burn the houses. Buy it low. Unless, of course, you had your own plans?"
The gaggle of men erupted into mutters, and Oscar moved towards the door. He was done with meetings.
"It's been a pleasure, as always, gentlemen," Oscar brushed his hair back from his face. "You know the way out, I'm sure."
He did not waste another breath on them, and merely took his leave. There were other ways he'd rather spend his evening, and none of it revolved around old men who wanted to talk business. He knew that he was expected to deal with them, but he'd much rather not. He had his own methods of making things happen, his own preferences when it came to conducting business.
"Sir."
He didn't spare the butler - Diana - a passing glance. The woman would follow, just as she always had - just as she was paid to do. It amused Oscar to think of her as a butler. The woman was anything but. She was a courier. She was a bodyguard. She was never a lover - that would make things too complicated, and Oscar did not like complications. He'd heard it rumored that she preferred the female persuasion, which made things simpler. In essence, Diana was whatever Oscar asked her to be, and she did it without question.
"Yes."
"Shall I clear out the office, sir?"
"Do. I'll be in the garden."
Diana did not speak another word, but merely nodded and turned to do as she was bid.
He took the stairs by two, reaching the landing in a handful of steps. From there he moved to the doors that opened up to the private garden he'd crafted for himself. He hated getting dirty. He hated tending plants. However, he did love his roses. Pale pink blossoms that smelled of spun sugar and springtime. Deep red roses that reminded him of spiced cider. Pure ivory petaled swirls, bright orange along the edges.
Oscar reached for the clippers and a wide wicker basket that he kept just outside the garden doors. Cutting the roses felt therapeutic, at times, and he moved towards a bush that had stunningly vivid pink blooms. This bush had the largest, most unforgiving thorns of any in the garden, but the flowers smelled like ripe sweet peaches.
He did not wear gloves. He never did. His hands were broad, knuckles scarred. One finger, his left pinky, was permanently crooked. His hands were not those of a noble, and they were a constant reminder that he had not been born with all of this. He'd earned each and every piece of the life he'd put together for himself.
The clippers cut through the stems of the roses with ease, each snip more satisfying than the last. When he was not careful, he would be scratched by a thorn here and there. Oscar ignored the blood that pebbled up from the paper-thin scrapes. He ignored the sting of the thorn as it dragged across his skin.
In the end, he would be the victor. In the end, the roses were nothing but that; flowers, destined to wilt and fall away. In the end, Oscar would get what he wanted - just as he always did, one way or another.
