Chapter 1: THE ARRIVAL OF THE ARCHITECT
She arrived with no name. No backstory. No burden. Just a sealed envelope marked: ‘Living By Design’.
The Emerald Hotel didn’t have an address. It existed just outside expectation, just before reinvention. Somewhere between Florence and forgetting.
No reception. No welcome drink. Only a single inscription carved into green stone: ‘Design or Disappear’.
The Architect didn’t blink. She walked in.
Chapter 2: THE MIRROR ARCHIVE
The first room was made of mirrors. None of them flattered. Each one reflected an earlier version; refined, rehearsed, exhausted.
She saw: The Director in stilettos. The Believer with folded hands. The Chameleon in couture.
All of them designed to be palatable. Powerful. Safe.
The Architect didn’t destroy them; she simply bowed. Some identities aren’t enemies, they’re just overused tools.
She walked through the mirror that opened itself.
Chapter 3: THE CURATOR’S TABLE
The rooftop was already set: a long table draped in green velvet. Crystal glasses. Linen stiff with deliberation. Not a dinner; a ritualised audit.
At the head sat The Collector.
Timeless. Polished. Not a man, but a system in human form. One hand resting on a ledger, the other on a wine glass he hadn’t sipped.
His voice was silk pressed flat:
“Still unlearning the frameworks?”
She met his gaze:
“Still preserving what no longer serves?”
He smiled. Warm, almost admiring. He was the kind who curated brilliance not to kill it, but to contain it.
The kind who archived women like rare prints: valuable, but still.
“Legacy” he said “is best preserved by those who understand placement.”
She lifted her glass. Didn’t drink.
“I no longer perform for placement” she said.
“I design to belong to no one.”
She left before dessert. Before the applause became a leash. Before the flattery started billing her for obedience.
Chapter 4: THE CHURCH OF HOLY DESIGN
Behind an emerald curtain: The Sanctuary.
Clean symmetry. Gold moulding. White robes pressed into piety. It smelled like incense and expectation.
The congregation swayed in perfect rhythm. Slow, measured, hypnotic. Robes brushing marble. Eyes half-closed. Voices thick with repetition:
“Obedience is honour.”
“Design must be divine.”
“Desire must be contained.”
At the centre stood The Mouthpiece.
His robes were too crisp. His smile had symmetry but no softness. His words weren’t sermons; they were branding guidelines.
A figure in white handed her a script; The Righteous Witness. Their eyes had once been hers.
She read the lines. Familiar. Fear, disguised as virtue.
She folded it precisely. Lit it with the nearest ceremonial candle.
“I know the difference between sanctity and surveillance” she said.
No one replied. But the stained glass dimmed. That was enough.
She left without benediction.
Chapter 5: THE LAST PERFORMANCE
The garden was overgrown. Wild. Lush. Undisciplined.
The Woman in Red was already dancing; untamed, unashamed, unhealed.
She was what The Architect once called freedom. But she had always been a survival script: disarm before being disarmed. Charm before danger. Seduce before erased.
The Architect didn’t stop her. She joined her.
They danced. Not for each other, not for witness. Just to release.
When it ended, The Woman in Red pressed her forehead to hers. No words. Just breath.
Then she faded. Like smoke that had finally been acknowledged.
Chapter 6: THE ROOM WITHOUT ARCHITECTURE
No door. No guide. Just presence.
The final room was blank. Intact. Unwritten.
Inside sat The Stoic.
Still. Not reactive. Not demanding.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t posture. He simply existed beside her.
He painted nothing. Intentionally.
She sat next to him. Not close. Not far. Just equal.
Between them, the envelope marked ‘Living By Design’.
She didn’t open it. She had already become it.
Epilogue: EXIT WITHOUT CEREMONY
She left at first light.
No fanfare. No trail. No testimony.
The Emerald Hotel was gone when she turned back. Of course it was.
It had never been a place. It had been a permission.
When they asked where she had been, she smiled:
“I didn’t go anywhere. I just stopped outsourcing my becoming.”
And that was enough.
She was no longer looking for proof.
She had become the blueprint.
Living by Design: A Surreal Autopsy© 2025 Victoria’s Bubble Blog. All rights reserved. This story is a work of fiction. No part may be reproduced or used without permission.
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Somehow remembered I was once an avid follower of your words…and works. Decided to check again, and glad to see that there is still you, even in this deeply layered one. Hoping to catch up more. Here’s a toast to life and so much more!
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