MY SUGAR MUMMY IS A BEAUTIFUL VAMPIRE

The luxurious hotel room at The Grand Plaza was a stark contrast to their usual accommodations in Ancroft. As Mimic entered, the plush cream carpets muffled her footsteps. The warm, golden light from ornate wall sconces illuminated the opulent space, with heavy silk curtains framing floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view of the city below.

Damien sat on a leather Chesterfield sofa, his once-imposing frame now seeming almost frail against the elegant furniture. He wore a crisp white shirt that hung loosely on his shoulders, a stark contrast to his former muscular build. His dark hair, while neatly combed back, appeared thinner, emphasizing the sharp angles of his face that now bordered on gaunt.

Most striking was the angry, red fresh looking wound that ran from his left temple to his jaw - a permanent reminder of his battle with Blake, refusing to heal despite his vampiric nature. His skin, always pale, now had an almost translucent quality, the veins beneath visible and dark.

Despite his diminished appearance, Damien's eyes remained sharp and alert, a glimpse of the formidable vampire lord he once was. He sat with a stillness that spoke of conserved energy, every small movement deliberate and controlled.

Mimic herself was dressed for stealth and practicality - black jeans, a fitted dark gray top, and a leather jacket. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, revealing the delicate curve of her neck. She moved with a fluid grace that belied her supernatural nature, her form shimmering slightly at the edges, as if she wasn't quite solid.

As Mimic approached, Damien's eyes flickered towards her, dark and unreadable. "What news of Elena?" he asked, his voice still low and resonant in the quiet room, though lacking some of its former power.

Mimic took a breath, organizing her thoughts. Her gaze briefly lingered on Damien's scar before she spoke, a flicker of concern crossing her features. "There are rumors, my lord," she began, her voice careful and measured. "Of a woman in town who matches Elena's description. She runs a brothel, apparently quite a high-end establishment."

Damien's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at the news, the scar on his face stretching with the movement. He leaned forward slightly, his movements measured and slow, as if each action required great effort.

"A brothel? How... fitting." A ghost of a smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Tell me more."

Mimic perched on the edge of an armchair opposite Damien, her posture tense. "The brothel is called 'The Red zone' It's located in the heart of the entertainment district. Very exclusive, very discreet. The owner is said to be a woman of extraordinary beauty and charm, who only appears at night."

"That certainly sounds like Elena," Damien mused, his long fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the arm of the sofa. "You've done well to uncover this information so quickly, Mimic."

The praise sent a warm glow through Mimic, but she tempered her reaction. "Thank you, my lord. However, there's a complication. The brothel doesn't open until midnight. We'll have to wait here until then."

Damien nodded slowly, considering this information. "I see. Well, we might as well make use of this time." His gaze drifted to the hotel's room service menu on the side table, a flicker of something almost nostalgic crossing his face.

"Mimic," he began, his voice taking on an unusual tone, "I think we should order some food."

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Mimic's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Food, my lord? But we don't..."

Damien held up a hand, silencing her. "I know we don't need it, not in the way mortals do. But remember, we're trying to blend in. If we're to stake out this establishment, we need to appear as normal as possible." He paused, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Besides, it's been... a very long time since I've indulged in the pleasures of mortal cuisine.

Sometimes, old habits die hard."

Mimic nodded, understanding dawning. "Of course, my lord. It would be suspicious if we didn't eat at all. And I suppose it might help us appear more... human."

"Precisely," Damien agreed. "Order the steak for me, rare. And a bottle of the Château Margaux. The rich, red wine might... satisfy certain cravings, at least temporarily." He glanced at Mimic. "Choose something for yourself as well.

Remember, we're keeping up appearances."

Mimic placed the order, opting for a light salad for herself. As they waited, she couldn't help but ask, "Do you miss it, my lord? The taste of food?"

Damien's eyes grew distant. "Sometimes," he admitted. "It's more the memory of taste, I suppose. You know, Rose and I would..." He shook his head, as if dispelling the thought. "But come, while we wait, give me a more detailed report of your findings in the city."

Mimic nodded, acutely aware he was about to bring up someone that would most likely have ruined her mood for good. However, he didn't so that made her happy.

She began her report on the intricate web of relationships and power dynamics that governed the place, Damien listened intently, occasionally asking for clarification. The familiar routine of strategizing seemed to energize him, a glimpse of his old self shining through his weakened state.

When the food arrived, they ate in companionable silence. Damien savored his steak, the rare meat satisfying a hunger that went beyond mere sustenance, though it was clear from his slow, deliberate movements that even this simple act took considerable effort. Mimic picked at her salad, her appetite diminished by the anticipation of what was to come and her concern for her weakened lord.

After the meal, Damien placed his hands on the arms of his chair, visibly bracing himself. With a grunt of effort, he began to push himself up, his arms trembling slightly under the strain. The simple act of standing, once effortless for the powerful vampire lord, now seemed a monumental task.

Mimic instinctively rose, her hand half-extended towards him. "My lord, let me assist—"

"No," Damien cut her off sharply, his voice tight with exertion and wounded pride. He paused, taking a deep breath to compose himself before continuing in a softer tone. "No, Mimic. I can manage."

After a moment of struggle, Damien finally stood upright, his breath coming in short, shallow pants. He straightened his shirt, trying to regain some semblance of dignity. "We have some time yet," he said, his voice strained but determined. "I'm going to shower and change. You should do the same, Mimic."

He took a tentative step forward, his legs unsteady. Mimic hovered nearby, clearly torn between respecting his wishes and her desire to help. Damien noticed her concern and managed a wan smile.

"We shouldn't go looking so miserable in front of Elena tonight," he added, attempting to inject some lightness into his voice. "I may be... diminished, but I refuse to appear defeated. Especially not before her."

Mimic nodded, understanding the unspoken command. "Of course, my lord. I'll prepare myself as well."

As Damien made his slow, laborious way towards the bathroom, Mimic watched with a mixture of admiration and worry. Even in his weakened state, his pride and determination remained unbroken. She only hoped it would be enough for the challenges that lay ahead.

When it was her turn to use the bathroom, Mimic took a quick, hot shower, letting the water wash away some of her tension. She dressed carefully in dark, form-fitting clothes that would allow her to blend into the shadows if necessary.

As she emerged from the bathroom, she found Damien sitting by the window, gazing out at the city. He had changed into a fresh outfit, even more elegant than the one he'd worn earlier. The crisp blue of his shirt contrasted sharply with the darkness of his jacket, emphasizing his pale skin.

"It's almost time," Damien said, not turning from the window. "Are you ready, Mimic?"

Mimic straightened, squaring her shoulders. "Yes, my lord. I'm ready."

Damien turned to face her, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. "Good".

A tense silence fell over the room. Damien stared back at the city below, his reflection ghostly in the glass. Mimic remained still, watching him carefully.

"Two years," Damien murmured, almost to himself. "Two years I've been in this miserable state. And now, I may be mere hours away from getting myself again." He turned back to Mimic, his eyes blazing with an intensity that made her want to look away. But she held his gaze, as she always did.

"Tell me, Mimic," Damien said, his voice deceptively soft. "What do you think we'll find when we finally face Elena? Do you believe she'll be willing to help me?"

Mimic considered her words carefully. "I... I don't know, my lord. Elena has always been unpredictable. But if she's been hiding all this time, I doubt she'll welcome our arrival with open arms."

Damien laughed, a sound devoid of humor. "No, I don't suppose she will." He leaned his back comfortably to the sofa. "We have just an hour to wait. Tell me what else you've learned about this city, about Elena's potential allies or enemies here."

Mimic nodded, launching into a more detailed report of her findings.

The sun slowly sank below the horizon, painting the sky in vivid shades of orange and pink before fading to deep blue.

After an hour had passed, and the tension in the room grew palpable. Mimic found herself growing restless, her form shimmering more noticeably as her concentration wavered. Damien, in contrast, remained utterly still, his patience seemingly infinite.

At half past eleven, Damien finally stirred. "It's time," he said, rising to his feet.