I’ve been banging my head against the cushion door for two days straight.
Normally, I’d worry about damaging my National Treasure face—but turns out, it’s the only way to shut the voices up. Even if just for a bit.
In case anyone lost the plot: I’ve been kidnapped and locked in this lovely padded room for... what, three weeks now?
Maybe more?
They even forgot to feed me for a while.
Like a whole week.
Starvation chic.
When they finally dragged me out, I got front-row seats to a catfight.
Pretty sure it ended with my two kidnappers turning each other into fertilizer.
Which leaves me here—dying of hunger, unseen and unfound—because no one knows where I am.
Fun, right?
All I hear in my head is my father’s voice, rehearsing his very dramatic, very fake mourning speech.
The kind he’ll use to boost his popularity in the polls.
My tragic disappearance will look excellent in his presidential campaign.
Besides him, there’s no one else.
Because no one else even remembers I exist.
So yeah.
I’m probably gonna die here.
Alone. Unloved. Unfed.
And I don’t think anyone would actually care.
How very fun.
Wait. Footsteps.
Could be another hallucination.
Could be someone real.
Maybe now that the two psychos have murdered each other, they’re finally gonna make use of my body.
Salami-style.
The door’s opening.
It’s a monkey.
I can’t believe the last face I’m ever gonna see is this ugly.
He’s dragging me back to that cursed living room.
What is this, some kind of execution tradition?
He pushes me into another room.
Change of scenery.
Should I be laughing or crying?
One thing’s clear—one of them’s still alive.
"Sorry for the wait," Emiliano says with that smug little smirk. "We had some internal problems to deal with."
"So... is he dead?"
"Not if he pulls through."
So Claus is alive too.
I don’t know how I feel about that either.
Emiliano clears his throat—dramatically, of course—and lifts his shirt.
A swollen, infected wound stares back at me. Red. Angry. Wet.
Yikes. That actually looks painful.
"I can’t cook for you anymore," he says.
"Oh, so you brought me here to kindly inform me I’ll be starving to death? Or that you’re switching to takeout and plan to skyrocket my cholesterol?"
"I was hoping you could cook."
I stare at him.
"You trust me with fire and knives? Access to gas and a match? I might blow the place up just for the spite of it. I don’t like any of you."
He sighs like I’m the exhausting one.
"Do I really have to explain myself? Think about it this way—you’ll be staying with me. Cooking. Cleaning. Treating my wound. Like a wife, if you will. I get my tests. You get your freedom. One month, and we all pretend this never happened."
"No ring? No wine and dine? Not even flowers?" I scoff. "But you want me performing wifely duties?"
"I believe wifely duties can include more than chores and first aid," he says, eyes sharp. "I’m open to that, too, if you’re feeling lonely. Might be unprofessional—but I trust you won’t rat me out."
"I’d rather go full eunuch."
"That could be arranged too."
I scoff. This guy gives me a migraine. I finally understand why married women always talk about headaches.
This is a waking nightmare.
"If you’re done with your little tantrum," Emiliano says, already reclining like some twisted Victorian patient, "I could use some help cleaning up the wound."
You know what?
Fine.
Maybe if I act useful, I can earn a scrap of trust.
If he’s even capable of something like that.
I step closer. The smell hits first—metallic, sour, and warm.
It’s definitely infected.
"So... what do I do?"
He tilts his head, amused.
"Start by washing your hands. I’d prefer not to die of sepsis from your filthy fingers."
"Oh, but death by malnutrition was on the table two days ago," I mutter, moving to the nearby sink.
"Consistency is for the weak."
I wash up, drying my hands on the scratchy towel he provides.
He motions toward the tray of supplies: gauze, antiseptic, a syringe, sutures.
"Now," he begins, voice slow and smug, "disinfect the area with that bottle. No, not that one—the clear one. Gently."
I grab the bottle, but there’s nothing gentle about the way I pour it over the wound.
He grits his teeth as it splashes.
"I said gently."
"Oh, my bad," I smile sweetly. "I thought you liked a little pain."
He exhales through his nose.
"Next, dab it dry with the gauze. Dab. Not scrub."
Naturally, I scrub.
He flinches.
A muscle in his jaw jumps.
"I see your comprehension skills are still developing," he mutters.
"Sorry. I’ve been held captive in a stress-inducing environment. My IQ dropped below sea level."
I grab the cotton swab, and when he tells me to apply antibiotic cream, I slather it on like I’m frosting a cake.
"That’s... excessive," he says, eyeing the blob of ointment oozing from the wound’s edges.
"You’ll be glowing by tomorrow."
Then comes the bandage. He instructs me how to wrap it, how tight it should be—so naturally, I go one notch tighter.
He winces again.
"If you wanted to cut off circulation, you could’ve just asked."
"I thought that was part of the wifely duties experience," I say, taping it shut. .
He chuckles darkly.
"You’re better at this than you let on." )
"Because hurting you brings me joy."
"Careful," he hums, eyes gleaming. "You might start enjoying this little domestic life."
Yuck.
"So? What now?"
"Now we nap. We’ll eat after. Of course, if you can’t stand the hunger, I could always lead you back to the white room while I get to cooking. The meal should be served in about - I don’t know- two weeks?"
"I was tired anyway"
I grumble something about human rights and saunter toward the bed.
It’s big—of course it is—and smells like expensive laundry detergent and narcissism.
I choose the farthest edge possible.
Back turned to him.
A clear line drawn in the sheets.
Don’t touch me. Don’t talk to me. Don’t breathe in my direction.
The mattress dips behind me.
"Move."
"No."
He pulls.
I cling to the edge, but his grip is steady, unhurried, like dragging in a hooked fish.
"Emiliano, I swear—"
My words die somewhere between his chest and my cheek.
He’s already wrapped an arm around me like I’m the prize he won at a carnival game rigged with trauma.
"Snuggling builds trust," he says, voice airy. "Or was it dependency? Hard to keep track."
"This is creepy," I mutter.
"That’s what makes it effective."
His body is too warm. His heartbeat too calm. The silence stretches... until it doesn’t.
His tone shifts—sinks lower than the mattress beneath us.
"Next week," he says softly, his lips almost grazing my ear, "Killian might visit you."
A pause.
"He’s been such a fan of the process you’ve been through."
My whole body goes rigid.
And Emiliano?
He just pulls me closer.