AXEL REEVES

List of Axel's Character Tropes

"Loyal Husband Cites Having Only One Affair as Being Well Below the National Average"

Blond Man

Kingmaker™

Business Man™

Smile like a Knife

"Child Labor Only Applies if You Pay Them says Local Business Man"

Gore Voyeur

Art Collector

"Man Mistakes Museum for Gift Shop. Leaves with Caravaggio"

Top 5 Prettiest Villains

"This Weird Trick Proves Your Wife's Depression is Fake. Psychiatrists Hate Him!"

Self-Made

Domination in Business and Pleasure

New Money

Gin-Drinker

Gaslighting Made Easy

AxelxSylvie

Sylvie's understanding nature would be exploited, making her an unintentional enabler to Axel's endeavors in spite of her attempts to recalibrate his moral compass. She'd spend most of her time trying to unravel where his motivations come from versus actually making progress in changing him. Axe, meanwhile, uses Sylvie's psychology background to manipulate her into gaining additional insight into those he speaks to. It wouldn't be too far removed from his relationship with Emma, but in some ways an improvement in his eyes; Sylvie has something to offer him currently whereas Emma only used to.

Sylvie may not mind the relationship, though she wouldn't be at her happiest. She might interpret Axel's gifts as signs of affection and attribute them to his love language. In spite of any feelings towards Micah, she'd be loyal, and in turn it's possible Axe might as well, given that her support and interest might be enough to center him away from infidelity. Maybe.

one word replaces the other, she changes the perception of who is in charge of the upkeep for the paintings, not their actual positioning. there is an element of control handed back to people who curate their own works, they do not need the input of others, they choose to take it into consideration. there are no chances of what she’s suggested now, she scratches the thought. 

in front of them now stands another odd one, too bright, a spring theme that does not match with the rest of the gallery. flowers in the reeves collection might have connotations that others could theorize, but she will stop at the fact that nothing else is daisies. “this isn’t yours either.” the obvious is stated, though she has a feeling that was supposed to be intuited at this stage. she will still take the mark. daises, red splattered across. her files of cancellations open in her mind, searching for potential details. it takes longer than it should, she specializes in numbers that keep people alive, not details of how they died. not usually. “was this martin?”

This isn't his. He's paid for it. It makes it his. To say it aloud will ruin her concentration on the main course he's serving her. He watches her simply instead. The gears behind the irises stir. She shuffles through her database. The smart girl with a computer for a brain, cross-referencing what has been uploaded to her programming to find the solution he's asked of her. She comes back with the result he's been holding onto before he's pressed the return key.

"It was," he tells her, a congratulations of sorts, an easy smile for her hard work. "I was told the cancellation was filmed in front of this for poetic justice." He would know. Wasn't it Axed! that broke the story first about Martin's habits? Weren't they the ones responsible for the justice their founder mentioned? Didn’t she, too, have a hand in it like him? She was the computer. He was the user. "I like to think this was our first collaboration, Chloe."

of course hums through her mind but does not make its way to her lips, a thought half-formed, too untoned to be a part of the the conversation. they circle around profits, font sizing, gruesome details relayed in demure typeface. she would have offered to write the article before, hopped on the opportunity to be the front page byline. but she does not need the credit, she turns to her husband as he rests his hand on her leg. she does not want the validation. a switch has flipped, the gust of wind blown through her cold and sharp, the fervor of news replaced with distrust of ease. 

“who could be.” she replies finally, the words falling inharmoniously.  she thinks of their possible message, the aching reminder that they have worked until they could get to this point. how she has climbed her way up to greatness right beside him, the helping hand of ceo. doesn’t it mean that it’s she who was risen next to him. doesn’t it mean they’re the only two in the world that could be so alike in understanding. doesn’t it. “i’ll get started on it first thing.”

He remembers her fire. She had everything in herself to get anything done. He was the man who not only earned the empire they built but the girl he married. She has been coasting on this memory ever since. An investment that gave return is now teetering towards bankruptcy. He feels it underneath his hand. Silk can't mask what's dead. There's a coldness underneath that surface-level warmth that comes from his radiating touch. Brisk, bone-chilling traits of a cadaver. One hand tightens into the steering wheel (not even the engine covers up the pores sticking to the leather, the sound of annoyance funneling to one source over the alternative). His other squeezes into her leg (silent, determined, shielding her from his left side). An artery must lie in there somewhere where life can be pumped back into it, a pulse coaxed by his thumb.

"There's time." He doesn't say this lightly. He rarely does. Time is money. What is love if it doesn't cost? "After we celebrate."

finally the answer is given, the work has been corrected and returned, showing that her calculations were right. she does not know art work, she doubts that this crash course will be enough to hold her up in a conversation. but she knows which painting was the odd one out among the collections. it’s a start. if she had the time she would be able to sort the entire gallery, come up with a fool proof equation for who chose what. but her thoughts are stopped short by his reach, the contact against her shoulder perhaps one thing she could not have gauged for. he says she should come, and she does. there is no other choice. 

“you’ve got competing tastes.” some might go so far as to say dissonant but she’s not the type to choose something hostile. far be it from her to know the ins and outs of someone else’s marriage. people were supposed to be different, balanced everything out properly. “there’s not already a curator for this?”

"Advisor." One word difference that is amended for her over his shoulder, the type of difference that separates collector from investor, where one outweighs the other when the closing bell tolls. A mere collector would entertain this route of conversation, meander through it; the investor serpentines his way through it to find the value. "You should've known the chances of that." He's joking. His smile to her is the proof. There is nothing to question.

Another painting is viewed. It's theme does not fit what surrounds it. There is a field illuminated by the sun, and a girl with blond hair is in the center of it with flowers in her arms. She stares at her observers like visitors, a daisy held in her hand for someone to take it. It's raining. The drops are a muted red. This is not rain. This is not paint.

"This is recent.” One the advisor proved herself on. “Do you recognize it?"

her tongue clicks against the roof of her mouth, glib and childish just as his own sentiment had been. “the true romantic.” there’s an eye roll, the distinct reminder that she is just playing a game where one of them will eventually lose. she reminds herself that sometimes it will simply have to be her— the manageable loss over the disproportionate blindside it could have been.

there are plenty of things that can be stretched out over long luxurious periods of time, but it seems this conversation is not destined to be one of them. “the planner and financier.” certainly there are negatives for pointing the spotlight on a family name as big as the one she’s pointed to. but felix has made his bed by falling in love with every blonde haired-blue eyed ice princess he sees. and more importantly, he does not pay her. “hearst certainly had the money set aside to spend on this sort of event, and bellamy just so happens to have the vision boards.” out in the open finally, no take backs to the details she’s given. a twisted focus from the wedding itself to the tension that must surround it, keeping romance dead last on the public’s mind. “you’d think after their fallout, there must be some tension.”

Romantic. Even in the facetious light, it casts a shadow of hilarity and something else. Something sickly. It doesn't bring laughter, but it does make him smile. She knows better. He's quick to remind her. "Now isn't the time to get choked up about it." And last time he checked, it was becoming habit. Save it for later.

This is business. He takes the Hearst name in with no surprise to show. The connection is known, but it's nice to tie it back to something more. The eligible bachelor and the bombshell contract, a relationship that fragmented in sharp pieces. Who would have guessed? The Hearst brand should have had more class.

his understood is met only by another slight sip of her drink, one that might not have even counted at all except in the purpose of furthering their conversation. there’s no need to pretend an actual agreement has been reached. when has one ever? the only promise that’s ever between them is equal measure threat. best to not bother with seeing who would be ruined first, not when they’re being so amiable. he garners a small breath of a laugh for his efforts, perhaps even that is too generous. 

“must i always keep the lights on in your offices?” there’s the obvious, the sort of tell that she’d expect the usual run of the mill journalist to keep up with. it’s not hard to draw attention to yourself when you’re an a-lister. and though bellamy is quite the expert, she alone is not much of a story in this instance. “do you have one name or two.”

"I only turn them off when you visit, Nora." This is casual conversation, skimming over thorns, delivered with smiles and sharp eyes. He is curious. Not desperate. The word in itself disgusts him, poised like a dagger at the throats of those on a level that he steps over. She's confirmed only one thing: two instead of one. It's a fact that changes his face in the most minute way, pulling at the corner of his lips while he considers. Jade Bellamy and... Interesting.

"Any longer, and you'll convince me you have neither for me."

she puzzled through his answer, though her expression must give away some of the confusion that she’s felt. there is no reason that she needs to be tested at a  party, it’s true. and yet it didn’t feel as though they were just having a friendly conversation. there was some pressure to produce correct answers to the questions he asked, although it might have been internal. did she just want to impress, to prove she belonged, to make sure that he knew he was not dealing with a delaney? “no.” it sounds more like a question than a statement, a shaken hope rather than firm declaration. but it’s all she has in return.

his next question is far easier, answer leaping forward with far less hesitation. “not necessarily. it is a personal collection.” meaning that it should contain whatever the particular whims of an individual might want. there need not be rhyme or reason to what makes up the paintings that hang on the wall. and yet for the most part there is, with the slightest offsets. but of course this isn’t just axe’s house, she was remise to forget such a detail in her data. “did you pick it?”

The gallery is not evenly split. It has the appearance as though it might be, but even some that hang on the walls of his wife's side are picked by his hand, messages that are better suited for what she needs, reminders in forms of oils and canvases instead of post-its like lesser marriages share. She contributes what she can, even when the fresh pair of eyes from Chloe Miller can spot when it meets bare minimum.

"Emma did." His answer comes with a smile, its own flashbulb, but pride in the fact is not attached. It doesn't exist. It serves its purpose in only proving a point that goes unsaid. She doesn't try. It's why it doesn't fit. There is nothing more to say about Mrs. Reeves. There is even less to say about her effort.

"Come this way," he reminds her of the tour she's won, hand gesturing out to meet her at her shoulder, a guidance. "I should have you pick the next piece to the collection.” A new grin. A joke. A slap to a figure outside the peripheral. A dangling carrot. “You already know what I like to see."

why would he do it? that’s the sort of question that deserved more thought, but it was all speculation. general behavior could be predictable, but the inner-workings of a particular mind were subject to change. if someone rigged a data set was the answer hubris or simply, “as a test.” she answered finally. as though he’d asked her to solve for x in an equation, calculation completed. there was no sure bet it was the right answer, given her situation she could not land on another one. 

before she has a chance to try and reset the variables and think of a different answer, he’s asked her another question, although this one is slightly harder to discern. why does the hopper stand out, her eyes glance from painting to painting, trying to figure out what makes it possible. “age.” she doesn’t know much of the work in room, speaking to the actual age of the paintings is impossible, but there’s a certain modern sensibility to it. “it’s more twentieth century than the rest— like it was picked out by a different curator.”

"Not everything is a test, Chloe." He smiles at her and the open window to her mind. The perception she looks out from is mirrored back to her in that growing expression, glinting back at her in white teeth that begin to show. "I didn't think I needed to with you." Axe's eyes are focused on her. Crystal clear. No haze from gin in his hand can touch them. "Should I?"

He doesn't gesture to the Edward Hopper: the painting of current topic. It will remain hanging in the section that will continue to be off-center from main attraction. His feet are grounded where they are in front of the Caravaggio. It is easier to be in the presence of decapitation than marital reflection. "Are you suggesting it doesn't belong?"

if there is something clever to say about art for art’s sake it escapes her, slipping through her fingers as though words were suddenly water. she has nothing in retaliation, the value of ownership is undeniable in weight, the assessment that paintings were a separate kind of art was entire false. in the absence of anything to say, she finds herself only able to answer the question that’s been posed to her. 

“it’s the one that people look towards the most.” as though she’s suddenly been called on in the middle of class to answer the equation that’s she’s daydreamed through. “given people are in here quarterly, there must be a set list. so enough people are familiar with the gallery. you probably told them which one to be on the lookout for.” there was still room accounting for people rushing towards their favorites, circling over the great masters, searching out faces in a crowd they hoped to see rather than art work. but they were always turning back to see what was new. “it’s like having a new student on the first day of class.” the analogy halts her speech for a moment as though she’s unsure whether it fits the string of numbers that tells her the exact percentage of people looking at it now. wandering eyes would always seek to figure out the unknown, trying to decide if they liked it or not, if it was worth trying to interact with. “people always give away the odd one out. they can’t help it.”

"Did I?" Perhaps he did. Perhaps he didn't. The answer is not revealed in the smile that kindles across his face, building slowly, the kind of fire that's controlled only by professionals. "There's a probability that I gave everyone else the answer but you, Chloe? Why would I do that?" His tone is toying with facetiousness and sincerity at once, straddling the razor-thin line between joking tease and serious questioning. She is full of analytics on every variable. He is no exception.

He tastes his cocktail, but it's barely a sip. There is more of an appetite for the intangible. Something about her metaphor is latched onto. The initial impression carries novelty until it becomes the second or the third. A new student sounds more and more like a new contract. "You noticed the Edward Hopper first," he reminds, making his smile slightly uneven around the words. "What makes it odd?"

there is a bloodstain on her dress. the crimson stain does not stand out against the fabric, how could it. but it is there all the same, staring defiantly back at her, marking her as one who has seen. she was present, and of course, she had only watched, sat there as another contract was pulled from the middle of their life and sent off. she remembered when she used to run, copies in hand, eyes bright as she announced what had happened, what was going to pull their paper from obscurity. but whatever feeling had spurred such reactions was gone now, she was left with nothing but a cold sick feeling spreading in her lungs. when had contracts become real tangible people, trapped instead of volunteered. 

“dinner and a show.” she says, there is no humor to the line, and she has not enjoyed the time. she would have preferred a night in with her husband, the coziness of a meal across their kitchen table, nothing to interrupt them. it would have been the first time she’d be able to look across at the man she married and see him, really see him. the less the world intrudes on her, the nicer she was finding her life. but instead they had been focused on the imminent story. “this will have to be dry cleaned.” she says in her cold quiet voice, she thinks it will have to be thrown out, the kind of stain that when gone she will not be able to unsee.  there is no reason to wear this dress again. 

The engine makes its presence known. It stamps the air with not just the Bugatti logo but the Reeves name. It's as fitting as wealth and power, a match that's better than any marriage that's encapsulated behind its two doors. The night bleeds in through the glass. Los Angeles' streetlights flicker over passenger and driver alike, a highlight of differences that a tinted windshield doesn't betray to any outsider. You can hear the reverberation of the cancellation inside, how it translates through the pedal of the car, the heavy decompression of the second seat.

"Dinner and tomorrow's headline," he corrects with the corner of his lips upturned. His mood is colored in crimson. It matches Emma's dress. It's emphasized in a few of the threads. There are traces of it on the jacket he put around her shoulders. A dose of it feels to be shot in his veins. Not even the tone she has chosen can kill the buzz.

"It can join what you spilled tomato sauce on." His smile is thrown to her from the profile-view. What separates a stain from what she cooked from what they watched? A good night. It's a mark of action, an action that she had no hand in, could never have. "You can't see it unless you're close enough," he goes on. And it is not consolation. Not for the sake of the dress. Not when his hand wraps around the silk that covers her thigh. "There's no one else that would be this close, Emma."

her face twists in confusion for moment, not used to having her math questions so abruptly. was that a sign of confidence or complacency? did it matter so long as the answer was the same. she was right about the painting, she looked around the room again, recounting the bodies, calculations spinning around before she takes another sip of her drink. she was right, and there was nothing more to say about it. but she steps forward anyways, takes the closer look. 

“why?” there’s a disconnect to his logic. someone has to paint the masterpiece in order for it to be valued at anything. of course, art was not like other assets. the appreciation of it was a factor. the rarity as well. “it’s not a mutually beneficial relationship?”

He looks at the painting. There is the widow Judith, her maid, and the general Holofernes. The latter is being slayed by his own sword, wielded by the hand of a loyal wife. The message has a place in the Reeves Palace, but it's the artist's name attached that has earned it a place in the gallery. His eyes may be on this painting, but there are others in his peripheral. And then it is Chloe's turn. Looked at in the same manner as what is hanging on a wall, smile and all.

"Value comes from ownership. Not creation." It's a lesson. Simple business. Supply and demand. Supply is worthless without demand. Demand is priceless without supply. "How did you decide on the Caravaggio?" he asks. Pure interest. "Walk me through your process."