A Certain Mr. Rit Co Chapter1

 



Prologue: The Puppeteer

Ellie Morgan was a weaver of dreams, a silent conductor of symphonies played in satin and sigh. Her world was one of calibrated chaos—a universe where every rose had its longitude, every tear (of joy, strictly) its scheduled minute. Her weapon was a clipboard; her shield, an impeccable smile. And her secret familiar, a golden retriever named Benedict, whose soul was as orderly and kind as her Excel spreadsheets.

She believed in the architecture of love: it required a blueprint, a reliable contractor, and no uninvited rodents in the foundation.

Fate, as it turned out, had a different design firm in mind. And its foreman was a man with a cat in his backpack.

Chapter One: A Ritual of Chaos

The air in Arthur Rit’s office was always three degrees cooler than anywhere else, smelling of old money, lemon polish, and unspoken expectations. Ellie stood before the vast mahogany desk, a statue of professional composure. Benedict lay at her feet, a plush, breathing rug of devotion.

“Miss Morgan,” Mr. Rit’s voice was a dry, precise instrument. “Your ‘Venetian Masquerade’ at the Laurent last weekend. The client mentioned the foie gras was ‘transcendent’. This is the adjective we bill for.”

Ellie allowed herself a micron of a smile. “Thank you, sir. The caterer was—”

The door burst open not with a bang, but with a muffled curse and the distinct sound of fabric tearing.

He was a discordant note in the sterile symphony of the room. A tall frame clad in a jacket that had seen better, more interesting days, hair that argued politely with a comb. And slung over his shoulder, a worn leather satchel that… moved.

“Uncle Arthur! Sorry, the lift is at war with my karma. And S;ren is being… existential.”

From the bag’s abyss emerged a small, grey paw, followed by the triangular, impossibly serious face of a Russian Blue kitten. It fixed its large, amber eyes on the crystal paperweight on Mr. Rit’s desk as if it were the mortal enemy of its philosophy.

Ellie felt her perfectly planned day develop a hairline crack.

“Miss Morgan, my nephew, Leo S;rensen. A scribbler of some renown for the digital rabble. Leo, our premier architect of matrimonial bliss.” Mr. Rit did not blink. “He will be documenting the culinary dimensions of our key events. You will be his… Virgil through the nine circles of wedding planning.”

Leo’s grin was a slash of light in the room’s gloom. He unceremoniously dumped the kitten, S;ren, onto the icy desktop. “Pleasure. I hear you make magic. S;ren here is a critic of all things pretentious. He’ll be our quality control.”

As if on cue, S;ren took a delicate, investigative step toward the paperweight. Then another. And then, with the gravity of a tiny, furry anarchist, he pushed it off the edge.

Time slowed. Ellie’s hand twitched—a futile, instinctive grab at the air. Benedict lifted his head, alert. The crystal met the Persian rug with a dull, expensive thud, rolling to a stop at Ellie’s polished pump.

The silence was absolute, broken only by Leo’s chuckle. “See? He found it superfluous.”

Ice flooded Ellie’s veins, hotter than any anger. “Mr. Rit,” she said, her voice a calibrated blade of pleasantry, “are we to understand that our future collaborations will include… feline oversight?”

Arthur Rit picked up the paperweight, placing it back precisely in its ring of dust. He looked from his nephew’s amused defiance to Ellie’s glacial poise. A strange, almost human glint touched his eyes.

“Indeed. Consider him a… junior partner. The Rit in Rit & Co. has always valued unconventional perspectives. You, Miss Morgan, will provide the order.” His gaze landed on Leo. “He, and his philosopher-king here, will provide the necessary friction. Sparks, I am told, are what start the most interesting fires.”

He steepled his fingers. “You will begin with the Vanderbilt-Price wedding. They are eccentric, love animals, and have a budget that could fund a small revolution. They requested ‘spontaneity within flawlessness’. Consider your team assembled.”

Outside, under the indifferent sky, Ellie turned to Leo, who was attempting to persuade S;ren back into the bag. Benedict sat patiently, looking between the humans with mild concern.

“Let us establish rules,” Ellie stated, her tone leaving no room for discussion. “Your ‘partner’ does not attend client meetings. He does not approach the buffet within a ten-foot radius. He is not a ‘creative element’.”

Leo hoisted the bag, S;ren’s head poking out, blinking at the world with sovereign disdain. “Rules are just unproven theories, Ellie. S;ren and I specialize in proof.” He winked. “Don’t worry. We’ll fetch you the best reviews. Heel, even.”

With that terrible, perfect pun hanging in the air, he sauntered away, leaving Ellie with the profound, unsettling sense that the blueprint of her life had just been handed to a draftsman who used crayons. And a cat who used chaos as its compass.