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mjonthetrack · 14 days ago

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Chapter Forty-One: The Witch Speaks (And the Country Listens)

The storm hit Oxford before the sun did.

It started with murmurs at the gate. Then flickered like static in the halls. By 8:07 a.m., the students in Lecture Hall Dweren’t discussing biochemical architecture—they were whispering like they’d all just seen God scroll past on their For You Page.

And then she walked in.

Dr. Calypso Corrine Covington.

Chanel sunglasses. A cinched tan trench coat over a muted green dress. Soft curls pinned up like she hadn’t just gone viral overnight for dating (or not dating?) the bloody King of the United Kingdom.

Every seat was filled.

Phones were out.

One kid in the back was literally FaceTiming someone in silence just to prove he was there.

Calypso placed her tea on the desk, turned to face the packed room, and lifted her brow. One beat. Two. Then, with the calmness of a woman who once kneed a man in the groin for interrupting her dissertation, she began:

“Before we begin today’s lecture, I want to remind everyone that the human body has a remarkable ability to adapt under pressure. I’m hoping all of yours will adapt to the weight of staying in your own business.”

Silence. Then a wave of startled, respectful laughter.

“Seriously,” she added, tugging off her sunglasses. Her eyes were tired but unbothered. “This is a science class. We’re here to understand the blueprint of life, not the footnotes of mine.”

Phones slowly lowered. Students leaned in. The silence this time was intentional.

“For transparency’s sake—because I know some of you are already crafting Reddit theories—I was in Manchester. I did yell at the referee. I did, in fact, call him a bollock-brained bimbo. And yes, I was with someone. And yes, his title is public knowledge.”

Pause.

“That said, his privacy and security are not.”

Her voice didn’t rise. But it cut.

“So. Unless the King himself is funding your tuition—which is not out of the realm of possibility, the man’s rich—I suggest we shift focus to today’s topic: cellular regeneration and its role in repairing trauma.”

Boom. Class resumed. Just like that.

But of course… it had already been recorded.

By noon, the clip had exploded online.

🎥 “Covington Clears the Air” had 4.6 million views in 2 hours.

“The ‘stay in your own business’ line is now a meme. Merch already being made.

News outlets were headlining: “The Witch Has Spoken” “Oxford’s Ice Queen Keeps It Regal” “Biochem Baddie Says Mind Your Mitochondria”

People were obsessed.

She hadn’t just spoken—she’d owned the mic.

Buckingham. That Afternoon.

He watched the clip on repeat.

Idris sat in a velvet armchair in his private study, one hand absently swirling his tea, the other gripping his phone like it held the last shard of his patience.

“...his privacy and security are not.”

She didn’t need to name him. She didn’t need to pledge fealty or play the game.

She protected him, even now.

The man hadn’t smiled this stupidly in years.

His guard stepped in just then, barely hiding a grin of his own.

“Sir. Palace security has issued an internal memo. The Doctor’s statement has been lauded as, quote, ‘better than our last official press release.’”

Idris exhaled a slow, amused breath.

“Of course it has.”

The guard shifted. “There’s a petition. People want her on the royal science council.”

He looked up. “She’s not even officially mine yet and already the people want to crown her?”

“Seems so, sir.”

Idris’s fingers danced over his screen. A text already half-typed.

IDRIS: You handled that like a queen. Remind me to thank you properly. Dinner? Somewhere private this time. No cameras. Just you, me… and maybe a ref to argue with.

Three dots appeared.

Then:

WITCH (DOCTOR): I’ll think about it. But if the waiter serves kiwi again I will die and haunt Buckingham. Xx – Your PR-friendly witch

Chapter Forty-Two: “I Thought We Were Arguing With Refs?”

The sun was dipping low, casting a burnished orange glow through the narrow alley where he stood waiting outside a private venue nestled behind a pub with absolutely no royal markings. Just the soft hum of late-day traffic and the occasional whistle of wind as London settled into early evening.

Idris looked… composed. Too composed.

Pressed slate-grey slacks. White dress shirt, sleeves pushed halfway up those royal forearms. A single button undone at his collar. Cufflinks—custom, discreet—flashed gold when he glanced down at his phone.

She was late.

Just a little.

Then—

Clack-clack-clack of sneakers hitting pavement.

And there she was.

Calypso Corrine Covington, glorious in a worn-in Manchester United tee knotted at her waist, black Nike shorts, curly hair pulled into a high puff. Lips glossed. No makeup otherwise.

Her legs? Miles. Her eyes? Murderously confused.

She stopped three feet away, staring him down.

“You said referees,” she accused, arms wide, incredulous. “In your text. I was about to get bent for a match. I thought we were yelling at someone in stripes together!”

He blinked.

Smiled slowly.

“I said referees,” he countered smoothly, “plural. Which leaves room for interpretation. Perhaps the referee of wine pairings, or conversation etiquette.”

She squinted at him like he’d just declared war on semantics. Then groaned.

“Oh, piss off,” she huffed, swatting at his arm. “I dressed for violence. I have on my sports bra and everything.”

Idris chuckled, not bothering to hide the way his eyes dropped briefly to the exact spot she’d referenced. Just long enough for her to notice.

And roll her eyes.

He offered his hand.

And she… took it.

With a sigh, a dramatic shake of her head, and a whispered, “This better be funny, your highness.”

He pulled her gently along.

“It will be,” he said lowly. “There’s a private referee training session happening inside.”

She paused.

Gaped again.

“You’re joking.”

He smirked.

“I had a few of them flown in from Manchester. Thought you might enjoy telling them off… properly.”

Calypso blinked.

Then she threw her head back and cackled, tugging his hand tighter in hers.

“You are an insane, insufferable old man,” she breathed between laughs.

“And you’re wearing shorts to dinner,” he shot back, tugging her along.

“Yeah, well. If we’re judging, you still look like the third act of a romcom where the guy shows up to apologize with a violin or something.”

He paused.

“Do I?”

“Absolutely.”

“…It worked, didn’t it?”

She gave him one look. The look. Then leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Shut up and feed me, Fox.”

Chapter Forty-Three: “They Even Found the Chippery?”

The palace was quiet.

Not Buckingham. Not Sandringham. Not Windsor.

But the little slice of peace he’d made just for himself, tucked behind one of his lesser-known estates. No press. No fanfare. Just him. And her.

The lights were dimmed low, fire flickering quietly in the hearth. Somewhere on the record player, Sade spun like silk. A half-empty bottle of scotch sat on the table, flanked by two glasses.

And on the velvet green couch, Calypso stretched out—barefoot, fed, and relaxed—her silk-smooth legs draped across his lap like it was her rightful throne now.

Her curls were in their natural, effortless glory, haloed around her like she belonged in a renaissance painting titled "Saint of Sanity Amidst Crowned Madness." Her t-shirt was oversized and vintage—some jazz tour shirt from the 70s. Her shorts barely counted as fabric. She looked like home.

Idris sat at one end of the couch, drink in hand, his other resting idly on her shin, thumb drawing small circles like it was muscle memory. His jacket and tie were gone, shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled. He was in the rarest form of royal: off-duty.

Calypso took a slow sip of her tea before side-eyeing him with a sigh that could only mean trouble.

“Press not giving you too much grief?”

He gave her a look. One of those seriously? looks that screamed everything without saying a damn thing.

She didn’t wait for him to answer before going on, already smirking.

“I’ve got paps at Oxford, the labs, my house, and surprisingly even the fish and chippery down the block. I must admit,” she leaned her head back dramatically, “they’re thorough.”

Idris groaned, rubbing his temple.

“You’re not exaggerating. One of the lads told me they mistook a stranger’s Rottweiler for Luck and printed a headline claiming you’d ‘replaced one of your dogs in a mysterious power play.’”

“What?!” she wheezed. “A power play? Was it a coup?! Did Lottie get ousted in the night?!”

He chuckled, deep and real.

“Apparently, yes. Full betrayal arc. Lottie’s seeking revenge.”

Calypso snorted, eyes sparkling. Her toes nudged his hip gently, almost flirtatious, almost teasing.

“You’re handling this better than I expected, you know,” she murmured after a beat. “Most men would’ve panicked or disappeared by now.”

“I’m not most men,” he said softly, eyes never leaving hers.

She gave him a long look, something unspoken stretching between them. Then she looked down, the ghost of a smile tugging at her mouth.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “You’re not.”

The silence was comfortable after that. She leaned back. He adjusted her legs slightly, settling her feet more securely in his lap. His fingers slid along the arch of her foot absentmindedly, thumb circling her ankle like she was something delicate but known.

“You staying the night?” he asked casually, like the question wasn’t heavy with royal implications and unsaid emotions.

She glanced at him, eyebrow raised.

“That an invitation, or a royal decree?”

“An offer. Not an order.”

She hummed. Thought about it. Then leaned forward, took his glass, sipped it slowly.

“If I stay,” she said thoughtfully, handing the glass back, “you’re not allowed to watch the 10 o’clock news. I don’t want to hear some plastic-faced pundit call me the King’s mystery ‘urban intellectual’ again.”

Idris winced.

“Agreed.”

She grinned.

“Then I’m staying.”

Chapter Forty-Four: "Butterflies and Backpedals"

It was quiet again—but not the kind of quiet you could fall asleep in.

It was that aftershock quiet, the kind that follows something a little too tender, a little too real. The kind that crackles in the air like static, waiting to spark again.

Their kiss hadn’t been long. It wasn’t heated or wild or desperate.

It was soft. Intentional. And that made it dangerous.

Because soft meant genuine. And genuine was terrifying when the person across from you was the King of a damn country.

Calypso’s fingers had been resting on his shirt collar when it happened, her head tilted just enough, curls brushing his cheek. And Idris—he didn’t rush. He didn’t grab or pull.

He kissed her like a man who respected the storm in her and still wanted to walk into it anyway.

But now…

Now she pulled away.

Her breath was a little too shallow. Her stomach did that traitorous little flip—the one that made her blink twice like it would settle the chaos inside her.

Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but—

“Your room is ready, Doctor Covington,”

A voice at the door cut through everything like scissors through silk.

One of the staffers. Discreet, polite, possibly too perfectly timed.

She startled like she’d been caught stealing from the crown jewels.

“Right. Thank you,” she said, a bit too quickly.

She glanced back at Idris. He was still watching her, calm as ever, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. Something unreadable.Something that said I felt that too.

Calypso nodded once, not trusting her voice, and stood.

Her knees almost betrayed her. Almost.

She was not about to fall apart in a damn palace. She had pride. And a doctorate. And Chanel on her nails.

Still… she damn near tripped over her own red bottoms trying to turn too fast.

“Goodnight, Majesty,” she said softly, pausing just long enough in the doorway to catch his eye again.

And then she was gone, slipping out after the staffer like the corridor itself might swallow her up and give her room to breathe.

Idris exhaled only once she was out of sight.

And then?

He smiled. Just barely. Ran a hand over his beard. And muttered under his breath—

“Butterflies, huh?”

Chapter Forty-Five: "Man Down, Sister Online"

He waited until the echo of her heels faded down the corridor.

Waited until the door clicked shut, until he was sure she was no longer within earshot—no longer close enough to catch whatever stupid softness was about to leave his mouth.

Then Idris Elba—His Royal Bloody Majesty—leaned back against the nearest antique table in a private Buckingham drawing room, hands braced behind him like he needed help keeping upright.

“Jesus Christ.”

He muttered it to no one.

His shirt collar still smelled faintly like her—Chanel and matcha and something sharp underneath, like pepper and storm clouds. His lips still tingled. His brain? Fully compromised.

The man was gone.

He pulled out his phone, swiped up past three missed political briefings, a WhatsApp thread with Prime Ministers, and a news alert about an Oxford chemistry lecture going viral. None of that mattered right now.

He tapped into his sister’s contact.

Amina Elba - “DO NOT CALL ME WHEN YOU’RE BEING A SIMP 👑” –was the name saved.

He hit FaceTime.

She picked up three rings in, face already suspicious as she sat on a velvet couch somewhere clearly expensive and chaotic.

“You look like you’ve seen God… or boobs.”

He stared. Deadpan.

“Both. Possibly at the same time.”

Amina blinked. Then sat up straighter, mouth already halfway to a grin.

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“You kissed her?”

“…She kissed me back.”

Amina let out a long, delighted, big sister squeal so sharp Idris winced.

“OH MY GOD. We’ve got movement on the monarchy front. I need wine—hold on.”

She disappeared for five seconds, came back with a half-open bottle, and didn’t even bother with a glass.

“So tell me everything before the palace PR team puts your ass in a chokehold. Did she cry? Did she melt into your arms? Was there tongue? Be graphic.”

“Amina.”

“Did she—please tell me she had you by the collar or something. You love that shit.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, muttering, “I can’t believe I called you.”

“I can. Because you're down bad. And you needed to say it out loud so you could admit it.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Just leaned back, staring at the ceiling with the weight of it finally setting in.

He didn’t feel panic. Didn’t feel regret.

He felt… light. Like something had cracked open in his ribcage and let in air for the first time in years.

“She looked at me like I was just Idris,” he said finally. Quietly.

Amina sobered. Just a little.

“That’s rare. And powerful. Don’t waste it.”

He nodded slowly.

“She’s allergic to half the produce section and still laughed through watermelon juice like she trusted me to keep her safe.”

“So do it,” Amina said, voice soft but fierce. “Don’t let the press or protocol or fear of feeling shit make you fumble this. If you want her, show up. You’re the King. But more importantly—you’re you.”

He looked down at his phone screen, her face blurry now through the burn of emotion in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I want her.”

Chapter Forty-Six: “Fit for a Queen?”

The cutlery clinked softly against fine china. The early morning sun spilled across the long mahogany table in the royal breakfast room, catching on polished silver and the dark, thoughtful eyes of the King of the United Kingdom.

Idris was mid-sip of his Earl Grey, legs crossed, eyes narrowed slightly at the dossier in front of him. He’d been trying to read the damn thing for the past five minutes. Trying being the key word. His mind was a goddamn carousel of curls, lips, and the way she’d whispered “I’m okay, old man” while pressing his hand to her chest.

And then—

Click. The door opened.

“Announcing Dr. Calypso Corrine Covington, Your Majesty.”

The King choked.

Like full-on, wrong-pipe, what-the-bloody-hell choked. A very royal cough hacked its way out of his chest, causing the royal scribe to flinch and the footman to freeze mid-orange juice pour.

Because there she was.

She looked like Buckingham Palace had swallowed her whole and spit her out... expensive.

Her curls were done in the signature soft twist-back the palace hairdressers reserved for royal day events. Her makeup was a masterclass in “no makeup,” but he could spot the sculpting, the Chanel highlight, the royal-approved nude gloss. And the outfit?

Oh, the outfit.

A crisp ivory blouse tucked into a tailored navy midi skirt with gold embroidery—gold, as in his house’s accent color. Kitten heels. Diamond studs. A delicate bracelet.

The code. The Palace’s very specific, very subtle, very strategic royal code.

And Calypso Corrine Covington was wrapped in it like she’d been born into the monarchy, not bullied into a fitting.

She looked—stunning. Confident. Furious.

And also very, very confused.

Because the moment she was nudged forward by a stiff-lipped lady-in-waiting, Calypso, our genius girlboss queen in Chanel, panicked.

Her brows furrowed, she turned awkwardly toward him, and then—god help them all—she tried to curtsy.

She stumbled.

The lady-in-waiting cleared her throat sharply like she’d been preparing that noise since the Queen Mum’s reign.

“Good morning, old—”

A blink.

The woman next to her physically elbowed her with practiced force.

Calypso groaned under her breath, eyes rolling so hard Idris swore he saw white.

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” she said at last. Tight smile. Voice dripping with sarcasm-laced honey.

Idris just blinked. Still flummoxed. Still stuck somewhere between amused, aroused, and this is the woman I’m going to marry, isn’t it?

He gestured to the chair beside him with a raised brow.

“Doctor Covington. Would you care for breakfast? Or should I have my guards escort you to the gallows for improper royal address?”

She exhaled through her nose, her lips twitching at the edges.

“Depends. Will the gallows serve tea and toast?”

He smiled. It was a problem.

As she sat beside him, shifting delicately like she hadn’t fought off anaphylaxis and international press in the same week, he leaned toward her ever so slightly.

“You look—”

“Like a Buckingham hostage?” she muttered under her breath.

He chuckled.

“Like a woman who knows how to make a kingdom sweat.”

She turned to look at him, gaze sharp, then softened. Her voice was lower now.

“Just so you know, I asked for plain toast and a pass on the royal dress code. They gave me this.” She gestured vaguely to the outfit.

“You wear it better than most born into it.”

She arched a brow. “Is that a compliment or a warning?”

“Yes.”

They stared at each other for a beat too long.

Until one of the guards in the corner cleared his throat a bit too loudly and the footman asked if she’d like her tea “the usual way.”

Calypso’s head turned sharply. “How the hell do you know how I take my tea?”

The man stammered. Idris just sipped his own and smirked.

“You’ve made quite the impression, Doctor Covington.”

Calypso rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smile tugging at her mouth.

Chapter Forty-Seven: "Camden’s Got Hands (and Heels)"

The grand reception hall of Buckingham Palace was, quite frankly, a weapon in itself—arched ceilings that made grown men whisper, polished floors that echoed judgement, and walls draped in so much brocade it made Versailles look minimalist.

Calypso stood near the edge of the private diplomatic circle, a glass of sparkling water in hand, posture polite but her eyes slightly glazed. She’d survived breakfast with the king. Barely. She was still mentally tallying the odds of making it out of this whole ‘soft launch into royalty’ without throwing hands or heels.

Then he spoke.

The foreign diplomat.

Tall, smug, with the kind of accent that dripped colonialism and condescension. He leaned in too casually as he said to a colleague:

“Well, if the King continues entangling himself with civilian types—especially the, ah, emotionally volatile ones—then perhaps the integrity of the Crown’s influence abroad is more... fragile than expected.”

Record scratch.

One hand on her hip, the other still holding her drink, Calypso’s head snapped in his direction so fast even the portraits blinked.

The crowd’s polite hum stuttered. The woman from Camden had entered the chat.

“Oi! Bruv, watch it,” she barked, voice sharp and unbothered as she marched one step closer, dark eyes blazing. “Put some respect on your King!”

Idris—who was mid-conversation with a minister—visibly perked up. Like he felt her go full Camden through the diplomatic airwaves.

Calypso’s hand had already started to dip toward the strap of her heel—the weapon of choice for London girls who’ve seen too much and don’t miss.

“I got a heel and a doctorate,” she muttered. “We can throw hands or hospital bills—pick your poison—”

Before the threat could finish breathing air, a sharp hand wrapped around her wrist. Lady Danvers, the senior lady-in-waiting, her face a mask of royal restraint, whispered out the side of her mouth without even looking at her:

“Do. Not. Start an international incident before the appetizers, Doctor Covington.”

Calypso clicked her tongue, hard, like a warning shot.

“He’s lucky I’m not petty today.”

The lady-in-waiting arched one brow while still subtly smoothing the creases in Calypso’s blouse and re-adjusting her necklace, muttering like a tired teacher at recess:

“You’re wearing royal code, which means you represent the King today, not Camden. So unless you want MI6 in your inbox, fix your face.”

Calypso let out a slow exhale, rolled her shoulders, and folded her arms across her chest. Her eyes never left the smug bastard across the room. The threat still simmered in her stance, but she’d pulled back from the brink. Barely.

Idris, meanwhile, had caught every second.

He took one long sip of his drink to hide the smirk spreading across his face. That was his witch. Ready to ride for the crown and throw down with a heel to the jugular if necessary.

Later, when they’d regroup by the terrace, Idris would lean in and whisper low:

“Camden nearly declared war on Croatia today.”

And she’d hum, unbothered, while checking her nails:

“Don’t blame me. Blame the croissant with a colonizer accent. And next time, brief your allies.”

Chapter Forty-Eight: “His Witch, His Problem”

Idris leaned against the terrace rail of Buckingham Palace, the chill of the early evening barely grazing him thanks to the heat still simmering in his chest. Not from the weather—God no—but from her.

Calypso Covington.

He could still hear her sharp Camden bite echoing through the polished halls like a war cry. The stunned silence. The horrified gasp from some earl. The way she’d almost snatched her heel off. And the way she’d folded her arms like a queen who didn’t give a single diplomatic fuck.

And she’d done it… for him.

He smoothed his thumb over the rim of his glass, something like pride curling through his ribs. But it wasn’t just pride. It was that gut-deep knowing—that woman is mine in every timeline.

He wasn’t used to being defended. Not like that. Not raw. Not loud. Not from the middle of a marble floor with a hundred cameras hiding behind crystal centerpieces. He was a king—people protected his name from behind desks, in closed rooms, with tailored strategies.

But Calypso?

She protected it with pure instinct and the potential threat of assault via Louboutin.

“His witch, his problem,” Idris murmured to himself, a small smirk curling his lips as he sipped his scotch.

He could still see her out of the corner of his mind—cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling as she tried to calm down, lips still twitching like she was daring someone else to test her. She hadn’t even looked at him when she’d snapped at that diplomat—her loyalty wasn’t for performance.

It was embedded.

And that scared the shit out of him.

Because the more he watched her slip into this world—heels and all—the more he knew: this wasn’t just about wanting her anymore.

This was becoming need.

She wasn’t some flirty fling or a headline distraction. She was the kind of storm that planted roots. The kind of fire that could ruin a man or reignite him. And if anyone tried to touch her again—physically, verbally, or with goddamn kiwi—he knew he wouldn’t hesitate. He would burn a country down to keep her breathing.

As the sun dipped lower, golden light catching the edge of his crown where it sat on the table beside him, one of the junior guards nervously approached.

“Sire… The foreign delegation would like to speak regarding Doctor Covington’s… uh… spirited remarks.”

Idris didn’t flinch.

“Tell them the King stands behind her.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. And… what if they request an apology?”

He turned slowly. Voice cool, eyes sharp as glass.

“Then they’ll be waiting a long goddamn time.”

The guard nodded and backed out, careful not to make eye contact too long.

Idris stood alone again, the weight of his position stretching around him like velvet and iron.

Only one person made that weight feel lighter.

And she was inside, probably sitting stiff in some antique chair that didn’t match her vibe at all, probably texting Lydia something unholy about the diplomat and the damn croissant.

He chuckled to himself, tucking a hand into his pocket—

—and there it was. That damn Party City crown pin. Still clipped to the inside fabric of his jacket. He hadn’t taken it off since she gave it to him.

“His witch,” he muttered again, eyes glinting.

“And God help anyone who forgets it.”

Chapter Forty-Nine: “Know Your Place”

The Palace walls had heard whispers, scandals, secrets—things that belonged in the shadows and never in daylight.

But this?

This was different.

The tension was thick—not the usual political hush of linen napkins and guarded smiles. No, the air was electric, laced with venom, and at the center of it was Calypso Covington, in her Nike shorts and an oversized Oxford hoodie, calmly sipping chamomile tea in a fucking crystal teacup like the chaos around her was background noise.

Until he came stomping in.

The diplomat.

Heated. Red-faced. Embarrassed. Emasculated. And most of all—furious.

His voice thundered through the side chamber like a whip crack.

“You think you can just speak out of turn in a royal court?! Know your place!”

Calypso barely looked up from her phone—still texting Lydia something about how the jam tasted like glue and capitalism—when she felt the iron grip yank her wrist. So hard and so sudden her phone slipped from her hand, clattering across the palace tile and shattering like it had been waiting to fall apart since the Manchester match.

She blinked once.

Twice.

There it was again—that immediate instinct. Her entire body thrummed with the echo of old trauma, of fight or flight.Lottie and Luck weren’t here. But the fire in her belly was.

Her hand twitched, twitching so damn bad because she wanted to swing.

God, she wanted to drop him.

The woman at the edge of the room—Lady Elise, the senior lady-in-waiting—was watching closely, and Calypso knewher expression. It said: go ahead, lose it. Give them the angry Black woman stereotype they’re all waiting for.

So instead?

She breathed.

Tight. Measured. Controlled.

Then slowly, with elegance that was somehow more lethal than violence, she pried his hand off her wrist. Red welts already blooming where his fingers had been.

Her voice was ice wrapped in velvet.

“I’m sorry your ego is fragile, sir,” she said, each word dipped in honeyed disdain, “but I won’t apologize for defending my King. Or the Crown.”

Her eyes met his like a challenge. She didn’t flinch. He did.

“Good day.”

And with that, she crouched with her long limbs and picked up the remains of her shattered phone, slipping it into the front pocket of her hoodie like it didn’t hold all the notes and contacts and sweet messages from the King himself.

She didn’t spare the diplomat another glance.

Didn’t need to.

She walked toward Lady Elise like a woman made of stormclouds and precision. Silent. Sharp. Dangerous.

As she passed, Elise gently reached for her elbow, but Calypso shrugged it off and kept moving.

“Doctor Covington…” Elise said softly, almost apologetic.

Calypso finally stopped.

Looked up.

Smiled—tight-lipped, regal in its own way.

“Where’s the nearest exit, Lady Elise? I believe I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

But just as the words left her lips—

A door slammed open behind them.

And there he was.

The King.

His eyes locked on her wrist.

Then the diplomat.

Then the shattered phone on the floor.

And Idris… went still.

The kind of still that came before storms.

Chapter Fifty: “The King Is Speaking” Idris’s POV

There was a silence in the chamber that didn’t belong. The kind that came before something sacred broke. And Idris Elba—His Royal Majesty, protector of the realm, constitutional monarch, and dangerously calm Black man from Hackney—was standing dead center in it.

His eyes tracked everything.

Calypso’s wrist. Red.

Her phone. Shattered.

Her back. Straight like steel.

The diplomat? Already dead in the water—just hadn’t figured it out yet.

Idris didn’t blink as he stepped fully into the room. His voice, when it came, wasn’t raised. Didn’t need to be. It sliced through the chamber like a blade drawn slow from a sheath.

“Did you put your hands on her?”

The diplomat—some puffed-up suit from a minor European nation that rarely made headlines—blinked like he’d been slapped already.

“Your Majesty, I was merely reacting to a—"

“I didn’t ask for excuses. I asked a question.” The air dropped ten degrees. “Did. You. Put. Your. Hands. On. Her.”

The man faltered.

“I... may have—”

“You did.”

And just like that, Idris took a step forward.

He could feel the guards on alert behind him. The advisors frozen. Even Elise flinched like she wasn’t used to this version of him.

But Calypso?

She hadn’t turned around once.

And that somehow made it worse.

“Let me make something very clear to everyone in this room,” he said, gaze sweeping across the entire council as if he dared anyone else to even breathe wrong.

“Doctor Calypso Covington is a citizen of this country. A respected scholar. And a woman under the protection of the Crown. Which means—by extension—under mine.”

He walked closer to the man now, voice quieting to something deadly.

“You’re not just going to apologize. You’re going to kneel. And pray that’s the only retribution you face before I have you escorted out of this palace and banned from every royal engagement for the rest of your career.”

The man’s mouth opened to protest—again.

And that’s when Idris’s tone went from cool to glacial.

“The King is speaking.”

It rang louder than any shout.

And the man, pale and suddenly two inches shorter in demeanor, stumbled forward—eyes wide—until his knees hit the ground.

Calypso still hadn’t turned.

She was at the door now, shoulders squared like she didn’t dare let anyone see how tight she was holding it all in.

“Doctor Covington,” Idris called after her.

She stopped.

Didn’t face him.

But her wrist—it was still red. He couldn’t stop looking at it.

“Please wait for me in the West Drawing Room. I’ll be there shortly.”

And without another word, she walked out.

He stared after her.

Then turned back to the man still trembling at his feet.

“You’ll send a written apology,” he said coldly, “and you’ll do so before you leave this building. If I don’t have it within the hour, I’ll have you escorted out through the service gate.”

“But Your Majesty—”

“I don’t care.”

He turned on his heel, the train of his black tailored coat slicing like the snap of a whip, and made his way toward the drawing room without once looking back.

Because Calypso needed him.

And for once?

He didn’t care who the hell saw it.

Chapter Fifty-One: “I Didn’t Want to Ruin You” West Drawing Room — Buckingham Palace

She didn’t hear the door open.

Didn’t hear his footfalls on the polished floors. Didn’t register the way the heavy velvet curtain shifted as he stepped inside, shutting the world out behind him.

All Calypso heard was her own breath.

And the voice in her head on loop.

“Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry, you soft idiot.”

She paced the same six steps over and over, biting her nail, fingers twitching at the shredded edge of her ruined phone in her other hand. Her eyes burned. Her wrist ached. Her pride felt like it had been cracked right down the middle.

She had stood in the lion’s den and walked out quiet.

Because that lady—the sharp-eyed handler who always looked like she’d sooner swallow a lemon than let her wear trainers—was watching.

Because he was in the room.

And she hadn’t wanted to make a scene.

She hadn’t wanted to ruin him.

But the second she felt him behind her—the scent of Armani cologne and scotch and something wholly Idris—it all collapsed.

“Hey,” he said gently.

She turned—eyes glossy, mouth pressed tight—and the tears slipped out anyway.

One. Two.

He caught the third.

Fingers—warm, steady, so painfully gentle—brushed beneath her eye as he stepped closer, towering but tender.

“Don’t do that, Calypso.”

She tried to smile, but it crumbled too.

“You’re crying,” he said softly, and that—that—made his jaw clench. His thumb brushed another tear and lingered against her cheek. “Who the hell does that man think he is touching you? Putting fear in your face?”

She shook her head, voice trembling.

“I wanted to hit him. I did, Fox.” She looked down, slowly handing him the mangled shell of her phone. “But that lady, the one who’s been carting me around in tweed and heels like a Barbie diplomat, she was watching. And I—" her breath hitched, "I didn’t want to disappoint you. Or ruin your image. But I think I may have messed it up anyway.”

His hand gripped her wrist gently, angling it toward the light. She winced. He hissed under his breath.

His eyes—always brown, always rich and warm—were dark now. Storming. He looked up at her, like her pain had ignited something brutal in his chest.

“You didn’t ruin a damn thing, Calypso.”

She blinked at him.

“You defended me,” he said, quieter now, as if he was speaking it into the space where her heart was still racing. “You stood in front of wolves for me. If anything, you reminded every bastard in that room why the Crown still means something.”

Her breath caught.

His hand—still wrapped around her wrist, softer now—moved to her fingers. Slid between them like he belonged there.

“You didn’t mess it up. You saved me from it.”

She made a strangled little sound, laughing and crying at once.

“I think I need a new phone,” she whispered weakly.

“You’re getting ten,” he replied without missing a beat. “And an apology letter from that sorry excuse for a diplomat, or I’ll see to it he ends up somewhere remote and frigid where the sheep outnumber humans.”

She snorted, wiping her cheek, and shook her head.

“That sounds a little colonial, don’t you think?”

He smirked.

“I’m not perfect, Witch. But I do like the idea of him dodging sheep shit for a decade.”

That finally got a real laugh from her.

And for a moment, it was just the two of them. Her tears drying. His hand in hers.

The King and his brilliant, bruised Doctor. Soft. Stubborn. And silently saving each other.

Chapter Fifty-Two: The Fallout Storm

Calypso’s voice was barely a whisper, muffled against the broad expanse of his chest.

“Is drawn and quartered still an option?”

She curled into him like a secret, arms wrapping tight around his waist, her head resting on the sharp line of his collarbone.

The submission in her posture wasn’t weakness — it was raw, real. It tugged at something deep inside him, something fierce and protective, something that had nothing to do with crowns or kingdoms.

He held her closer.

“Not on my watch,” he murmured, voice low and steady like a promise.

Her breath hitched, the tension in her shoulders melting as if the walls of the palace itself softened just for this moment.

But outside their sanctuary? The world was a different beast.

By the time Calypso sat down in her office at Oxford, the room buzzing with the faint hum of her computer, she couldn’t ignore it anymore.

Her phone buzzed relentlessly.

Texts, notifications, news alerts…

The footage of the diplomatic incident had exploded across social media and news channels worldwide.

The camera caught the moment—the yank, the fall of her phone, the sharp words. Her voice—raw and real—had gone viral.

“KING’S MYSTERY DATE FIRES BACK AT DIPLOMAT!”

“WITCH DOCTOR OR QUEEN OF SAVAGE? CALYPSO’S SHADY ROYAL DEFENSE!”

The headlines screamed in neon fury.

Her inbox flooded with messages—from support to criticism, from questions to outright speculation.

The world was watching.

She glanced up from the screen to the knock on the door.

Idris stepped in quietly, closing it behind him.

She didn’t look up, voice flat but tired.

“So, the kingdom’s newest scandal?”

He stepped closer, placing a hand on her desk.

“More like the kingdom’s newest hero,” he said softly.

Calypso finally met his eyes—equal parts exhausted and fierce.

“Tell that to the tabloids. I’m just a woman who lost her temper.”

He smiled, the kind of smile that made the palace feel less like a cage.

“And I’m the man lucky enough to stand by her side.”

She laughed softly.

“Looks like the crown’s got a little more fire than it expected.”

He pulled out his phone, opening a text.

“I just told Lydia to bring popcorn.”

They shared a grin.

Outside, the world could keep watching.

Inside, their story was only just beginning.

Chapter Fifty-Three: Unexpected Royal Visits

Three weeks had slipped by since Idris last saw Calypso. Not because she was dodging him—nah, it was just the universe playing its usual game. He’d been overseas with the troops, doing kingly stuff, while she held down the lab like a boss, grinding through research and dodging every paparazzi attack like a pro.

So when she clocked an unfamiliar woman lingering in the lobby of her lab, her brow furrowed hard.

Calypso straightened up, voice cool but polite:

“I’m sorry, did you need help finding something? This is just labs here.”

The woman stepped forward, her posture regal but easy, eyes sharp like she was sizing Calypso up — a queen sizing another queen.

“Dr. Covington, I presume. I’m Amina. Idris’s sister.”

Calypso blinked, caught off guard. This wasn’t a usual client or some random visitor—this was royalty in the flesh, standing right there in her world.

“Right,” Calypso said, voice steady but with a hint of ‘okayyyy then’. “What brings the royal family to my lab?”

Amina gave a slow smile, like she’d been waiting for this moment.

“He talks about you all the time. Said you’re fierce, and that you’ve got his back like no one else ever has.”

Calypso’s eyes softened, the guard coming down just a bit.

“Well, I don’t do things halfway.”

Amina’s smile grew, a mix of respect and something warmer, sisterly.

“Good. Because you’ll need that fire. The kingdom’s watching, and so is my brother.”

Calypso raised a brow, and Amina’s gaze turned almost playful.

“Welcome to the family business.”

Chapter Fifty-Four: Lunch with Royalty

The moment Amina swept into Calypso’s lab lobby, the cameras swarmed. Flashbulbs popped like fireworks as royal guards formed an unbreakable barrier around the two women, who walked out side by side with a vibe that screamed “don’t mess with us.”

But behind the scenes? Nothing like the stiff, staged images the paps tried to sell.

Sliding into a shadowy corner booth at a chic, tucked-away spot—favored by London’s low-key elite—Amina tossed her handbag on the table and flashed a grin at Calypso.

“Did you catch that Manchester game last weekend? Absolute madness,” she said, eyes sparkling over the rim of her fruity cocktail.

Calypso smirked, already feeling the walls she’d built around royal nonsense begin to crack. “You bet. I was in the crowd — shouting louder than anyone. Those lads brought serious heat.”

Amina laughed, clinking her glass gently against Calypso’s. “I like that fire. You don’t come off like the usual palace type.”

“Yeah, well. I’m not your usual anything,” Calypso shot back, eyes glinting. “I’m the reason some royal guards are rethinking their career choices.”

At that moment, one of the guards, who had been quietly hovering nearby, cleared his throat and gave a respectful nod toward Calypso.

Amina caught it, raising an eyebrow with a smile. “See? Even the boys in black know who’s boss.”

The guard tipped his chin in a tiny salute and stepped back, as if to say, Don’t worry, ma’am. We got you.

Amina’s gaze softened just a little as she studied Calypso more closely over the table. The way she held herself, the effortless mix of command and ease—it was obvious this woman wasn’t just a temporary chapter in the royal story.

She was a whole damn book.

“So,” Amina said, lowering her voice like they were sharing a secret, “What’s it like, being the one everyone’s watching? Must be exhausting.”

Calypso shrugged, a playful glint flashing in her eyes. “Exhausting? Sure. But I’m used to fighting battles, on and off the clock.”

“Sounds familiar,” Amina chuckled, then leaned in with a sly smile. “You know, a woman like you… you’d make a damn fine addition to the family.”

Calypso blinked, caught off guard for a split second, but masked it with a raised brow. “Is that a royal proposal, Your Highness?”

Amina laughed, tossing back another sip of her cocktail. “Maybe. Or maybe I just want to make sure you don’t eat my brother alive.”

They both laughed, the tension melting away like ice in their drinks.

As they talked, the guards nearby exchanged glances, clearly impressed by Calypso’s blend of intellect, grit, and no-nonsense attitude. The usual cold formality had softened; this was respect earned.

The rest of the lunch blurred into easy conversation — football, family drama, the weirdness of paparazzi chasing two women who looked like they just owned the damn city.

And somewhere between the laughs and chips, a new alliance was quietly born.

Chapter Fifty-Five: Viral Vibes and Real Life Moments

The second the photos hit the socials, it was chaos — in the best way. Tweets exploded, Insta stories blew up, and every tabloid’s homepage was flashing the iconic image: Calypso laughing her head off, arms linked with Amina, both radiating pure, unapologetic joy.

Video clips showed them sharing fries, joking with Lydia, and even playfully debating who crushed the putt-putt course (Calypso, obviously).

Overseas, Idris was scrolling through his phone during a quiet moment at a military base visit when a sharp grin spread across his face. “Well, well, look at that,” he muttered, eyes lighting up at the viral frenzy.

He watched the clips of the trio at the theatre, Lydia handing Calypso popcorn as they leaned into the stage lights. The shots at restaurants—three glasses of wine, two plates of half-eaten food, laughter that felt like the soundtrack of late nights nobody else was invited to.

Idris’s pride swelled. It wasn’t just the public image—it was them. Genuine, untouchable, human.

Back in London, Calypso, Amina, and Lydia rolled through the week like a tight-knit crew.

There was the late-night debate over whether Shakespeare was overrated (spoiler: Lydia said no, Amina and Calypso disagreed fiercely).

The impromptu dance-off in a cramped living room, Lydia’s loud laughter echoing down the hallway as Calypso busted moves nobody thought she had.

The quiet mornings with greasy breakfasts, warm coffee, and the kind of conversations that started deep and ended in inside jokes.

They weren’t just royalty and a biochemical genius. They were friends.

And that made every snap and headline just the background noise to something way bigger.

Chapter Fifty-Six: Unshakable Trio

The flashbulbs popped off like fireworks outside the theatre, reporters shouting names, cameras zooming in on every laugh, every glance. The streets were packed, but the energy inside was chill, electric in the best way.

Calypso, Amina, and Lydia linked arms as they exited, moving like a fortress of friendship. Paparazzi tried to snag a scandalous moment, but the three of them just smiled—too busy vibing to be phased.

“Really? You want a drama? Sorry, ain’t got time for that,” Calypso smirked, flicking a glance at the cameras like she was swatting flies.

Princess Amina, ever the regal but effortlessly cool, leaned in and whispered, “If they wanted a show, they got it. But the real performance? That’s us.”

Lydia laughed, swinging her bag with a casual flair. “Yeah, try and keep up.”

The trio moved through the crowd, unbothered and untouchable.

Once inside the sleek black SUV waiting for them, Calypso pulled out her phone, fingers flying across the screen. “Alright, what’s the vibe tonight? Jazz club? Late dinner? Or we just take over the city?”

Amina grinned, voice low and teasing, “Why not all three? We have the king distracted overseas for a bit. Time to make some memories.”

Lydia chimed in, “I call shotgun for the jazz club. You two can argue over who’s buying the next round.”

Calypso tossed a playful glare at her. “Please, I’m making you both pay. And I’m picking the playlist.”

Amina rested her hand lightly on Calypso’s arm, a silent promise of loyalty. “Tonight, we own it. No more hiding in shadows. The world knows—you’re not just his anymore. You’re ours.”

Calypso’s smile deepened, a spark lighting behind those deep, brilliant eyes. “Let’s show them how it’s done.”

As the SUV pulled away, the city lights blinked alive, ready to witness a trio no one could forget.

Chapter Fifty-Seven: Homecomings & Teasing

The royal jet touched down at Buckingham, wheels hitting the tarmac with a solid thud. Idris stepped off, the weight of the past month’s travels heavy on his shoulders—but nothing compared to the ache of being away from Calypso.

He strutted through the halls, feeling the familiar hum of the palace wrap around him like an old coat. Then—there she was. His sister, Princess Amina, lounging casually by the grand staircase with that wicked smile plastered on her face.

“Look who’s back,” she drawled, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Idris raised an eyebrow, his exhaustion flickering into amusement. “What? No royal welcome committee?”

Amina chuckled, crossing her arms, her voice teasing, “I figured you’d be too busy imagining her face to notice the pomp and circumstance. Tell me, big brother, you didn’t expect her to be here waiting, did you?”

Idris smirked, a slow grin spreading. “Maybe I hoped. Maybe I feared she’d steal my throne while I was gone.”

Amina stepped closer, eyes narrowing playfully. “Oh, she’s not stealing your throne, silly. She’s just making sure you don’t get too comfortable ruling without a queen by your side.”

He shook his head, mock exasperated but secretly thrilled. “You’re impossible.”

“Only for you,” she winked, giving him a quick side hug before turning on her heel, her laughter echoing in the grand hall.

Idris stood there a moment, heart thumping with something beyond duty—something fierce, something… home.

Chapter Fifty-Eight: The Run-In (Revamped & Extended)

Calypso pulled her Maserati into the university staff lot, the usual calm of the morning shattered by a swarm of flashing cameras and buzzing phones. The media had caught wind—again—and this time they were waiting. Students, staff, even some random onlookers whipped out their phones, capturing every move she made.

Her pulse quickened as she stepped out, the familiar weight of Chanel sunglasses shielding her eyes, but she couldn’t hide. The flashing lights, the whispers, the relentless attention—it was all overwhelming.

Then, cutting through the chaos, she heard it. His voice. Clear, deep, unmistakable.

“Calypso.”

She froze. That single word hit her like a shot to the chest. Her head snapped up, eyes searching, heart thudding harder. Without thinking—without any self-control—she took off running in her heels, adrenaline pushing her forward.

Her breath came fast, heels clicking sharp on the pavement as she navigated through the crowd. She didn’t care about the stares or the phones recording everything. She only cared about the arms waiting for her.

And then—crash. She was in them. Wrapped tight.

Her arms instantly went around his neck, her legs instinctively locking around his waist as she buried her face against his neck, soaking in the solid, steady beat of him.

He was stunned for a beat—surprised by the sudden, raw intimacy—but then his hands found her back, strong and sure, pulling her closer, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

“Calypso,” he breathed against her skin, voice thick with emotion.

She shivered, voice muffled against him. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

His fingers stroked her curls, his touch grounding her storm of feelings. “I missed you. Every day.”

Her eyes glistened with tears she wasn’t ready to shed yet. “Me too.”

Around them, the crowd buzzed louder—clicking cameras, gasps, whispers—but the world shrank until only the two of them existed in this bubble of heat and honesty.

A royal guard gently cleared his throat, a reminder of the world waiting beyond this stolen moment.

With a reluctant sigh, Idris set her down, hands lingering on her jaw as he looked into her eyes. “Let’s get inside before the whole university knows you ran to me.”

She smirked, brushing a stray curl from her face. “Let ‘em know.”

The flashbulbs popped like fireworks as they walked through the crowd, hand in hand, unbothered and unashamed.

Later, in Buckingham, the king stared down at the viral clips of her sprinting in heels and jumping into his arms—the world’s latest obsession.

He shook his head, smiling with that mix of pride and mischief. “Only you would make an entrance like that.”

Calypso leaned into him, her voice low. “Only you would make me feel like I can.”

Chapter Sixty: The Press Conference That Broke the Internet

The grand hall was packed — a sea of cameras, microphones, and eager faces hungry for a royal statement. The air was thick with anticipation; the press handlers exchanged quick, nervous glances. They expected the usual polished, rehearsed words. They did not expect her.

Calypso Corrine Covington stepped up to the podium, looking effortless in a sleek blazer and her signature silk scarf draped casually around her neck. Her eyes flicked over the crowd — reporters, photographers, even a few royals lurking on the edges. She pulled down her Chanel sunglasses with a casual flick, eyes sharp as daggers.

The room quieted, awaiting her words.

The lead reporter fired the first question, “Ms. Covington, your embrace with His Majesty King Idris Elba outside Oxford yesterday was... let’s say, highly unorthodox. Care to explain?”

Calypso’s lips quirked into a small smile, the kind that said she was about to drop some serious truth bombs.

“You’d run to your loved one’s arms too if you’d been away from them for a month,” she said plainly, voice steady, no trace of hesitation.

A collective gasp fluttered through the crowd. Cameras snapped furiously. Phones buzzed — live streams catching every word.

A second reporter jumped in, “But Ms. Covington, do you realize the implications of such a public display, especially for someone of your status?”

She leaned forward, voice low but fierce. “I’m still Dr. Calypso Corrine Covington. The same woman who cures cancer, who lectures at Oxford, who owns her own damn building in London. None of that changes just because I happen to care about a king. The rest? That’s just icing on the cake.”

Whispers and shocked expressions rippled through the room. Some reporters looked scandalized; others clearly impressed.

Then a third reporter, trying to poke the beast, asked, “How do you respond to critics who say you’re overstepping your bounds, that you should ‘know your place’?”

Calypso’s eyes flashed. “Honey, I’ve got places I’m going, and they don’t include knowing anyone else’s limits but my own. Besides...” She glanced pointedly toward the back where the royal aides stood, stiff as statues. “If standing up for my king means breaking a few outdated rules, consider me happily rebellious.”

By now, phones were exploding with quotes, clips, and hashtags. The phrase “know your place” was trending within minutes — but her phrase, “the rest? That’s just icing on the cake,” was getting its own viral wave.

Backstage, Idris watched the live feed on a tablet, eyes narrowing with a mixture of awe and amusement. Then he caught it — the look in her eyes when she said “my king,” the way her words wrapped around his title but didn’t drown her own identity. And the nickname — “honey.” A sly, affectionate jab that only he would fully get.

He smirked, shaking his head. “Old man, huh?” he muttered to himself, a soft chuckle escaping.

Just then, his phone buzzed with a message from Calypso — “Careful, Your Majesty. Some may take my words as a favor. xx Witch.”

Idris leaned back in his chair, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Witch”, he mused. Definitely not the nickname I expected. But hell, I’m here for it.

The press conference ended, but the ripples from Calypso’s words were just beginning. Tweets flooded in: #WitchByTheKing, #KnowYourPlaceNoMore, #CalypsoUnfiltered. Opinion pieces debated her boldness. Memes popped up of her dropping the mic. And everywhere, people admired her unapologetic fire.

For Idris, the moment was more than public spectacle — it was a revelation. She wasn’t just the woman beside the throne; she was a force rewriting the entire damn playbook.

Chapter Sixty-One: King on the Hot Seat

The press room was tighter than a packed club on a Saturday night, flashbulbs exploding as King Idris Elba stepped up to the podium at Buckingham Palace. The weight of the crown was heavy, but his jaw was set, eyes sharp like a hawk’s.

The media circus had spun into a full-on frenzy after Calypso’s “I’d run to your arms” moment went viral. Now, he had to say something.

He cleared his throat, voice calm but firm. “Good afternoon. I’m aware the past few days have brought a lot of questions—some expected, some not so much.”

A reporter wasted zero time, firing off the first jab. “Your Majesty, can you confirm the nature of your relationship with Dr. Calypso Covington? Is she... a new mistress?”

The room buzzed with murmurs, the question hanging in the air like a loaded gun.

Idris didn’t flinch. Instead, a slow smile curved his lips — equal parts amused and exasperated. “Dr. Covington is not my mistress. She is a woman of incredible intellect, resilience, and spirit. More importantly, she is my friend.”

Another reporter piped up, voice dripping with insinuation, “Your sister, Princess Amina, seems particularly close to Dr. Covington. Is there talk of something... more formal? A baby mama perhaps, explaining the royal attention?”

Idris’s eyes narrowed, the smile fading. “My sister’s relationship with Dr. Covington is based on mutual respect and genuine friendship. As for rumors of ‘baby mamas,’ I suggest we keep those in the tabloids where they belong.”

The crowd chuckled nervously, sensing the line he wouldn’t cross.

A third reporter pressed, “Your Majesty, given Dr. Covington’s public remarks, some question whether this is a PR stunt or a genuine connection. Care to comment?”

Idris locked eyes with the cameras, voice dropping to a serious tone. “When a woman tells the world she’d run to her loved one’s arms after a month apart, it’s not a PR stunt. It’s real. That is all I will say.”

The room erupted in clicks and shouts, but Idris lifted a hand, commanding silence.

“One last thing,” he said, voice resolute. “Dr. Covington is her own woman — a brilliant doctor, a fierce protector of those she loves, and someone who challenges me every day. If that makes her unconventional by royal standards, so be it.”

He turned, the moment over, but the effect rippled far beyond Buckingham’s walls.

Back in his private chambers, Idris exhaled deeply. The questions were invasive, the assumptions tired — but he was done playing the game by old rules.

His phone buzzed — a message from Calypso: “Old man, you did good. I’m proud.”

He grinned, typing back: “Your witch is definitely rewriting history.”

Chapter Sixty-Two: Bonnet and the King

Not long after Idris’s royal press flex, Calypso’s phone buzzed with a simple message: “Come over. Now.”

He barely hesitated.

Within the hour, there he was, standing at her doorstep like a man who’d just warped through space and time.

Calypso opened the door, one eyebrow arched high like she was half amused, half teasing. She was rocking a soft, worn sleep shirt that barely grazed her upper thighs, and—of course—her signature satin bonnet, slightly askew like she’d just rolled out of bed but somehow still looked effortlessly flawless.

“Did you teleport here, Your Highness?” she quipped, voice low, teasing.

Idris flashed that devilish grin, stepping inside, eyes sparkling with something between awe and mischief. “If I did, would you mind?”

Calypso leaned casually against the doorframe, crossing those bare legs, watching him with an amused smirk. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous tonight. Usually, it takes at least a 24-hour notice.”

He chuckled, closing the door behind him. “Guess I’m better than usual.”

She shook her head, voice softening just a touch. “Don’t get used to it, Old Man. Royal teleportation is a rare skill.”

Idris reached out, brushing a loose curl from her face. “Lucky me.”

The air was thick with a warm, easy tension, like the world outside could wait—and for once, the King was just a man, standing in the glow of Calypso’s quiet kingdom.

#idris elba x black oc #idris elba fanfic #romance #x black oc #mature fic

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tutorsindia152 · 1 month ago

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Dissertation Draft 02

Fusion of Art and Technology: The Evolution of South Asia’s First Immersive and Interactive Digital Art Space at Colombo Lotus Tower.

By Sasindi Rathnapala

A Dissertation

Submitted to Northumbria University

In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements

For the Degree of Motion Graphics and Animation

May 2025

Abstract

Pixel Bloom is South Asia's very first immersive and interactive installation of digital art located in Colombo Lotus Tower. What sets this premise apart is how it combines art with technology in order to deliver unforgettable and really cool cultural experiences. Developed by a diverse team, the installation employs techniques such as projection mapping, motion sensors, and augmented reality to reimagine traditional Sri Lankan cultural symbols. It offers visitors an interactive experience that blends together history and the new, and also is great for teaching stuff through STEAM. Audience engagement is fostered through visually captivating narratives and interactive displays that inspire creativity and learning. Pixel Bloom is really pioneering stuff and it’s completely revamping digital art and really shining a new light on Colombo as a vibrant cultural hub.

Content

Introduction

Introduction to Combination Art and Immersive Experience

Introduction to Pixel Bloom

Research Objectives

Methodology

The Concept of Immersive and Interactive Art

Theoretical Framework

The Global Influence

The Vision Behind Pixel Bloom

Fusion of Art and Technology: The Experience at the Digital Art Space

Artistic Collaborations

Interactive Experiences

Representation of Sri Lankan Culture

The Impact of Pixel Bloom

The Economic

Analysis

Observational Analysis

Visitor Experience Surveys

Visitor Feedback

Academic Literature

Conclusion

Referencers

Introduction

Introduction to Combination of Art Immersive Experiences

As the evolution of the art industry has taken shapes that opens a new world of interacting arts as it expresses more room for creative minds expanding areas on illustrating audio visuals, digital stimulation and entertainment. Virtual reality, Augmented reality, Projection Mapping, Interactive Installations, 360° Videos & Experiences are invented to bridge the interaction among digital and physical environments stimulating the sensors of users engaging with the digital art world. Projection mapping allows us to understand the architecturals space and how to interpret the projection of digital artwork, visuals, 3d spaces and animations. This technology acts as a root to build a better interaction in different perspectives. The aim of this dissertation is to discuss the attraction of Pixel Bloom in Lotus tower, as a narrow topic in Sri Lanka what immersive and interactive installations are available to explore.

Introduction to Pixel Bloom

A creation of Sri Lanka’s tallest skyscraper, the implant of South Asia's first digital immersive experience in interactive and immersive digital art space named follow as Pixel bloom located at ground floor of Colombo Lotus Tower. Pixel Bloom serves more than an exhibition for the community, it brings out diverse creatives in digital art, Engineering, Musicians and other artists to collaborate in a production creative hub for an immersive experience.

Research Objectives

Assessing the facts on the theoretical framework behind construction of the creative hub in sri Lanka, bonding different industries signed to create the masterpiece and analysing the artist and technology contributed impacting the audience interactions and emotional connection towards the immersive experience. Measure how the team brought up the culturals aspects to the creativity process to uplift the growth in spreading knowledge in the history of Sri Lanka among the local and foreign community. Aiming towards the environmental and staff stability, reliability and support to enhance the audience experience in the most positive manner.

Methodology

Qualitative research aims on the production of the technology and digital art, immersive interactive technologies used building up the creative installations. Site visit to observe the interaction of visitors with the artefacts and observe the impression of the moods and emotion towards it. The ambience of the art resonated and cleared in its area of presentation. For the study of quantitative research a survey includes how they feel about the Pixel Bloom experience and facts how it contributes to society. The survey includes questionnaires to answer freely about what expectations have been achieved in the format of creativity and the immersive experiences area analysed from a visitor perspective. Conduction for secondary research on journalists how they have interpreted the pixel Bloom in articles. Portfolio research on the artist who collaborated in the process of inventing the creative aspects for the Pixel Bloom. The collected data are benign analysed comparatively with similar creation outside as well as within the country boundaries.

The Concept of Immersive and Interactive Art

Theoretical Framework

Concept of digital Illustration or animation is created through a process of research, color concepts, character designing, environmental designing, composition and editing adding sfx as from an artist perspective. The digital creations are created through professional softwares which are specifically designed in the area. Which will finally be projected through a lens from a projector. As an advancement of technology there are possible resources that interact with creative arts in any form. Revolutionised projections which is called Projection mapping, also known as video mapping which is used for the interaction of a plain surface turning into an art space. Madmapper, TouchDesigner are some softwares that are used in industry to create such immersive visual arts. Motion sensors are one of the other main components creating the bridge between the worlds of interaction in the present world and the digital world for an effective immersive digital experience.

The Global Framework

When compared to other traditional art galleries around the world, immersive digital art and animation has revolutionized the creativity engagement blending the technologies for an interactive and sensory storytelling experience for the audience. TeamLab Planets in Tokyo, Meow Wolf Denver Convergence Station in Colorado, Frameless in London are some settings specified in interactive and immersive experience. Van Gogh Alive’s 360 degree projections feature a multi sensory exhibition with scent, sound and touch features. Future world in Singapore has a dedicated interactive digital playground named By ArtScience Museum and teamLab which is open for all ages to have a memorable experience. These installations bring out experimental consumption and Instagrammable to the society as well as a tourist.

As an influence on Urban development countries increasing its leverage to boost the tourism industry through interactive art galleries.

The Vision Behind Pixel Bloom

The vision behind Pixel Bloom to bring a digital artistic era as South Asia’s first ever interactive and immersive experience with digital art and animation. Pixel Bloom seamlessly integrates the two worlds in physical and digital offering a unique experience.

“Pixel Bloom is more than a space, it is a creative landscape where technology enhances artistic expression”- Pixel Bloom.

The epic landscapes were created with the partnership of five major productions of Bling, Eyeon as the concept and technological partners, Shakyatm and D4 as the creative partners, Epson as the exclusive protection partner. The colombo lotus tower where the Pixel Bloom is located invites creative minds to explore, inspire and landmark as a Diverse growth of creative production with local artists and advanced technologies for the upholding economy with more career opportunities opened for citizens.

Pixel bloom is the next grenative production which inspires the visitors without an age definition to the future to look forward in developing the country with the connection in artist and technological world and tell the story of Srilankan history, its culture to the world.

Fusion of Art and Technology: The Experience at the Digital Art Space

Artistic Collaborations

Pixel bloom is made with a wide range of collaboration with different artists around Sri lanka inheriting the upcoming popular technologies in the digital world. The innovation hub opened a path to represent creative digital innovation work pushing the boundaries of traditional art to a digital world blending storytelling, motion graphics 2D digital animations sound production with the interactive technology.

“Shakya Tennakoonmudali” and his team, well on in “Shakya ™” and “Bling Production” created the animation of “Colombo Chronicles” as the essence of srilanka in a 2d animation capturing the colonial history of Sri Lanka. Other than showcasing the colonial history of Sri lanka he created another animation on. Appreciating the diverse beauty of Sri lanka. Which was named as “Beyond the map.” It contains the nature serenity as well as the humanity of inspiration with uniqueness of Sri Lanka. “Bling production” created “Aritha” and “Anitha” are two characters to represent in pixel bloom as a narrator to the stories and a guide to creations. Art style 90s kid art style and comic influenced to create a new style unique to the identity of Sri Lanka.

Interactive installations

“Eyeon” really played a big role in bringing all the visuals to life. “Flutter space, an immersive butterfly ballet” the 3D interactive design was created by Obed Kushan, Interactive design was done by Nuwan Bandara in the production of “Eyeon” the creation brings us to a garden of butterflies reacting to different ways from detecting sensors. Neon Jungle" is an interactive new creation, another collaboration for the talented team. Their concept blends the vibrancy of a thriving metropolis with the beauty and mystery of the jungle in Sri Lanka. Let's explore how this merging of city life and natural splendor comes to life. Pressure sensor technology is used for this creation . Five characters of elephant, leopard, deer, monkey and a parrot are used to spark and interact with the environment. The Jungle is rich in flora and fauna, urban forest for capturing storyteller elements for a meaningful creation. Pixel fusion uses motion capture technology to build a relationship between the digital and physical world. It invites you to unleash your creativity. Pixel Kaleido teaming up with D4 brings a fusion of using lights and music. With 6,144 pixels of RGB light, it adjusts really dynamically to gestures in touchpads and lights up as well as changes rhythm to music along the way. It is such a sleek and dynamic display that feeling interactive is absolutely amazing. Different kinds of lights and sounds get made to cue very different moods and speeds.You are invited to create your own sequence of lights.

Representation of Sri Lankan Culture

“Colombo Chronicles”tells a story of how colonial history has unfolded in Sri Lanka, little by little shaping and absorbing features that are distinct from each period of rule. Through architecture, the colonizers ventured their own touch—a grand heritage in storied houses with open verandas that tell of their legal systems too, along the way imprinting their distinctive lawyerly stamp as they went along. The city of Colombo is one that has really grown and grown into an impressive metro area, connecting various parts of Sri Lanka from the north to the south and from the east towards the west through a network of roads, railways and other infrastructure. The important landscapes of Colombo city from early ages and how it is builded up now is created artistically with many local locations and environments, religious places and other rich cultural elements. Orientation of Portuguese Baila Kapirinna music, dance styles, painting styles, foreign food as bread and wine were spreaded and enhanced the diversity of Sri Lanka mixing the foreign culture. Historic landmarks such as Lake house Building, Dutch hospital were presented in the animation.

“Beyond the Map” animation is represent a wide range of places around Colombo, Attidiya bird Sanctuary, Wetland parks,Independence square, underwater museum, temples, kovils,churches are also shown in one signal animation, the animation is rich in local ambience , how locals enjoy in the sunset in Galle face, local transportation of buses, local cuisine of a wide range of food, and many other places in colombo that shows a collection of different cultures holding in one city.

Impact of pixel bloom

Economical impact

Pixel Bloom brings both entertainment and great importance to Sri Lanka's economy by drawing in visitors from around the country and across the globe. Visitors buy tickets for tourist attractions, join guided tours, purchase meals or snacks. All these payments are strongly fueling local businesses and their success as well as the economy. The lotus tower including the Pixel Bloom supports job creation in many different fields. It brings together digital artists, engineers, software developers, sound designers, and marketing experts. In addition to getting new jobs directly, lots of local folks also benefit from getting to work on this project too and doing things like technical support, security staff and taking care of event planning and vendors contributing their skills too. Pixel Bloom also plays an important part in inspiring skill development and education too. By blending creative arts and high technology together, it tends to spark interest in STEM which stands for Science, Technology, Engineering and Maths and Arts as well. This rising interest is really going to open up more chances for training and education for local young generations who are keen in this industry. Also there is a huge impact on Pixel bloom and in the lotus tower on national branding.

Methodology

Observational Analysis

Research of qualitative study explores collaboration between art and technology with the visitors in Pixel Bloom. The study on how visitors engage with the interactive installations, their emotional and sensory responses, observing the body language, expressions, time spent at different installation data are collected by observation.

Most of the visitors are curious and excited to enter the premises as there is a time frame of 6 minutes of one batch of guests being entered by the staff. Upon entering the premises visitors frequently take videos and photos which shows a strong impact on the visual impact. The response of the interactive features such as projection mapping, sound activated visuals and motion responsive displays have amore interactive physical engagement with many visitors waving, clapping, jumping, as an emotional trigger response to excitement and curiosity. By engaging in such a way it gives a clear vision on that the technology and the visuals have a huge impact on encouraging the visitors tio participate to engage in the experience.

Visitors of different ages interact with the installation differently, kids show interest in playfulness and enthusiasm, teenagers interact with it as an instagrammable photo location and many adults look over in a thoughtful, and less interactive way, by guiding their children. Other adults are deeply connected with the environment engaging in group photos. The observations show that the visual elements have touched the hearts of people in different ways.

Visitor Experience Surveys

To collect quantitative data, the survey on “experience on Pixel Bloom” is conducted on ten visitors. The survey includes multiple choice questions, ratings and open ended questions. The responders what captivated them the most, what emotions were met, is it inspiring and engaging and their view on the Pixel Bloom data are collected. Another Survey is conducted on the same ten visitors with a similar structure to gather data on the “Cultural representation in Pixel Bloom” about how effectively the production has showcased the cultural values of Sri Lanka in it.

From the responders most of the visitors have known about the site through social media, forty percent of visitors have revisited the site according to the data that was provided to the survey. The first impressions of the visitors were mentioned as Exciting and immersive and others were well organized but overwhelming. Most of the visitors mentioned that the “Pixel Kaleido”, “Neon Jungle” and “Pixel Fusion” were the most popular among the responsive visitors. Aspects of animation showcase, interactive installations, music and sounds are the elements that bought the visitors captivation. The visitors have gained somewhat understanding of the digital art and the technology used. The visitors also mention that it is a new experience and they enjoyed the space by taking photos.

In the other survey the participants answered an important question of whether Pixel Bloom helps you experience or appreciate Sri Lankan culture in a new way? Almost everyone has agreed with the fact that the Pixel bloom helped visitors feel more connected to Sri Lankan Culture, revise and expand their knowledge. With visual elements such as pattern, colors, motifs,art styles resembling, music and sounds that play a significant role in Sri lankan culture, storytelling and themes are well represented in the rich culture of Sri Lanka.

The survey brings to a conclusion that the visitors had a good experience in the Pixel bloom and that it has succeeded in representing cultural heritages and values in a different way, bringing up local artists to create and showcase their talents.

Visitor Feedback

Pixel Bloom has gained a positive review of 4.3 rating in google and 3.7 on the survey. Frequent reviews from google reviewing system has shown a consistency of good experience the visitors made, it is an innovative and creative concept. On the other hand there is some negative feedback on their expectations that were not fulfilled as the halls are not soundproof and the animations are conducted in sinhala and it is not so tourist friendly. Overall the experience is best for kids and teens.

Academic Literature

Research on academic context on the technical development of technology used as projection mapping, motion capture, storytelling and how to assemble them with what softwares and requirements are needed are being researched for a better understanding of how those technologies are used for the Pixel Bloom.

Industry Articles

when it blends in both tech from this digital age and things that are very important to Sri Lankans. This calls to mind what authors have written about when they talk about mixing local culture with high tech creativity togetherI mean that's called "technological convergence of culture" or TC culture mixing endemic culture with technological creativity (Manovich, 2001).Research into large installations like Borderless by teamLab in Japan and Atelier des Lumière in France shows that immersive spaces for art do a lot more than just spark tourist interest. It is also very inspiring patriotism and improves digital literacy. (Morse, 2019).

Conclusion

Pixel Bloom is a great example of how art and technology can come together to create a powerful and meaningful experience. It is more than just a digital art show’s a new way for people to enjoy and understand culture, creativity, and modern technology. Using tools like lights, sounds, motion sensors, and projections, Pixel Bloom allows visitors to interact with the art and feel like they are part of the experience, not just watching it from the outside. Pixel Bloom brings fresh and new light on Sri Lankan culture. It uses digital tools to highlight cultural elements such as music, symbols, stories, and traditions. This helps younger generations, especially those who are more down with art and technology, it really connects to their culture in a fresh and exciting way. At the same time, it also offers a chance to foreign visitors to learn about Sri Lanka's wonderful heritage in a fun and engaging way. It lets traditions hang on, but lets them also sprout and grow in the digital world as well.

Pixel Bloom gets people actively involved and participating, not just as visitors but also as participants—they really start to think out of the box and creatively. And even more interesting for the creative set, this immersive experience can plant seeds of thought toward designing tech products or making art works to be the future career path to pursue someday.

Really, cooler than just art lessons and education, Pixel Bloom leaves a big legacy. It also helps the economy. Lotus Tower is a big draw at Colombo. Both locals love it and people from all over the world come to check it out too. That attracts lots more folks to the area which, in turn, really boosts nearby businesses and creates new jobs too. It also allows artists, designers, engineers, and musicians to collaborate on large-scale creative projects, which helps grow Sri Lanka’s creative industry. It shows that when done thoughtfully, digital art can create meaningful connections between people. It assembles creatives of different disciplines into a team of rock stars in their specific domains. The experience visitors get there is truly one of a kind and profoundly immersive. It goes way beyond what you'd get in a regular museum or gallery.

In the end, Pixel Bloom certainly proves that digital art is really something amazing, captivating, highly educational and really rich in culture too. Seeing Sri Lankan culture from a fresh perspective is one of the really cool things this does. Technology is an interesting way for people to learn too. This helps the local economy grow strong. Creativity is sparked throughout all generations who get to connect with this together.

Refernceners

Lotus Tower Colombo (2024) Our story - Lotus Tower Colombo. https://colombolotustower.lk/our-story/.

Meow Wolf’s Convergence Station | Immersive art (no date). https://www.convergencestation.com/.

[Official] TeamLab Planets TOKYO, Toyosu (no date) teamLab. https://www.teamlab.art/e/planets/.

Elburz (2024) Interactive Art Installations: 6 Inspiring Examples. https://interactiveimmersive.io/blog/interactive-media/interactive-art-examples/.

Legrady, G. (1999) 'Intersecting the virtual and the real: space in interactive media installations,' Wide Angle, 21(1), pp. 105–113. https://doi.org/10.1353/wan.1999.0005.

Yoo, H. and Kim, H. (2014) 'A study on the media arts using interactive projection mapping,' Contemporary Engineering Sciences, 7, pp. 1181–1187. https://doi.org/10.12988/ces.2014.49147.

Projection mapping explorations (2019). degree. Indian Institute of Technology Hyderabad. https://core.ac.uk/download/pdf/224956685.pdf.

Katkevica, S. and Strode, A. (2021). INTERACTIVE PROJECTION MAPPING IMPACT ON DEVELOPMENT AND SUSTAINABILITY OF ARTS. [online] https://dukonference.lv/files/978-9984-14-952-3_63_konf_kraj_C_Hum%20zin.pdf#page=146. Available at: https://dukonference.lv/files/978-9984-14-952-3_63_konf_kraj_C_Hum%20zin.pdf#page=146 [Accessed 21 Feb. 2025].

Fender, A., Herholz, P., Alexa, M. and Müller, J. (2018). OptiSpace. Proceedings of the 2018 CHI Conference on Human Factors in Computing Systems, pp.1–11. doi:https://doi.org/10.1145/3173574.3173843.

Siegl, C., Colaianni, M., Thies, L., Thies, J., Zollhöfer, M., Izadi, S., Stamminger, M. and Bauer, F. (2015). Real-time pixel luminance optimization for dynamic multi-projection mapping. ACM Transactions on Graphics, 34(6), pp.1–11. doi:https://doi.org/10.1145/2816795.2818111.

IWAI, D. (2024). Projection mapping technologies: A review of current trends and future directions. Proceedings of the Japan Academy. Series B, Physical and biological sciences, 100(3), pp.234–251. doi:https://doi.org/10.2183/pjab.100.012.

Ekim, B. (2011). A VIDEO PROJECTION MAPPING CONCEPTUAL DESIGN AND APPLICATION: YEKPARE. Turkish Online Journal of Design Art and Communication, [online] 1(1), pp.10–19. Available at: https://dergipark.org.tr/en/pub/tojdac/issue/13006/156711.

MINDS, T.E. (2023). The opportunities and challenges of immersive technologies and interactive media for the…. [online] Medium. Available at: https://medium.com/@the_exploring_minds/the-opportunities-and-challenges-of-immersive-technologies-and-interactive-media-for-the-902afd106e6c.

Berthonneau, A. (2021). Gorgeous interactive art installation with sensors - HeavyM Blog. [online] HeavyM. Available at: https://www.heavym.net/interactive-art-installation-with-sensors/.

Manovich, L. (2001) The language of new media. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press.

Morse, M. (2019) 'Immersive art and national identity: The case of teamLab Borderless', International Journal of Cultural Policy, 25(3), pp. 321–335.

Bling Productions. (n.d.) Pixel Bloom. Available at: https://www.bling.lk/portfolio/pixel-bloom/.

ClassifyLanka (n.d.) Dive into Pixel Bloom: Colombo’s Digital Wonderland. Available at: https://classifylanka.com/dive-into-pixel-bloom-colombos-digital-wonderland/

‌Footsteps.lk (n.d.) Pixel Bloom at Colombo Lotus Tower. Available at: https://footsteps.lk/pixel-bloom-at-colombo-lotus-tower/?utm_source=chatgpt.com

Google Reviews (n.d.) Pixel Bloom at Colombo Lotus Tower. Available at: https://www.google.com/maps/search/Pixel+Bloom+Reviews/

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ushamartinuniversity · 3 months ago

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MCA Course in Ranchi-Syllabus, Career Opportunities & Admission Details

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unmooring-britain · 7 months ago

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Danielstown and the Gothic:

In today’s session we dedicated a lot of time to talking about both the Gothic elements that can be found throughout “The Last September”, as well as the phenomenon of the Anglo-Irish country house. In the following I would like to comment on both of these topics, referencing two very interesting pieces of research. The first one of these is a text by the literary scholar Stephen Ross titled “Elizabeth Bowen’s Uncertain Gothic”. In this he comments on an introduction Bowen had written for a collection called “The second Ghost Book”, which features short stories from a wide range of British writers, including Cynthia Asquith, Lord Dunsany, Walter de la Mare and Bowen herself. Here Bowen states:

In former days, Christian burial of ill-used remains, the evening-up of an ancient score or putting right of a wrong used to settle the matter; now it is not so simple. Ghosts seem harder to please than we are; it is as though they haunted for haunting’s sake—much as we re-live, brood and smoulder over our pasts.[1]

Ross comments on this line of thought, arguing that “there’s a sense of history and tradition already at work here, a version of continuity in which the original reasons for doing something are lost but the force of convention alone urges its further repetition”.[2] This statement seems to hold much truth for the “Last September”, as Lord and Lady Naylor and by extension also their guests seem to be stuck in a never-ending performance of a mode of life that clearly belongs to the past, as the world around them is changing at an increasing rate. This is however ignored at all times, as stolen glances,[3] averted eyes,[4] and in some cases even conversations between the characters show.[5] The novel, as Ross in acknowledgement of literary scholar Sinead Mooney writes, thus becomes one of constant paralysis and continuing impasse,[6] in which an “automized repetition allows for an ordering of existence without the necessity of ever taking action”.[7] This never taking action seems to be what is weighing on Lois as well, as she often finds herself reminiscing of getting out of Danielstown in some way or another, but can never really bring herself to do so, except for in the end, when the reader is informed that she has left for Tours to improve her French.[8] Interestingly, she is not the only one, that is discontent with her stay, as Laurence wishes he could escape to Spain[9] and Marda begins to regrets his visit in a matter of hours.[10] Taking all these sentiments into account, it seems as if the house is indeed weighing down on his inhabitants, rendering them restless, while turning them stuporous at the same time.

But how? If we follow Teresa Trout’s argumentation in her dissertation “The modernist country novel” it becomes clear, that the country house is not only an architectural landmark, but also a social stage, as it functions as both a home, as well as a public medium, by displaying wealth and power and in the context of the Anglo-Irish specifically the wealth and power of a colonial power ruling over the country.[11] Trout thus dubs the country-house a “show-house”, their residents an ever-changing set of actors.[12]

Throughout the novel we can see an acknowledgement of this double naturedness to the extensive use of theatre-based vocabulary in relation to the country, the house and its inhabitants: “Here the few beeches stood, unrelated, lovely, desultory; between their trunks – the tall mountains, vivid in a suffusion of distant light. The scene glittered”[13], “Recollection of Laura were now wiped for him from the startingly green valley, leaving the scene dull”[14], “Hugo was pleased with the place; here he seemed to have stepped through into some kind of non-existence. And here, divorced equally from fact and from probability, he set up a stage for himself: the hall’s half-light”.[15] or “She could not hope to explain that her youth seemed to her also rather theatrical and that she was only young in that way because people expected it. She had never refused a role.[16] Pairing this with the history-infused interior of the house which among other things encompasses a “crowd of portraits”[17] under whose constant surveillance the family is placed, as well as a “troop of ebony elephants brought back from India by someone she did not remember”[18] that has been placed on “two locked bookcases of which the key had been lost”,[19] and the lack of any personal stories that the family members could accord to any of these objects, it becomes clear, that the house is a greater agent of the family’s history than the family itself.[20] Rather than them leaving their mark upon Danielstown, their relation to Danielstown has forced them to do the exact same things as their predecessors have, namely, to wear lavish costumes and throw great parties and uphold an image, that has become more and more outdated.[21]

As we discussed in class, the Gothic generally speaking presents readers with an uncanny present whose origins lie in a traumatic past which have to be expiated if a viable future is supposed to come about.[22] It however simultaneously caters to a prurient interest in the perversion or diversion of political, economic, familial or sexual acts that are purged through a commitment to a conservative future.[23] But whereas in Dracula for instance the vampire is killed, and the patriarchal and heterosexual order of the late Victorian society is restored, “The last September” does not end with the successful defence of the house. Instead Danielstown goes up in flames, and even if we are not told the ensuing events, one can assume, that Lord and Lady Naylor are now being displaced and the land that their English ancestors claimed is being returned to the Irish. The usual Gothic convention is thus confounded, at least if we do not take into consideration, that the erection and existence of Danielstown itself might be seen as the real perversion of the novel.[24]

[1] View Elizabeth Bowen: Introduction to the Second Ghost Book. In: The Green Book. Writings on Irish Gothic, Supernatural and Fantastic Literature 9 (2017), p. 7-10. Here p. 8.

[2] View Stephen Ross: Spectrality in Modernist Fiction. London 2023, p. 134.

[3] She glanced closely at Mrs Carey’s profile, to see that her exact shade of meaning had been taken. View Elizabeth Bowen: The Last September. London 1998, p. 218.

[4] Sir Richard and Lady Naylor, not saying anything, did not look at each other, for in the light from the sky they saw too distinctly. View Ibid, p. 387.

[5] How far do you think this war is going to go? Will there ever be anything we can do except not notice? View Ibid, p. 159.

[6] View Ross: Spectrality in Modernist Fiction, p. 134.

[7] View Ibid, 134.

[8] “Oh no”, said Lady Naylor surprised. “Tours. For her French you know.” Bowen: The Last September, p. 383.

[9] “I have no money; where do you expect me to get any money from? I was to have gone to Spain this month with a man and last year I should have gone to Italy with another man, but what do you expect me to go on? I have to eat somewhere, don’t I, and here it is simply a matter of family feeling.”, View Ibid, p. S. 90.

[10] “But I really should not have come back here”, she said. “There is something in Lady Naylor’s eye: a despairing optimism.”, View Ibid, p. 159.

[11] View Teresa Trout: Open to the Public: The modernist Country House novel. Online: http://nrs.harvard.edu/urn-3:HUL.InstRepos:42029702 (last accessed 01.12.2024), p. 154.

[12] View Ibid, p. 93.

[13] View Bowen: The Last September, p. 162-163.

[14] View Ibid, p. 230.

[15] View Ibid, p. 332.

[16] View Ibid, p. 68.

[17] View Ibid, p. 53.

[18] View Ibid, p. 27.

[19] View Ibid, p. 27.

[20] View Trout: The modernist country house novel, p. 166.

[21] View Ibid, 154.

[22] View Ross: Spectrality in Modernist Fiction, p. 134.

[23] View Ibid, p. 134.

[24] View Ibid, p. 151.

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architecture-beyond-the-syllabus · 10 months ago

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What I have been doing lately 😢

Just when I thought I could bloom in and write passionately, I got strung up in threads of academics, extracurriculars, and competitions. It's all too exhausting. Moreover, I moved out to a new home. The best leisurely thing I did as of now was indulge in and watch 5 episodes of Shikanoko Nokonoko Koshitantan, one fine evening ( the one anime about a comedic deer girl and a tsundere)

In addition, I also indulged in and played Genshin's new Simulanka quest in hopes of earning enough primogems to pull a Kaveh, but unfortunately, I lost him to the 5-star Navia. I was lying there wondering if I had to cry or rejoice

But aside from all this, I also had fun researching architecture. I enjoyed doing my academic literature case study on Harvard Business School, Boston. I was also exploring bits of BV Doshis' Aranya Housing block. I simply love how the forms are geometric and colorful. Doshi's concept of people's participation to reduce costs and provide individuality really fascinated me. This is clearly something I want to study in detail sometime in the future.

(A picture of an Aranya house I drew)

For my elective assignment, I also explored impressionism and Claude Monet's work. and in doing so I made a poor half an hour, half-assed attempt of it too. But it was fun trying.

I also hastily attempted an intense 5-day rhino and grasshopper workshop. It was way too informational to me. The assignment given to us after the workshop was to design a parametric form based on one of the 6 briefs given. They ranged from furniture design to moon base design. And being the unrealistic over-passionate feeler person that I am I went on to design a very conceptual moon base. Although my final design was awful, I enjoyed researching about the leading technologies on moon construction, the difficulties of building on the moon, and mooncrete. Yess mooncrete that sounds so exciting. I was considering if space architecture has room for a person like me. and whether I should try and pursue it. It's unconventional and very much discouraged in theses and dissertations.

I wish I could get more time to research things enough to compose a proud article about them later. I have a lot of topics I want to explore, it's simply a matter of time management and prioritization.

K bye <3 Have fun

#architecture #shikanoko nokonoko koshitantan #simulanka #genshin impact #impressionism #bvdoshi

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xtruss · 1 year ago

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The Man Who Couldn’t Stop Going To College

Benjamin B. Bolger Has Spent His Whole Life Amassing Academic Degrees. What Can We Learn From Him?

— By Joseph Bernstein | June 3, 2024 | The New York Times

Bolger Has Spent The Last 30-Odd Years Attending Top Universities.

Benjamin B. Bolger has been to Harvard and Stanford and Yale. He has been to Columbia and Dartmouth and Oxford, and Cambridge, Brandeis and Brown. Over all, Bolger has 14 Advanced Degrees, plus an Associate’s and a Bachelor’s. Some of Bolger’s degrees took many years to complete, such as a Doctorate from the Harvard Graduate School of Design. Others have required rather less commitment: low-residency M.F.A.s from Ashland University and the University of Tampa, for example.

Some produced microscopically specific research, like Bolger’s Harvard dissertation, “Deliberative Democratic Design: Participants’ Perception of Strategy Used for Deliberative Public Participation and the Types of Participant Satisfaction Generated From Deliberative Public Participation in the Design Process.” Others have been more of a grab bag, such as a 2004 master’s from Dartmouth, for which Bolger studied Iranian sociology and the poetry of Robert Frost.

He has degrees in international development, creative nonfiction and education. He has studied “conflict and coexistence” under Mari Fitzduff, the Irish policymaker who mediated during the Troubles, and American architecture under the eminent historian Gwendolyn Wright. He is currently working, remotely, toward a master’s in writing for performance from Cambridge.

Bolger is a broad man, with lank, whitish, chin-length hair and a dignified profile, like a figure from an antique coin. One of his favorite places is Walden Pond — he met his wife there, on one of his early-morning constitutionals — and as he expounds upon learning and nature, it is easy to imagine him back in Thoreau’s time, with all the other polymathic gentlemen, perhaps by lamplight, stroking their old-timey facial hair, considering propositions about a wide range of topics, advancing theories of the life well lived.

And there’s something almost anachronistically earnest, even romantic, about the reason he gives for spending the past 30-odd years pursuing college degrees. “I love learning,” he told me over lunch last year, without even a touch of irony. I had been pestering him for the better part of two days, from every angle I could imagine, to offer some deeper explanation for his life as a perpetual student. Every time I tried, and failed, I felt irredeemably 21st-century, like an extra in a historical production who has forgotten to remove his Apple Watch.

At 16, Bolger enrolled at the University of Michigan. Majoring in Sociology, he graduated with a 4.0. He was 19. Credit...Scott Sady/The Ann Arbor News

“I believe that people are like trees,” he said. “I hope I am a sequoia. I want to grow for as long as possible and reach toward the highest level of the sky.”

Against a backdrop of pervasive cynicism about the nature of higher education, it is tempting to dismiss a figure like Bolger as the wacky byproduct of an empty system. Then again, Bolger has run himself through that system, over and over and over again; it continues to take him in, and he continues to return to it for more. In fact, there is reportedly only one person in the United States with more college degrees than Bolger, and the vast majority of those came from universities within the state of Michigan (no disrespect to the Broncos, Eagles or Lakers). Because Bolger is just 48, and Michael Nicholson, of Kalamazoo, is 83, Bolger could surpass him, according to back-of-envelope math, as soon as 2054. In other words, Bolger is on a plausible track to becoming the country’s single most credentialed individual — at which point, perhaps, he could rest.

A proposition: No one more fully embodies the nature of elite American higher education today, in all its contradictions, than a man who has spent so much time being molded by it, following its incentives and internalizing its values. But what are those values, exactly? Of course, there are the oft-cited, traditional virtues of spending several years set apart from the rest of the world, reading and thinking. You know: the chance to expand your mind, challenge your preconceptions and cultivate a passion for learning. In this vision, eager minds are called to great institutions to reach their intellectual potential, and we know these institutions can perform this function simply because they are called Harvard and Yale.

That may be the way a prestigious education works for some, but probably not most. A 2023 survey of Harvard seniors found that 41 percent — 41 percent! — were entering careers in consulting or finance. The same percentage were graduating to a starting salary of at least $110,000, more than double the national median. Last year, the most popular majors at Stanford were economics and computer science. The ultimate value of college for many is the credential, guaranteeing a starting spot many rungs up the ladder of worldly success: Nothing you learn at an elite university is as important as the line on your C.V. that you’ve paid hundreds of thousands of dollars to type. And if you were feeling cynical, you could argue that the time you spend applying to college will affect the rest of your life more than anything in particular that happens while you’re there.

“It is only when we forget our learning that we begin to know,” Thoreau observed, famously, after his experiment in simple living. (Though, rich of Thoreau: he went to Harvard.) In a much different, much opposed way — one involving central heat — Bolger has spent the past three decades conducting his own half-mad American experiment in education. He has drunk deeper at the well of the university than almost anyone else. What does he know?

In 1978, Bolger Was 2, riding in a Buick Riviera in Durand, Mich., when the car was hit by a drunken driver. He was basically fine, but his parents were seriously injured, and his mother, Loretta, spent months in the hospital, ending up with a metal plate in one of her legs. She had to leave her job as a schoolteacher. Bolger’s parents’ marriage disintegrated. His mother could be difficult, and his father, an engineer and patent lawyer who represented himself during the nasty divorce, was emotionally abusive. Bolger and his mother began splitting time between their comfortable home near Flint and his grandfather’s ramshackle farm in Grand Haven, which was so drafty they sometimes curled up by the wood-burning furnace.

Bolger’s mother spent much of her money in the ensuing custody battle, and her stress was worsened by her son’s severe dyslexia. In third grade, when Bolger still couldn’t read, his teachers said he wouldn’t graduate from high school. Recognizing that her boy was bright, just different, his mother resolved to home-school him — though “home” is perhaps not the right word: The two spent endless hours driving, to science museums, to the elite Cranbrook Academy of Art outside Detroit for drawing lessons, even to the Smithsonian’s National Air and Space Museum in Washington. At night she read to him: epic works of literature like “War and Peace” but also choose-your-own-adventure books and “Star Wars” novelizations.

The pair passed days in the library at Michigan State University, watched campus speakers in the evening and ate free at the receptions afterward. Sometimes, rather than drive the two hours back to Grand Haven, they would sleep in his mother’s pickup truck somewhere in East Lansing and do the same thing the next day.

Bolger and his mother, Loretta, at Yale Law School in 1996. Credit...Stuart Bauer/The Flint Journal

One thing Bolger has not seemed to learn over the years is to introspect. Why has he driven himself to this extent — to place himself over and over in the kinds of impractical programs young adults enter to wait out a bad economy or delay the onset of adulthood à la National Lampoon’s Van Wilder? Many of us love learning, too, but we don’t do what Bolger has done; we listen to history podcasts on our commutes or pick our way through long books in the minutes before sleep. Despite all his degrees, Bolger has never sought a tenure-track job — only a few of his degrees would even qualify him for such a position — and he has never really specialized.

Unless you consider putting together a killer college application a form of expertise, which both the market and Bolger do.

Over The Past 35 Years, acceptance rates to the United States’ most elite universities have shrunk to about 6 percent from nearly 30 percent. Students, frightened by those numbers, are applying to more colleges than ever and making these numbers more frightening in the process. At the same time, overtaxed counselors don’t have the time to help as much as applicants and parents want. The rise of so-called holistic admissions, which look beyond grades and test scores, has also contributed to a sense that there is a “secret sauce” to getting into exclusive colleges and turbocharged demand for people who can demystify it.

After he got his doctorate in 2007, Bolger became a full-time private college-admissions consultant. “No other consultant has Dr. Bolger’s record of success,” reads his website — a claim that is difficult to verify, yet one that many people seem to believe. Four years with Bolger runs at least $100,000. (In the world of elite college coaching, this isn’t exceptional: A five-year plan from the New York firm Ivy Coach costs as much as $1.5 million.) Over the past 15 years, he has developed a coaching style he compares with that of Bill Belichick, Mr. Miyagi and Yoda.

On a humid morning late last summer, Bolger saw clients in an upstairs room at the ‘Quin House, a modish Back Bay members’ club in an ornate Commonwealth Avenue limestone. He has a home office in Cambridge but prefers to work as much as he can out of the private clubs to which he belongs, including the staid Union Club, opposite Boston Common, and the Harvard Club, which feels loosey-goosey by comparison.

That day he was meeting with Anjali Anand, a sunny then-17-year-old who was in Boston for the summer to do research at Boston University; and Vivian Chen, also 17 at the time, also sunny, also in Boston to study on B.U.’s campus. Anjali and Vivian faced a brutal fact: For young strivers of the American upper middle class, credentials and a can-do attitude are no longer sufficient for entry into the top tiers of the U.S. News and World Report college rankings. These accomplishments must be arranged into stories so compelling that they stand out from the many other compelling stories of the teenagers clamoring for admission.

Columbia graduation, 2001. The reason Bolger gives for spending the past three decades pursuing college degrees: ‘‘I love learning.’’ Credit...From the Bolger family

And so Bolger devoted the meetings to teaching self-narrativization, particularly as it relates to the all-important essay component of the application. He encouraged the high-achieving Anjali to be vulnerable. “Someone who is 100 percent confident with no hesitations isn’t as compelling,” he said. “This is why there are more movies made about Batman than Superman.” With Vivian, he tried to connect her desire to become a dentist to a deeper narrative thread.

“Why the mouth and teeth?” Bolger asked.

Bolger said his business has enabled him to mix with “the 1 percent crowd.” In addition to his condo on Cambridge’s tony Memorial Drive, Bolger owns a house in Virginia and his family farm in Michigan. He has an Amex invite-only Centurion card. In 2016, he donated more than $50,000 to support Hillary Clinton’s presidential campaign, for which he received a special Jeff Koons print; more recently, he has donated more than $2,500 to the presidential campaign of Robert F. Kennedy Jr. He loves to attend celebrity talks: Bruce Springsteen, George Clooney, Joe Montana — anyone who, in his mind, defines a category.

Bolger carries about 25 clients at a time, but his most important pupil is his 9-year-old daughter, Benjamina, whom he home-schools and considers his best friend. Bolger models his daughter’s education after his own: hands-on, interactive, wide-ranging, lots of time in the car. (Bolger’s son, Blitze, is also being home-schooled, but he’s only 4, so there’s less to do.) His wife, Anil, who helps him recruit clients, is happy to let him oversee the liberal-arts component of their children’s education while she handles math and Chinese. Bolger is trying to be less intense than his mother, to emphasize the development of his daughter’s emotional intelligence. But one of his main pedagogical devices is still the field trip.

Left: Credit...David Hilliard for The New York Times. Right: Bolger’s children, Blitze, 4, and Benjamina, 9, are home-schooled. One of his main teaching devices is the field trip. Credit...David Hilliard for The New York Times

On another bright morning last summer, Bolger took Benjamina to Concord’s North Bridge, for a holistic lesson but also a lesson in holism. He was joined there by his friend Dan Sullivan, a fellow polymath, who has also collected a staggering number of credentials. (The 42 entries under the “Experience” section of his LinkedIn page include Ambassador at the Parliament of the World’s Religions and Colonel at the Honorable Order of Kentucky Colonels.) Bolger had planned a discussion around bridges and diplomacy. But he believes the world is “nonlinear,” and his habits of speech reflect this. There were digressions into history, comparative government, union organizing, car safety, Robert McNamara, the strength of triangles, the cryogenic preservation of corpses.

A composed, precocious and sweet girl, Benjamina followed her tutors across the bridge and to the bronze statue of a Minute Man, inscribed with Emerson’s “Concord Hymn.” There the three of them stood in contemplation, looking a little like a child star and her security detail.

“Was that shot actually heard around the world?” Bolger asked.

“I don’t think so,” Benjamina replied.

“Yes,” Bolger said. “So this is an example of a metaphor.”

After stopping in Concord for a bite, Bolger and Benjamina drove the two miles to Walden Pond. The pair sat on a wooden plank above the beach on the pond’s east side. Except for the sounds of teenagers flirting and retirees shifting in folding chairs, it was quiet. Bolger explained Thoreau, the woods, the essential facts.

“I don’t know if you find this inspirational or not,” Bolger said. “I have the ability to pretend no one is here.”

Benjamina made a skeptical noise.

“I guess I could do it for a week,” Bolger said. “A year just seems too long.”

Bolger with Loretta at the Brandeis University graduation in 2007. Credit...From the Bolger family

Thoreau’s experiment made him one of the most important men in American history. Bolger’s experiment has, well, not done that. Instead, it has done something even weirder. To spend any time around Bolger is to feel that you have been enrolled in a bespoke, man-shaped university, one capable of astonishing interdisciplinary leaps, and it basically all hangs together — the way that any mix of freshman electives at a top university might complement one another, might rhyme, produce its own sort of harmony. It is unclear what, exactly, is at the center. But there are gravitational forces at work nonetheless.

Also, Bolger’s experiment has made him a wildly compelling father to a daughter who, it must be said, is exceptional. She is fluent in two languages, she is nice, she is funny, and last summer she performed Fritz Kreisler’s thorny violin piece “Sicilienne and Rigaudon” at Carnegie Hall with grace, élan and even wit. At the very least, Benjamina has on her hands the material for one of the all-time great college-admissions essays.

Left: Credit...David Hilliard for The New York Times Right: Bolger models Benjamina’s education after his own: hands-on, interactive, wide-ranging and lots of time in the car.Credit...David Hilliard for The New York Times

The day after their colonial field trip, father and daughter had lunch at the Harvard Club. Surrounded by dark wood and wine refrigerators, they ordered off the Veritas menu: Bolger had a B.L.T., and Benjamina had a hamburger with fries. The meat arrived on a bun with an “H” grill mark, for Harvard.

“Do you think the burger looks better because it has an ‘H’ on it?” Bolger asked.

Benjamina didn’t hesitate. “Yes!”

— Read by Robert Petkoff. Narration produced by Anna Diamond and Krish Seenivasan Engineered by Devin Murphy. — Source for Illustration at the top: Photographs from the Bolger family; Arnold Gold/The New Haven Register, via Associated Press. — David Hilliard is an artist and educator from Boston. He creates narrative multipaneled photographs, often based on his life or the lives of people around him. — Joseph Bernstein is a Times reporter who writes feature stories for the Styles section.

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