The Prototype

38. Game Over

TEMPEST

The soft whisper of my emerald green furry slippers, perfectly matching the silk emerald pajamas draped over my body, echoing through the endless polished hallway. Each step intentional, slower than necessary, a quiet rebellion against the day that will be unbearable. Another Saturday. Another horse race. Another day of pretending to care about Marcellus' ridiculous world. The drag of fabric against the floor felt like the only protest I could offer without saying a word.

Horse races. Bets. Overly competitive men in their tailored suits, barking about their prized stallions, puffing out their chests like they're masters of the universe. Meanwhile, I'm suffocating, silently wishing for all this shit to be over. Watching these men circle Marcellus like vultures, hoping for his favor, praying for the big payday and the bragging rights that come with doing business with him, is enough to make me nauseous.

And me? I'm forced to act the part of Marcellus' lady, his prize. As if I would choose him for anything, let alone something real. I wouldn't piss on him if he were on fire. I wouldn't want him to use his last bottle of water on me if I were on fire in the middle of a desert. The thought of his hands on me, the smell of his strong, overbearing cologne suffocating the air between us—turns my stomach every time. Those dark, cold eyes always on me, waiting for a slip, a tell, watching me like I'm some piece of his empire he needs to control.

I told myself I'll try. I said I'll give this whole charade a real shot because, God knows, it seems like playing along is the only way to survive the estate. Pretending to be his girlfriend, smiling through the stench of power and arrogance, pretending I care about his peers—it's like I'm watching myself from the outside, floating through this nightmare.

And then there's Vincenzo. Always lurking in the shadows, watching me with that unnerving gaze, stalking my every move like a hawk circling its prey. Leaving me cryptic breadcrumbs like I'm some bird ready to take his bait. Clearly he thinks he and I have some sort of telepathic connection with all the subtle hints he keeps dropping that leaves me even more confused than before and it's starting to annoy the hell out of me. This maybe a chess game to Marcellus for him to enjoy but for me it's like a never ending menstrual cycle.

I reached the grand staircase and took the first step, trailing my fingers along the banister. The cool, polished wood beneath my fingertips stood in sharp contrast to the heat simmering beneath my skin. Dragging out each step, my feet moving slower with every inch, as if stalling would somehow delay the inevitable. The moment I'll have to put on the mask again. The charm, the fake smiles, the careful facade of the perfect companion. God, I hate this role.

Unfortunately, I wasn't walking slow enough. I reached my room all too soon, the door looming before me like the start of another battle. I opened it and stepped inside, closing it behind me with a soft thud. The sound feeling almost final, like sealing off a brief moment of peace before stepping into the war zone again. Leaning back against the door, I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply, forcing myself to calm the lingering feeling of today.

Opening my eyes, they immediately landed on the floor-to-ceiling windows across the room. Sunlight streaming in, golden and warm, spilling across the floors in sharp contrast to the icy dread settling in my bones. The birds outside flew in carefree arcs across the bright, cloudless sky.

With a sigh that felt like it carried the weight of the day, I pushed myself off the door and moved across the room, passing the oversized bed draped in silk sheets and a thick plush comforter, towards the bathroom. The lights flickering on as I stepped inside, revealing the masterpiece of the estate's idea of luxury. Expansive, cold, impersonal—just like everything else here. I walked to the shower, pulling open the heavy glass door.