The Billionaire Throuple

Samuel the Third [A union of three]

PART I: SECURING THE THROUPLE

Samuel William Rothschild, III

We are one-hundred percent, without a doubt, living in a simulation. There is simply no other way to explain the world we live in. As soon as I came to terms, life became incredibly easy.

There is no such thing as good or evil, rich nor poor, love nor hate, not in an ideological sense. They are pointless measures meant to keep users in line with expectation.

If the world had any rules whatsoever, I'd be sitting in a six-by-eight, concrete prison cell instead of a ten-thousand dollar, cyan steel massage chair that looks like it was stolen off the set of Tron.

I, Samuel the Third, am an only child and I am a schemer. Plotting is extremely advantageous in a simulation. The good thing about living in one is that once you realize you're in, you can take advantage of all systems in place. So long as you're willing to learn them.

Most people are slaves to the system of finance, but my parents are successful financiers, which is privileged slang for 'unemployed with an obscene amount of money', so I'm not here to talk about that.

I needn't waste time focusing on maxed out attributes. No, the system I've interest in is the one I am least equipped to deal with, one my parents cannot possibly help me out in: love.

I know I said such a thing doesn't exist and I mean it. I don't want to love, nor do I consider myself capable, knowing what I know, but I want to be loved. I want to experience the simulation's approximation of it. It is the best feeling in existence out of all available options, so unless I find a way out, I may as well go after it. It will not come to me.

Love won't kick down doors or flip beds to track anyone down. It eludes me and my privilege puts me at a supreme disadvantage, almost as much as my sexuality.

The problem with love is that it must be given freely, with one small asterisk.

There is no rule against tricking someone into loving you, mostly because there are no rules.

*****

My phone vibrates on the coffee table nearby, but I cannot answer it. My arms and legs are locked in a blissful massage. I know who it is and what they want, so I let the program run its course down to my dainty wrists and ankles before shouting at it to release me.

I stand up and brush myself off out of nothing other than habit. I am dressed only in skin. That's an advantage to having a secluded house to myself. It's a matter of comfort, not how I plan to entertain guests. I'll be dressed before they arrive, not that I'm much of a sight. I am merely bones and pasty skin of a similar color.

My chair is next to a marble fireplace that has exactly seven silver picture frames, aligned at precise angles, on its mantle. Each, showcases a different childhood moment with my parents.

I could've chosen more recent entries from the Rothschild family album, but these were from my preteens, a time when my parents and I much preferred each other's company, before I knew who we were.

A black, leather sectional wraps around the back of my sunken living room and a gaudy chandelier dangles its elegant pendalogues over my head. My interest lies in my reflection.

It stares back at me through a mirror mounted above the mantle. Its ornate frame has silver heads and torsos from Greek mythology. I like collecting things from those who've decency to admit they're made up.

I'm tall enough to see my collarbone while on tiptoe, but nothing more without stepping up to the hardwood floors. I take care in my appearance, but I wouldn't consider myself attractive, not to who I've interest in.

I've brown hair that can pass as blonde and blue eyes that are subtle enough to be black, as they never appear in photos. My best feature is a nondescript jawline that allows me to blend in, though my parents would beg to differ. They spent thousands on a perfect, practiced smile that I suppose makes my face look kind and I admittedly use to my advantage.

My phone vibrates in two long pulses, so I pick it up straightaway. It's the same person, but the pulses denote urgency. The text from Andreas: I can't make it. Family emergency. It's followed by sirens and an arsenal of sad emojis.

It's rubbish, but I cannot call him on it. I clasp my lips and peer down at the coffee table in front of me. There's a trigonometry book, pens and loose paper, including an answer sheet.

I tutor my love interests for free because they're failing and found a need for me. I pick up all the loose papers and rip them to shreds before thinking better of it, then toss them into the fireplace.

I write, That's awful! Promise to let me know if there's a way I can help! I place our food order and text Nehemiah: Andreas cannot make it. Can you pick up from Luciano's on your way?

Luciano's is an expensive Italian restaurant that I treat them to every once in awhile. Nehemiah must pass it on his way here. It's paid for, so I know he'll agree. After all, I do it for his sake. He detests spending frivolously on delivery since our finances are so different and this will make the meal seem less of a handout.

The simulation makes poor, prideful people predictable, in that way. I set the phone down without waiting for a response. He'll be at work for another half hour.

I walk the hall bordering my bar-style kitchen and stop at the covered quarter-turn staircase. There are three, but this one is closest. I notice the red, five-gallon jerrycan still setting on my quartz counter top, I run it out to the garage and return to climb the stairs.

I have to go upstairs to get dressed since I'm too paranoid to move into the master suite at ground level. Or it could be due diligence. Either way, I don't intend on letting the simulation take me out so easily.

I do not believe it wishes me dead, but I do think my contentment has irked it in the worst way. I cannot imagine it'll stay appeased by the unhappiness it wrought from bringing me here.

After all, it's a glorious upgrade from my original destination that was 5952 square feet smaller. In typical Rothschild fashion, my parents threw money at my problem until it went away.

Moving out here was course correction, but I don't care to get into details just yet. None of that matters—which is the most entitled statement ever, but true nonetheless.

My focus is on love, being loved. I am not greedy. I do not want to be loved by all or even most, just two people, two men. And I'm not asking them to change their orientation this time. Andreas is bisexual, Nehemiah is openly gay and I'm willing to trick them into loving me. I'll even approximate loving them back and my approximation, I guarantee, is at least as good as the real thing.

I saunter into my walk-in closet and spend an unreasonably long time looking over options in my robust wardrobe. I know exactly what I'll wear. I knew before I left my living room. I slip on blue skinny jeans and a plain blue shirt. Neither have discernible logos, but nothing in my closet costs less than $200.

I do not care about my birthday, it is merely an opportunity. I only invited Nehemiah and Andreas. I told them I want to be with real friends on my birthday, that I want smiles, not presents. Perhaps, the smiles scared Andreas off, but it seemed like the right thing to say.

I cannot say whether they are real friends, but they aren't using me for much more than my tutoring services. Nehemiah relates to me more so than most and Andreas will be too overwhelmed with guilt to actually stand me up, knowing he's half my guest list. The simulation made them good people with morals, not a pretender, like me.

I take my time trekking downstairs. If either of them text, I don't want to seem as desperate as I am. I have it all planned out. I've gone over every scenario, even the one where Andreas doesn't show, though I haven't plotted out one for Nehemiah's absence.

Everything I know about him, has him arriving short of the unspeakable. The simulation won't let him die, not when his life is on its first ever downturn. It'd be an epic waste of hard-planned efforts. I see the thumbs up emoji in our chat window and return to my Tron chair.