I'm getting to him.
Or I hope I am.
A knock at the door breaks my spiral. I swear, there's always someone knocking. This one's slower, quieter. Hmm...new management, maybe? Or just someone who actually respects personal space. Shocking, if true.
Two women enter in dark uniforms, pushing a rack draped in white cloth and a smaller cart that gleams with polished chrome. They look like they stepped out of a high-end fashion magazine, all sleek hair and understated elegance.
"Are we doing a makeover montage?" I ask, trying for my usual breezy influencer tone. It feels a little forced, even to me. "Because if so, I want my own theme song. Something with a really sick beat drop."
They don't reply, or even offer a faint smile. Just glide the rack into the dressing area, their movements silent, almost robotic. Then they peel back the white sheet to reveal sleek, neutral clothes. Blazers. Silk blouses. Tailored dresses. Not asequin in sight. Nothing neon. Nothing me. It's all beige. And gray. And the kind of dark navy that disappears into the shadows.
Then they unveil the cart of velvet-lined skincare cases. Tiny, ridiculously expensive gold spoons for applying face cream. Designer creams in heavy glass jars. Products I've seen in unboxings on my FYP, products I dreamed of owning, not in real life.
"Oh, wow," I mutter, picking up a stiletto from a carefully arranged pair on a velvet tray. It's simple. Black. Pointed. Expensive. And soul-sucking boring. It's the kind of shoe a CEO wears with a pants suit to a board meeting to project power, not the kind of shoe a social media star wears to go clubbing.
"I guess this is what Option One looks like. QueenNikki in exile, brought to you by the color beige and the concept of utter, complete blandness."
Well, this is it…my erasure in real time.
They don't react and continue to hang the clothes with precise movements, then placing the bottles with meticulous care. Their faces are impassive, betraying no emotion. They're either programmed or dead inside.
My fingers tighten around the shoe, the sharp heel digging into my palm. This is what he thinks I want? To be erased? To be softened into silence with luxury silk and thousand-euro serums? To be scrubbed clean of everything that makes me who I am? Does he think I'll just melt because he upgraded my prison with expensive skin care?
"Rafe," I say aloud, my words rising, scanning the room for a hidden camera, because I know he's watching. He has to be. "Hey asshole! You think this wins me over? You think I'm that easily bought?"
No answer. No response. Just two unbothered women, their faces blank, placing shoes, folding scarves, arranging jewelry as if I'm not standing here, screaming into the void.
It makes me furious.
A hot, rage flares in my chest.
I rear back, the stiletto clutched in my hand, and hurl it at the nearest wall. It hits with a soft thud, a pathetic, anticlimactic sound. Not a crash. Not a satisfying shatter of glass. Just a scuff mark on the expensive wallpaper. The heel didn't even break off.
They don't flinch at my tantrum. They continue their work. And somehow, that's worse than if they'd flinched. Worse than if they'd yelled.
Their indifference is a chilling reminder of how little my rebellion matters here, how utterly insignificant my anger is in this world.
His world.
I sink onto the bed, suddenly exhausted. The anger burns out as fast as it sparked, leaving me empty. I look around at the glossy armor laid out for me. New face. New look. New collar around my neck. He thinks he's controlling me.
But he can't erase me. Not even close.
Beneath all this beige and the silk and the oppressive silence, the fire's still burning. It's just burning quieter now. More controlled. More strategic.
He wants to turn QueenNikki into a mannequin.
A silent, beautiful puppet to control.
Instead, I'll give him a wildfire.
A wildfire dressed in beige, yes, but a wildfire nonetheless.
He has no idea what he's unleashed and then, when he least expects it, I'll take over his goddamn freak show.
I walk over to the clothes rack and pull out a sleek, boring, dark dress. It's exactly what he'd want. "It's okay, I'm fine," I say, giving a smile to the silent women, my words calm now,controlled. "Help me pick something out. I need to make a good first impression, don't I?"
They exchange a glance, then nod.
