“Precisely,” Konstantine murmurs before he takes a sip of the vintage Bordeaux that Antonio has poured for him. “But we must not appear overeager. Let the dust settle, let the world mourn their lost leader for a few months. Let the aid agencies and news vultures pick the carcass clean. Then, our attention should turn north and east. Their neighbours are weak, their governments corruptible. This instability is a door, and we have the key.”
Antonio murmurs his agreement. “A measured approach is wise. We plant the seed now, but we harvest the entire region later.”
I stay a silent, trembling statue as they dissect countries and economies with the detached precision of surgeons. They speak of millions of people as pawns, of nations as game boards. The sheer scale of their casual power is utterly terrifying.
And all while I am here, sat at their feet, being fed scraps from my Master’s plate.
Would my father have done this, would he have sat at this polished table and spoken in such a detached way about millions of people’s lives? In my heart I know the answer to that, and I know my mother would have sat beside him, silent and dutiful.
The dinner plates are cleared. A port is poured, the deep ruby liquid catching the light from the crystal decanter and looking closer to blood in this moment.
The conversation becomes lower, more relaxed, but no less heavy with import.
I feel a tiny, foolish flicker of hope. Perhaps it is almost over. Perhaps they will leave and I will have survived by being invisible, by being perfect.
Then Konstantine sets his glass down with a soft, definitive click. “Shall we retire to the smoking room for cigars? The business of the evening is concluded, so now just a little pleasure remains.”
The words are a polite suggestion, but they carry the weight of a command and they send a fresh, ice-cold wave of terror through me. The ‘pleasure remains’. I know what that means, I know what happens next. The flicker of hope is snuffed out, replaced by a rising tide of pure panic.
My breathing hitches, and I press my palms flat against my thighs to stop them from shaking.
The men begin to rise, their chairs scraping against the floor. Antonio stands with them, playing the perfect host. “Please, gentlemen, go through. Everything is prepared. I will join you momentarily.”
They file out of the dining room, their voices fading down the hall. For one breathtaking, delusional second, I think he is dismissing me. That my performance was adequate, that I am to be sent to my room, spared whatever awaits in that smoke-filled room beyond. That I have been perfect enough.
He turns to me and the hope dies a swift, brutal death.
“Stand,” he says.
My legs are weak, trembling from kneeling for so long, and from sheer fear. I push myself up, my body feeling alien and uncooperative.
He steps close, his presence overwhelming. He lifts my chin with two fingers, forcing my terrified eyes to meet his. There is no warmth there, only possession and a sharp, warning glint.
“Remember your place,” he whispers, the words a venomous caress.
A whimper escapes me, a tiny, broken sound I cannot contain. It is a sign of weakness, of imperfection.
He tuts, soft, disapproving in a way that is more frightening than a shout. His eyes leave my face, and he turns to the table, to the remnants of the port as he picks up his own untouched glass. From his waistcoat pocket he produces a small, clear capsule. Without ceremony he cracks it between his thumb and forefinger and lets the liquid seep into the deep red liquid as he swirls the glass gently.
He holds it out to me.
My heart seizes. Is this the same thing he gave me last time? The same drug that made me lose myself? My body screams at me to refuse, to knock the glass from his hand and run.
But I remember his warning.
“Those men are going to fuck you.” He says, so matter of fact. “You can either scream, fight and suffer through it or you can drink this now and ease your pain, ease your memories. The choice is yours.”
I stare back at the glass and I suddenly, desperately want whatever this drug is. I don’t care if it makes me the whore they want me to be, I don’t care if it knocks me out entirely. I want oblivion, I want nothing. I want whatever this will do to me if it promises to make the next few hours more bearable.
My hand trembles violently as I reach out and take the heavy crystal glass. The eyes of the painted portraits on the walls seem to watch me, and the silence of the room is deafening.
I bring the glass to my lips. The port is sweet and thick but I can taste a faint, bitter chemical undertone. I drink it all, desperate to get it over with. The liquid burns a path down to my stomach, where it sits like a lead weight.
A smile touches Antonio’s lips. A cold, satisfied curve that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Good girl.”
He takes the empty glass from my limp hand and sets it aside. Then his fingers wrap around my wrist, not hard, but with an inescapable firmness. The touch is a brand.
He then pushes me back, onto the table and spreads my legs.
