My groans harmonized with the morning sunlight that slinked through the parted curtains, a relentless intrusion. The unfamiliarity of the room only compounded the throbbing ache in my head. It dawned on me that I was within the confines of Eric's residence, likely occupying the guest chamber. The repercussions of the prior night's revelry slithered into my consciousness, reminiscent of a relentless tide. It felt as though I had collided headlong with a speeding locomotive. Memories of the party were hazy, and flashes of the night's wild events flickered through my mind like a broken projector.
It all started when Charlie and Thomas had been embarrassingly shown the door. Eric had turned to me with a glint in his eyes that said mischief was on his mind. "Nero, are you up for cranking up the heat and getting a taste of how we party Spanish-style?" he had asked with that damn grin.
And so, the two of us embarked on a direct trajectory toward the bar. Shots were summoned with an almost reckless abandon, their cascade akin to a torrential waterfall—five rounds, each comprising a prodigious twenty shots. Tequila, with its fiery ardor, coursed down my throat, kindling an inferno that mirrored the exuberance of the event.
Flashes of laughter and cheers echoed in my mind as Eric and I had dared each other to drink more, pushing the limits of our tolerance. Then, like a wave crashing over me, the memory of body shots hit. Our heated bodies moulded together, flesh against flesh, as the fervent intoxication of the spirits had blurred the demarcation between camaraderie and an unquenchable yearning. The scent of him, a heady concoction of musk and passion, ensnared my senses, heightening the electric charge that pulsed through the air.
My lips had brushed against the salt-dusted expanse of his chest, a teasing prelude to what was to come. With a breathless sigh, I had descended, my tongue tracing a heated path along the lines of his abdomen. Desire and exhilaration had merged into an intoxicating concoction as I had reached the destination of the shot.
But it wasn't just the taste that had ignited my senses—it was the intimacy of the act itself. Our bodies pressed together, the friction between us setting the air ablaze.
As the night continued, inhibitions had melted away with each passing drink. Eric's laughter had been infectious, and soon we found ourselves on the dance floor. Our bodies had locked in an alluring rhythm that mirrored the pulse of the music. Our movements had become a provocative choreography, drawing the attention of the room as we were breaking all the codes.
Eric's strong hands had settled possessively on my hips, his touch setting my skin ablaze. I had responded with a seductive sway of my hips, a playful grind against him that had stirred the electric chemistry between us. As our bodies had swayed and rocked, a provocative intimacy had enveloped us and his fingers had flexed against my skin, his hold unyielding as the world around us faded into a sultry haze.
As the tempo had quickened, I had allowed myself to lose control further. His hands had ventured lower, boldly cupping the curve of my ass, the heat of his touch searing through the fabric.
The intoxicating sensation of him against me, his hardness pressed just right, sent bolts of awareness coursing through my veins.
Coke had made an appearance, and the night took an even wilder turn, as we had joined a few guest that had decided to follow our example and engage in the debauchery.
The lines we had crossed were blurred, as we had laughed, talked, and danced with a freedom that was intoxicating. The connection between us had deepened, fuelled by a shared recklessness that knew no bounds.
Groggily, I peeled myself off the bed, the soft sheets slipping off my skin as I stood up and my body protesting every movement. The room swayed briefly, like a ship navigating tempestuous waters, and I anchored myself by pressing a palm against the cool wall. The ache that pervaded me demanded solace, a plea for aspirin or even the mythical intervention of a time-traveling contraption to undo the tempestuous night that had left me in a state of disarray.
I ventured into the corridor, making my way towards Eric's bedroom to see if he had also awakened. The residence, much to my surprise, had not changed at all since I last came. In my youth, I had frequented this dwelling, forging a map of its layout upon my consciousness.
The penthouse was a sprawling oasis of luxury. The herringbone wooden flooring beneath my feet whispered with each step, and the high, modern windows that stretched to the ceiling allowed the morning light to filter through, casting a soft glow on everything it touched. A white and golden marble console table stood against one wall, adorned with a couple of Alec Monopoly's vibrant artworks. One depicted a mischievous man clutching a dollar sign balloon, his face hidden behind a playful grin. The other showcased a whimsical reinterpretation of a famous painting, with Monopoly characters taking the place of the original subjects.
The corridor itself was a blend of modern elegance and understated grandeur. The walls were a pristine white, providing the perfect canvas for the artwork to shine. A very modern gold glass bubble chandelier hung from the ceiling, its shimmering crystals catching the light and casting delicate patterns on the walls and floor.
A wave of nostalgia washed over me. It was as if time had stood still. The memories of my childhood visits flooded back—running through these very halls, laughter echoing, and the sense of being in a world entirely my own. The house felt like an old friend, welcoming me back with open arms.
Standing at Eric's bedroom door, I paused, a flicker of uncertainty crossing my thoughts before I gently nudged it ajar. He was sat upon his bed, his gaze intently absorbed by the glow of his phone's screen. As the door released a faint creak, his eyes lifted, meeting mine in a moment of quiet acknowledgment, and a hint of recognition graced his lips in a cheecky smile.
"Well, well, look who's finally up and about," he teased, setting his phone aside. "Did the party's aftermath hit you as hard as it hit me?"
I managed a weak chuckle, my head still pounding. " It appears so," I admitted, stepping fully into the room. "My sincere apologies if my presence disrupted your beauty sleep."
He waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense, I've been up for a while," he said, patting the space beside him on the bed. "Come, join me. We can wallow in our collective misery together."
I drew closer, finding a comfortable spot beside him, the mattress giving way ever so slightly beneath my presence. The room, much like the rest of the penthouse, exuded an air of modern elegance with its clean lines and tasteful decor.
A chuckle escaped him, his eyes alight with a playful glint as they roved over my slightly disarrayed state. "Well, someone certainly had a wild night," he jested, a mischievous grin playing at the corners of his mouth. "You look like you've been hit by a hurricane, Nero."
I aimed a feigned glare his way, my throbbing head silently protesting any sudden movements. "Oh, please," I retorted, my voice a touch more croaky than I intended. "My 'terrible hangover visage' still manages to exude more allure than your everyday appearance."
He laughed, a hearty sound that filled the room. "Touché," he conceded, raising his hands in mock defeat. "I'll give you that one."
I rolled my eyes, unable to hold back a small smile. Despite the hangover, being here with him was oddly comforting. It felt as though we had returned to the days of our youth, bantering and relishing in one another's company.
With a casual reach, he picked up his phone, his fingers deftly manoeuvring across the screen. "Speaking of last night, take a look at this," he remarked, swivelling the device toward me.
I squinted at the display, my bleary vision attempting to discern the flurry of headlines and images. One caught my attention: 'Eric Harrington and Nero Gambino's Wild Night: Upper East Side's Newest Scandal?' My heart sank as I realized what I was seeing—articles plastered with unflattering photos and headlines that screamed about our supposed degeneracy and wild antics at the party.
There, in captured moments, were glimpses of our dancing, laughter, and even body shots—a clandestine photographer's treasure trove of the night's revelries. The words "degeneracy," "looseness," and "unconventional behaviour" were liberally thrown around, painting a rather scandalous picture of our night.
"Ugh, seriously? Could this get any worse?" I groaned, feeling my cheeks flush to a shade comparable to a ripe tomato. "I mean, like, could this situation get any worse? Because, newsflash, it's already beyond awful."
"Awful?" he repeated, his tone incredulous. "I think you mean legendary. We made quite the impression, didn't we?"
I directed my most withering glare at him, wholly unamused by his maddeningly nonchalant demeanour. "Are you seriously finding amusement in this?" I inquired, my hand elegantly gesturing towards the blasted screen. "These insidious articles are, like, on the brink of obliterating us, and I absolutely cannot deal with this nonsense at the moment.'"
He shrugged, his grin utterly unapologetic. "Let them talk," he said. "At least they're finally talking about something other than our boring socialite lives."
I blinked at him, utterly taken aback by his cavalier response. "You don't care?" I arched an impeccably sculpted eyebrow, a touch of incredulity colouring my voice. "Are you truly not the least bit concerned about the inevitable backlash?"
His smile broadened, exuding an air of confidence that bordered on audacious. "Honestly? Not one bit," he replied, his shoulders shifting casually. "For once in what feels like an eternity, I feel emancipated. I'm tired of masquerading as the person everyone expects me to be, of upholding an image that doesn't truly reflect who I am."
I couldn't help but marvel at his brazen charm, his uncanny knack for casting aside the constricting chains of societal norms and embracing his authentic self without reservation. "Oh, if only I could possess such an unwavering reservoir of self-assuredness," I confessed, my words a gentle, delicate whisper.
My focus was drawn to my own phone this time, and I opened Instagram. My jaw fell open as I perused the notifications—overnight, I had garnered more than a million new followers. I blinked, unable to fully believe it, then tapped on a post from the immensely influential account with millions of followers, known as 'NYC Elite Whispers'. This was the very account that incessantly disseminated news and gossip concerning the socialites of the NYC states. The individual behind this account seemed to possess an uncanny grasp of every facet of our lives, rendering escape from its gaze all but impossible.
I blinked in disbelief, as I read the post aloud "The queen from Crimson Hollow has returned, darlings, and she's bringing the heat! Breaking all the rules, codes, and conventions with none other than the prince of the Upper East Side. And we are loving every scandalous minute of it. 👑🔥 Move over, wannabes. It takes more than a failed attempt to play Nero's game. Just ask Charlie Miller and Thomas Parker, they should know a thing or two about it after they were shamefully expulsed of the most influential party of the year! Let's not forget, our girl Nero is not one to be played with. And for anyone who dares cross her path, beware—eating dust is the least of your worries. 💅✨
#UpperEastSideRoyalty #BreakingTheRules #NewTrendsetter #NeroAndEric'
It was undeniably invigorating to feel the weight of authority settle upon me once again, to reclaim my rightful place on the throne of my social realm. The satisfaction of watching my plan to dismantle Thomas's power unfold with such success, courtesy of Instagram, was a gratifying sensation.
But as Eric's expression turned more serious, the weight of my recent ordeal settled in the pit of my stomach. He leaned against the headboard, his gaze intently fixed upon me, a blend of curiosity and genuine concern emanating from his eyes. "So, tell me more about this war of yours with Thomas," he said, his tone shifting to a more sombre note.
I took a deep breath, my fingers tracing the edge of the comforter absentmindedly. "It's not just a war, Eric. It's an outright crusade for my liberty," I began, my voice steady despite the memories that threatened to resurface. "Thomas and I were pushed into this arranged marriage, not out of love or choice, but because he's set to be my father's heir."
He raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Nicodemo's heir? But what does that have to do with—"
"Everything," I interrupted, my voice firmer now. "The issue, you see, is that Thomas is violent, Eric. He's beaten me, almost to the point of death on several occasions." I paused, my gaze meeting his, searching for any trace of doubt. "And it's not just physical but also emotional. He's made my life a living nightmare. I never imagined myself in this position, and it shames me to my core to even speak these words out loud. All those titles they've attributed to me – the fierce queen, the indomitable force – they all crumble in the face of this harsh reality. I wish I could claim my strength, rise above it all, and conquer this nightmare. But the truth is, Eric, I'm drowning in it, struggling to find the air to breathe, let alone fight back. In the end, I must confess, I'm not the powerful figure they've painted me to be. Instead, I'm just a victim, undeserving of any praise or admiration."
A weighty silence descended upon us, my revelation suspending itself in the atmosphere like an unspoken truth. The tableau of our interaction was transformed; Eric's visage, once characterized by curiosity, had morphed into one of sheer astonishment. His deep brown eyes, usually alight with mirth, now carried a shadowed amalgamation of ire and genuine disquietude. "I'm so sorry you had to go through that" he said, his voice low and filled with empathy. " Nero, I had no idea..."
I held up a hand, stopping him before he could apologize. "I know you didn't. That's precisely why I came to you. Your assistance is imperative."
His gaze never wavered, and I could sense a mixture of curiosity and apprehension in his expression. "Help? How?"
Inhaling deeply, I composed myself, ensuring my thoughts were perfectly aligned before proceeding."The only way for me to escape this nightmare is to give my father a new heir," I explained, my voice tinged with bitterness. "And there's no one better suited for that role than you."
I slid off the bed and gracefully positioned myself on one knee, a move that seemed to thoroughly perplex him, if his utterly bewildered expression was any indication. Deliberately, I retrieved a resplendent 5-carat diamond Cartier engagement ring from the recesses of my pyjama pocket, its radiance sparkling in the ambient light. With unwavering determination, I uttered: "Eric Harrington the Second, would you accept the honour and opportunity of becoming my husband?"
"Marry you?" he asked, disbelief lacing his words. "And... and where on earth did you get this ring?
I cunningly coaxed George into swiftly acquiring a modest ring from Cartier, in the hopes that I would have successfully seduced you at your party and you would be so in love with me that you would say yes to marrying me" I replied as if it was evident.
"Nero, as much as I want to help, marrying you is a massive ask." He replied kind of feeling bad that he was turning me down when I needed him the most.
"Oh, please! Spare me the charade of faux sympathy and your empty promises of assistance then," I snapped at him, my voice dripping with disdain, a perfect reflection of the spoiled heiress I unabashedly am. "You've mastered the art of manipulation, haven't you? But mark my words, I won't be swayed by your feeble attempts at playing the noble helper. Only you can be a suitable replacement. Nicodemo, bless his heart, would undoubtedly find it impossible to resist the allure of uniting our families. You come from a more influential background, and your family is deeply involved in politics. Our marriage would undoubtedly propel his agenda in the political world."
His expression was conflicted, his gaze dropping to his hands as he processed my words. "Nero, I want to help you, I really do. But marriage is a huge step, and I can't just—"
I interrupted him, a determined glint in my eyes. "Eric, please," I implored, drawing myself closer in that utterly captivating way of mine. "I know it's a lot to ask, but I've seen the kind of person you are. Your kindness, your compassion, your unwavering strength - they all paint a portrait of the perfect father for my yet-to-be-conceived offspring. And, if we were to join forces, can you even fathom the cocoon of stability and affection we'd spin?" After a brief pause I added "And you won't have to stay married to me for to long as I am planning to run away with an African American boy from a village for extremely poor people and stage my own death."
"You planning on what now? and with who?" he asked in utter shock. "I guess I forgot how crazy your plans always were..."
"Eric no one cares right now! My life lays between your hands. So, are you capable of comprehending the gravity of the situation? Will you let me go back to my impending death or will you save me?" I replied.
After a stretched interval of profound quietude, his gaze underwent a tender transformation as he regarded me, his eyes brimming with a profound sense of understanding and compassion "I could never allow you to return to a place where you're subjected to harm," he softly spoke, his fingers gently taking hold of the ring box from my grasp. His words enveloped me like a comforting cocoon, an embrace of warmth and protection. In that moment, a lump swelled in my throat, vulnerability rushing through me like a tidal wave. It was as if I had finally unburdened my soul, letting him witness the unfiltered truth of my emotions.
With a graceful motion, his other hand reached out to steady me, guiding me back to my feet. His gaze, intense and unwavering, locked onto mine, and as his touch graced my finger, he slid the ring into place. A genuine smile graced his lips, and then, in a playfully confident tone, he added, "So, when shall I have the pleasure of reacquainting myself with my future father-in-law?"
Laughter intertwined our words, and I replied, "Later this week perhaps. For now, it's time I make my way home."
I met his eyes with gratitude shimmering in my own. "Thank you, Eric," I murmured, my voice carrying the weight of emotions long suppressed. Tears gathered at the corners of my eyes, my heart swelling with a newfound lightness and the promise of a brighter future.
His hand reached out, a gentle touch erasing a solitary tear. "I'd do anything for you, Nero," his voice held the soft cadence of sincerity and affection.
With a final, affirming nod, I turned and left his room, stepping back into the corridor. A sense of profound appreciation washed over me as I donned the borrowed attire Eric had offered. The opulent surroundings seemed to radiate with the unexpected turn my life had taken. My audacious plan had surpassed even my wildest hopes, and with Eric's unwavering support, a beacon of hope now gleamed on my horizon.
Soon, I found myself back at Crimson Hollow. After awakening from an impromptu nap during the ride, I realized we were already home. The familiar driveway extended before me, the crunch of gravel underfoot setting a foreboding rhythm. An eerie feeling settled over me as I treaded the path, haunted by unsettling thoughts.
I couldn't escape the haunting thoughts that raced through my mind. Images of Thomas, his rage-fuelled eyes and clenched fists, played out like a horrifying slideshow. I knew him well enough to understand the depth of his fury, especially after the scandalous events of last night. My decision to banish him and Charlie from the party had surely stoked the flames, and my absence throughout the night would only fan them higher. I was acutely aware that he awaited me behind that door, ready to unleash a torrent of punches and kicks upon me.
My heart raced, each step toward the entrance door an eternity in itself. Fingers trembling, I reached for the doorknob, pausing before giving it a decisive twist. The door yielded with a reluctant creak, and I ventured inside.
The foyer greeted me with its subdued lighting, an almost palpable hush saturating the air. My eyes swept over the familiar space, attuned to every nuance of sound and shadow. An aura of imminent menace loomed, an unspoken warning of looming peril. I was a character in a thriller, caught in a suspenseful narrative where tension coiled tighter with every heartbeat.
With cautious steps, I traversed the hallway, my senses keenly alert. My heart thrummed an anxious rhythm, and ominous scenarios played out in my mind. The image of Thomas, wrathful and vengeful, skulked at the edge of my thoughts. The walls seemed to narrow, a suffocating feeling of surveillance clung to me, and the sense of impending danger was palpable.
Silently, I ventured on, my senses straining for any trace of movement. The stillness was heavy, suffocating, and I tiptoed onward until the entrance to the living room beckoned. A sliver of light escaped through the slightly ajar door, casting elongated shadows that danced unsettlingly on the walls.
Summoning every ounce of courage, I pushed the door open wider and stepped inside, my heart pounding in my chest.
To my astonishment, the room lay empty before me. The tension that had held me captive moments ago began to unravel, replaced by a perplexing mixture of relief and bewilderment.
My gaze swept across the expanse of the room, darting from corner to corner. The seconds seemed to stretch into elongated minutes, yet there was no trace of him or Nicodemo. Strangely absent was Xander, my bodyguard, as well. I had assumed he returned home after abandoning me the night before, but clearly, that wasn't the case.
The room's silence, once stifling, now echoed with a haunting absence. His looming presence, the one I had dreaded encountering, had dissipated into thin air.
As waves of relief washed over me, they mingled with a lingering unease that clung to my senses.
The suspense-laden air had dissolved, replaced by an atmosphere of cautious tranquility. Still, a foreboding sense of impending turmoil lingered, a reminder that the storm might have only retreated temporarily. My nerves remained on edge, my heightened senses poised to detect any potential threat.
Taking a deep breath, I ascended the grand staircase, my footsteps a hushed cadence against the lavish surroundings. On the upper floor, I directed myself to my spacious bathroom, an eager anticipation of washing away the remnants of the previous night's chaos driving me forward.
I twisted the faucets, the soothing sound of running water a balm for my frayed nerves. Stepping into the warm embrace of the spray, I allowed it to cleanse me.
Then, adorned in a plush white robe, I descended the staircase once more, a delicate melody brushing against my ears—its origins traced back to the living room. Intrigued, I followed the gentle strains of music, my footsteps cautious and deliberate. The palpable tension that had lifted earlier now returned, shrouding the mansion in an aura of anticipation.
The living room was bathed in a gentle, inviting light—a glow that seemed to dance across every polished surface. And there, seated upon the sofa, was Thomas. His presence infused the air with a renewed sense of unease, my heart quickening its rhythm as I drew closer to him, my thoughts a whirlwind of uncertainty.
He looked up from his glass of martini, his eyes meeting mine with a surprising warmth. My steps faltered for a moment, caught off guard by his demeanour. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he rose from the sofa, his movements fluid and graceful.
"Ah, my love, you're finally home, it seems," he greeted, his voice a velvet whisper, its usual edge strangely absent. He drew nearer, fingers delicately brushing a tendril of hair from my face before his hand came to rest against my cheek. I couldn't help but tense at his touch, my mind racing with conflicting emotions.
His lips pressed against mine, a gentle and tender kiss that contrasted sharply with the violence I had come to associate with him. Guiding me to the sofa, he enveloped me in the shelter of his arm, a protective gesture as I settled into the plush cushions. My defences remained vigilant, my senses poised for any shift, unable to fully fathom his abrupt transformation.
"How was the rest of your party?" he inquired, a casual lilt gracing his words as he sampled his martini.
This was undoubtedly a trick question, a snare laid with artful precision. It had to be. But as I was pondering how to cleverly answer without falling into his trap, he added "You should have called me, honey. I would have sent a car for you, rather than having you go in a taxi. Countless riffraff occupy those vehicles every day. But luckily you already showered".
I hesitated, my guard still firmly in place. The sudden change in his behaviour was disorienting, and I couldn't help but wonder if this was part of a larger scheme. Surely the deaths of his darkness had escalated, and he was playing a twisted mind game with me before physically assaulting me. No doubts he was enjoying playing the nice and loving fiancé whilst watching me in the torture of trying to figure out whether to lower my guards or not.
I chose my words carefully, my answers measured and cautious. "It was... eventful," I replied, my voice tinged with uncertainty. "And the taxi was fine, really."
His grin broadened, and a soft chuckle escaped him. "You outplayed me on that one, my love," he admitted, a note of pride in his tone. "I guess you won yesterday's battle as well. Let's cheer to that!"
The tension that had been building within me began to ebb, replaced by a mixture of confusion and disbelief. It was as if I had entered an alternate reality, a world where Thomas was kind and considerate, rather than the ruthless and violent man I had known.
With a graceful gesture, he offered me a drink, a clear elixir glistening within a crystal chalice. "I've prepared a drink for you," he murmured, his gaze resolute. "We didn't get to spend much time together at the party last night. I thought this might make up for it."
My heart raced as I accepted the glass, my fingers trembling slightly. The drink was surely poisoned and a mean for him to cast the killing blow and winning the war between us, a way for him to finally get revenge for my previous attempt on his life.
There was no way I would drink it! I was surely not ready to die, but I was trapped either way – if I drank the martini I would surely die from the poison, but if I refused to drink there was no doubt that I would ignite his fury and die under his blows. The balance had shifted; survival was no longer the sole question, but rather a decision rooted in the pursuit of the lesser agony between two impending deaths.
After a measured pause, I mustered my resolve and opted to brave the poison. In a cruel irony, ignorance about its exact nature, it promised a swifter end than the alternative.
His unwavering gaze remained a weight upon me as I took a tentative sip, every nerve poised for any insidious transformation. Yet, as the liquid touched my lips, I felt nothing out of the ordinary. I studied his face, but saw no malice in his eyes either.
Could it be that I was wrong and for once he was genuinely just being nice, without any ulterior motives? But just as I was starting to consider this possibility he added "I prepared the drink myself, as a token of my love for you,".
My gaze snapped up from the glass to meet his, the once-charming smile now mired in sinister ambiguity. Was this the confirmation that the martini was indeed poisoned and a cryptic admission of my impending demise within hours? There seemed to be no alternative explanation; why indeed would he trouble himself to prepare it personally when an array of household staff stood at his disposal? His reputation for avoiding even the slightest exertion amplified the enigma, casting this uncharacteristic act in an even more ominous light.
But I had no choice and had to finish my drink not to upset him. With cautious deliberation, I lifted the glass to my lips once more, my gaze fixed on his face. My heart raced, every swallow marked a calculated gamble, a dance on the precipice of uncertainty.
As the liquid touched my tongue, I braced myself for any sign of danger, any indication that this was a trap.
But nothing came. The drink was cool and refreshing. I swallowed, my eyes never leaving his. He watched me intently, his expression a mix of anticipation and concern.
As the evening unfolded, we ourselves myself engaged in conversation. Words flowed between us effortlessly, and an unanticipated ease enveloped the atmosphere, banishing the palpable tension that typically cloaked our interactions. His inquiries carried a ring of authenticity, his genuine interest in my emotions and musings manifest in every uttered phrase.
A moment where his attention seemed to be occupied for a few seconds, I jumped on the opportunity and texted George – SOS Been poisoned! Bring me an antidote fast!
Despite the pleasant conversation, I couldn't shake the feeling that danger still lingered just beneath the surface.
Eventually, the hour grew late, and he rose from his seat with a yawn, his eyes glancing at the clock. "It's getting late, my dear," he said with a soft smile. "Allow me to walk you to your room before I bid you goodnight."
I forced a smile, my unease still simmering beneath the surface. "Thank you. That's very kind of you," I replied, my words laced with cautious gratitude. There was no doubt in my mind that his offer to accompany me to bed was a calculated move to ensure that I never reached a hospital in time to be saved should I dare to go. It was a lost cause for me, he would probably pretend to go to bed but watch guard preventing me to run to a hospital or call in a medic, until he would be sure that I had rendered my last breath.
He offered his arm, and I hesitated only for a moment before looping mine through his. Every step felt deliberate, calculated, as if each movement had a hidden agenda.
The corridor led us to my chamber, where he turned to face me, his gaze warm and soft. "Rest well, my love," he murmured, his voice like velvet. "If you need anything, do not hesitate to call for me."
A nod was my answer, my voice an elusive spectre as gratitude tiptoed through it. With a final, lingering gaze, he turned and made his way down the corridor, his steps fading into the distance.
The door closed behind me with a hushed sigh, my form leaning against it. Weariness clung to my bones, yet my thoughts raced like a stallion in a storm, a ceaseless barrage of uncertainty. The events of the night had left me mentally and emotionally exhausted, my mind a battlefield of uncertainty. Sleep beckoned, but in its shadows lurked the haunting possibility that this night might be my last one on earth.
Gently, I navigated towards the waiting bed, easing myself beneath the embrace of the covers, the fabric a gentle caress against my skin. I directed my gaze upwards, fixating on the expanse of the ceiling, where faint shadows waltzed in the embrace of the muted light. My mind drifted, thoughts of Aiyden swirling in my mind. Regret settled in my chest, a heavy weight that tugged at my heart.
As the tendrils of slumber twined around me, the grasp of unconsciousness slowly tightened. Aiyden remained in the corridors of my thoughts, his presence an ache in the chambers of my heart. What could have flourished, what might have been, swirled in my mind, painting a tapestry of bittersweet longing. The darkness closed in, and I let go, surrendering to the void of unconsciousness.
Then, I slowly regained awareness, which probably meant that I had finally crossed the threshold into the afterlife. The air carried an intangible quality, a whisper of the ethereal, and a soft luminance bathed the room. I blinked, disoriented yet curious, my vision gradually settling on the familiar contours of my bedroom. However, it was as though a gossamer veil separated me from reality, casting an ethereal haze over everything.
Surveying the surroundings, I couldn't help but feel a huge sense of disappointment. In my mind, the afterlife had been a place of opulence and delight, a realm where every desire was fulfilled. I had imagined feasting on sumptuous delicacies and dancing to enchanting music all day long in the gardens of Adam and Eve, completely naked, carefree and unburdened. Nude handsome men would surround me, their smiles and laughter adding to the joyous symphony that filled the air.
Alternatively, I had envisioned an afterlife that resembled a dreamy Parisian escape, a city where the language of love flowed effortlessly from everyone's lips. There, I would be the best of friends with my idol, Gabrielle Chasnel herself, spending my days indulging in macarons and fine wines, draped in the finest Chanel creations. I would be famous not for being Nicodemo's daughter, but for my impeccable fashion sense and undeniable charisma.
So, imagine my surprise when I awoke to find that it was, well, rather ordinary. The room around me was familiar, unchanged from the one I had known in life. Perhaps it was that my life was so fabulous that it came extremely close to the afterlife.
"Miss Nero! Wake up, you're going to be late for school!" George's voice pierced through my musings, snapping me back to the present. He stood by the side of my bed, his expression a mix of annoyance and urgency.
My eyes widened, and I stared at him, confusion etched on my features. I was in the afterlife, wasn't I? So why was he here with me?
"Come on, Miss Nero, we don't have time to waste," he chided, his impatience evident. "Nicodemo is already furious about your behaviour at Eric's party so you can't afford any more of your antics. You know how your father feels about being late for school."
I blinked, still processing his words. The afterlife was supposed to be a realm of freedom, untouched by the constraints of my old life. So why was he acting like this?
"George," I began tentatively, my voice wavering. "Can you... see me?"
His annoyance deepened, and he sighed in exasperation. "Of course, I can see you, Miss Nero."
My mind raced, trying to make sense of it all. Perhaps he too had died, or maybe he was still alive and simply able to perceive my ghostly presence. Which meant he had no idea I was dead!
"Now, come on, get up. We need to hurry." He added as he gently reached for my arm to help me out of the bed.
"Wait," I said, my voice filled with uncertainty. "You can touch me, too?"
His brows furrowed with evident frustration. "Miss Nero, what's gotten into you? Yes, I can touch you. Now, will you please get out of bed?"
"Humans normally can't touch ghosts, so it must mean that..." I muttered, almost to myself.
He rolled his eyes, his patience wearing thin. "I don't know what ghost you are talking about, Miss. Now, enough with the nonsense. Get up!"
"Me!" I said as if it was plainly evident, "I died yesterday night and since you can see and touch me you must be some kind of medium or maybe you died to ..."
"Enough!" George exclaimed, his annoyance reaching its peak. He reached out and grabbed my arms, pulling me out of bed. "You are very much alive, but should you take any longer there is no doubt Nicodemo will get into this very room and kill the both of us!"
The pieces of the puzzle began to click into place. I was alive. I had never died. The events of the previous night, my paranoia, and my fear had all been unfounded. Relief washed over me, followed by a wave of joy that I couldn't contain.
"So... I... I am alive!" I exclaimed, a laugh bubbling up from deep within me. "George, I'm alive!"
His confusion only deepened, and he gave me a wary look. "Miss Nero, are you feeling alright?"
I threw my arms around him in a tight hug, unable to contain my elation. "You did it! I knew I could count on you! I knew you would save me!"
His brow furrowed, a shift in his expression from puzzlement to genuine concern, as he delicately eased me apart. "Saved you from what, Miss Nero? I don't have the first idea as to what you are talking about."
I drew away slightly, sidestepping his inquiry as I quirked an eyebrow, my tone laced with curiosity. "So, how did you know which antidote to get?" Looking at him with newfound clarity I added "OMG I cannot wait to see Thomas's face when he realises I have once more double crossed him and his revenge plan failed!" A laugh escaped me "It is indeed impossible to take me down, I always come out on top."
George's eyes widened in realization, and then his expression shifted from bewilderment to disbelief. "Nero, I never brought you an antidote. I really have no idea what you're talking about."
"Wait, so you didn't get my SOS text yesterday?" I asked worried.
His confusion only grew, and he shook his head. "I am afraid that I didn't receive any text from you Miss."
My heart skipped a beat, and I stumbled back, my mind racing to make sense of it all. If George hadn't brought me an antidote, then... it meant the drink was never poisoned.
I sank back onto the bed, my emotions a whirlwind of relief, embarrassment, and a strange sense of clarity. A sinking feeling settled in the pit of my stomach as the truth slowly dawned on me. Thomas had truly been kind to me. The room seemed to close in around me, the weight of my own misguided perceptions pressing down upon me. I had let my past define my present, allowed my fears to distort the reality before me.
With a heavy sigh, I pushed myself to my feet, there was no time to wallow in self-pity. Rapidly, I moved through the motions of getting ready for school. As I descended the grand staircase, my eyes scanned the foyer, and Nicodemo's presence came into view.
His cold, distant gaze met mine, and I could feel the weight of his expectations bearing down on me.
"Nero," he greeted, his tone curt and authoritative.
"Father," I replied, my voice steady as I reached the landing.
I paused, my gaze narrowing as I took in the scene before me. There were two noticeable absences – my bodyguards.
"Where is Xander?" I inquired.
Nicodemo's lips tightened, his gaze unwavering. "I had your bodyguards fired."
Surprise and confusion washed over me. "Why?"
His response was calculated, his words measured. "Their failure to stay with you at the party and the ensuing scandal spoke for itself as to their abilities. Plus, Thomas made a convincing case that they were not fulfilling their duties adequately."
I nodded and continued my way towards the entrance door a bit surprised that Thomas would stand up for me and help me get rid of my guards, but as I was about to open it he added, his gaze sweeping over me as if assessing my every move "You will behave yourself, I trust?"
I nodded; the weight of his expectations heavy upon me. "Of course."
"Good," he said, his tone final. "We have enough negative publicity to deal with as it is thanks to you."
My heart sank, a pang of guilt tugging at my conscience. I had allowed my actions to tarnish not only my own reputation but also my father's standing in the political sphere. It was a responsibility I couldn't ignore.
With that, I pivoted on my heel and headed for the waiting car. The school day was as unremarkable as ever – attending classes, mingling with my entourage of loyal minions, exchanging gossip in hushed whispers.
Yet, amidst the mundane routine, I couldn't shake the subtle shift in dynamics. Thomas and Charlie remained disturbingly inseparable. While it was understandable for Charlie, whose infatuation with him bordered on obsession, it baffled me why Thomas would entertain such closeness. After his unexpected kindness the night before, and his successful appeal to Nicodemo to remove my bodyguard, I had allowed myself to believe in a fleeting truce. But their proximity now shattered that illusion. The only plausible reason for Thomas to tolerate her constant presence would be so they could continue to join forces in taking me down.
As the final bell tolled, the school's doors swung open, ushering forth a tide of students. The air buzzed with a familiar blend of excitement and relief as my peers dispersed, eager to embrace the embrace the freedoms of the impending evening. The sun was in its descent, casting a warm, golden embrace over the town.
And then it began. The deep, resonant chime of the town's church bells reverberated through the air, reaching every corner of our small world. Five consecutive chimes. Every soul in Crimson Hollow knew what that sound meant – it was execution day. The clan had captured an outcast or a rebel, and the collective judgment of the community demanded their punishment.
A heavy silence settled over the town, a palpable tension that hung in the air. It had become an all-too-familiar ritual, ever since the time I had sought refuge in the den, a week that saw Nicodemo wrongly believing I was abducted by rebels in a sign to stand up against the Clan. And apparently this was our way of striking back – more captures, stricter edicts, heightened executions, and a surge of macabre inventiveness in devising punishments for those who dared to resist.
Andhorra and I shared a knowing look. We knew what was expected of us, what role we were meant to play on this day of reckoning. Without a word, we parted ways, each of us heading home to prepare for the grim procession that lay ahead.
Upon reaching home, I shed my school uniform and exchanged it for the long crimson robe with a pointy hood that obscured my features beneath the emblem of the Clan– a symbol of allegiance and obedience. The fabric felt heavy against my skin, its weight a reminder of the unwanted responsibility I carried. It felt like donning a cloak of darkness.
I made my way to the designated meeting point, my footsteps echoing through the quiet streets. Others joined me along the way, their robes flowing behind them as they too answered the call. As we arrived and gathered behind the council, I looked around, my eyes drawn inexorably to the ominous structure that dominated the scene. The wooden scaffold stood tall and stark against the fading light, its dark silhouette etched against the evening sky.
It was a grotesque fusion of wood and iron, its cold metal edges glinting in the dim light. It seemed to reach towards the heavens, its eerie presence casting a shadow over the assembly. Thick, rough-hewn beams formed the platform where the condemned would meet their fate, while a series of sturdy ropes hung ominously from the beam above.
Three identical nooses dangled side by side, swaying gently in the breeze. My heart constricted as I stared at the scaffold, its stark design evoking a mix of horror and dread within me. Each noose seemed to whisper a haunting promise of finality, a reminder that life could be extinguished in an instant.
The cold wind brushed against my cheeks, carrying with it a sense of foreboding. The air seemed to hum with tension, the very atmosphere heavy with a sense of impending doom. I could feel the weight of the moment settle upon me, a suffocating realization that I was about to witness something that would haunt my nightmares.
Beside me stood the unwavering figures of Andhorra, Jonas, and Zachary –– my forever loyal minions that brought me a sense of comfort in the midst of the impending darkness.
Across the assembly, my gaze alighted on Charlie, a solitary figure amidst a sea of unfamiliar clan members. She was an ever-present thorn in my side, a stark reminder of the intricate tapestry of allegiances and intentions woven throughout our society. And then, on the opposite side, there was Thomas, positioned at Nicodemo's side.
I couldn't tear my eyes away from him. His actions from the previous night still echoed in my mind, a puzzle that I couldn't quite piece together. His kindness had been unexpected, and yet his continued association with Charlie baffled me. I needed to know what he could possibly be planning, what would his next move be.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the gathering, I felt a knot of dread settle in my stomach. But as usual, concealing my disquiet was paramount; I couldn't allow the gazes of fellow clan members to glimpse my unease.
With measured authority, Nicodemo advanced, his voice a commanding cadence as it enveloped the crowd. His words were familiar, a speech that had been delivered countless times before, justifying the actions we were about to witness.
As his speech reached its crescendo, three low-ranking clan officers stepped forward, leading three figures towards the scaffold.
Fear gripped me, and I rushed my gaze to the floor under my feet, clenching my fists, my nails digging into my palms. Horror and anticipation entwined in a suffocating embrace, constricting my throat, leaving my breath shallow and uneven.
I couldn't bring myself to look up, couldn't bear to see the faces of the victims being brought forward. The fear that one of my friends from the den could be among the victims – Aiyden, In-Jae, Tyler, or anyone else I had grown to care about – was unbearable. I could not bear for any of them to be the possible condemned. How could I fathom raising my hand against one I cared for? The torment of that notion was unbearable, and escape seemed impossible.
I prayed in my head, a desperate plea to a higher power. "Please, let it not be Aiyden. I'm begging you, Lord, let it not be Aiyden." The seconds stretched into eternity, the air pregnant with tension.
Finally, a command pierced the stillness, and we were directed to assemble in three columns before the scaffold. Each column was entrusted with a separate rope, a role that mandated our direct involvement in the ultimate act of extinguishing life.
But my resolve to avoid looking up remained steadfast. The chances of locking eyes with Aiyden if I summoned the courage to raise my gaze felt overwhelmingly high. His recklessness was known to all, his audacious attempts to safeguard my well-being often leading him perilously close to the clan's grip. It seemed plausible that he had ventured into town, driven by his unyielding concern for my safety, and fallen into their clutches.
In sombre formation around the ropes, we readied ourselves, the creaking of the scaffold's wooden planks muffled by the weight of the impending tragedy. The measured footsteps of the three condemned souls, escorted by the low-ranking clan officers, reverberated across the platform. Straining my senses, I focused intently, hoping to distinguish any faint trace – a scent, a sound, a familiar timbre of voice or even recognise a pattern of footsteps – that might reveal their identities.
Amidst this eerie procession, one of the condemned figures convulsed with fear, attempting to articulate something. Muffled by a gag, his words were unintelligible, lost to the wind. Yet, within that garbled utterance, I detected a thread of familiarity, a tone that sent a jolt of recognition through me.
Upon hearing this all too familiar low rugged with gentle undertone voice, panicked surged through me....
And instinctively I looked up.