Emily
Evening slowly descends upon the city. The streetlights cast a golden glow on the damp sidewalks, and the air is saturated with that metallic scent signaling an imminent rain.
I stand before the mirror, my fingers gliding along the black fabric of my dress. Thin, form-fitting, elegant, it hugs every curve of my body like a second skin. The straps are so delicate that they threaten to slip with every movement, and the plunging neckline reveals just enough skin to make it a controlled provocation.
I apply my makeup carefully, accentuating my eyes with a precise line of eyeliner, a deep red on my lips. My reflection returns a cold and controlled image. The perfect picture of a woman who knows how to play her game.
But inside, it's chaos.
Victorio's invitation lies on the bedside table, its golden script faintly glowing under the dim light of the room. "Tonight. 8 PM. Be ready."
I don't want to go.
No.
I have to go.
Because fleeing now would mean giving him the satisfaction. Showing him that he frightens me. That he has power over me.
And I can't give him that satisfaction.
I grab a pair of black heels, slip them on, and grab a small handbag. My heart beats loudly in my chest as I descend the stairs of my building, my heels clicking on the tile.
A black car is parked right in front. Simple, luxurious, with tinted windows. A chauffeur in a suit gets out, opens the door for me without a word.
I settle into the back, crossing my legs.
— Where are you taking me? I ask coldly.
— Victorio is waiting for you, the chauffeur replies as he starts the engine.
Of course he is waiting for me.
I sink into the seat, the cold leather against my bare skin. The streets blur into a haze of lights. My heart races too fast, my thoughts swirling.
When the car finally stops, I immediately recognize the place. An isolated villa, nestled atop a hill overlooking the city. The gates open slowly, and the chauffeur leads me to the main entrance.
— He's waiting for you inside, he says as he opens the door for me.
I step out, my heels clicking against the marble floor. The door opens before me.
Victorio is there.
He stands in the center of the room, a glass of whiskey in hand, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit. The soft light from the chandeliers casts shadows on his chiseled face.
— Emily, he murmurs, taking me in from head to toe.
His gaze lingers on the dress, the curve of my hip, the hollow of my chest.
I stand tall, chin up.
— Victorio.
He smiles slightly, approaching slowly.
— You came.
— You didn't really leave me a choice.
— You had a choice, Emily. You just decided to come.
He stops right in front of me, close enough for me to feel the warmth emanating from his body. My breath quickens despite myself.
— Why am I here? I ask.
— To play.
I frown.
— Play at what?
He leans towards my ear, his breath brushing against my skin.
— At a game where there is only one winner.
I gently push him away, but he grabs my hand, his grip firm yet not aggressive.
— Follow me.
I stare at him for a moment, then follow. He leads me through a long hallway adorned with old paintings, to a large room lit by crystal chandeliers. A gaming table stands in the center, surrounded by leather chairs.
Men and women in evening attire are seated around, glasses of champagne in hand. A muffled, yet tense atmosphere hangs in the air.
— Take a seat, Victorio whispers, indicating an armchair.
I sit down, crossing my legs. Victorio sits next to me.
A dealer enters, shuffling a deck of cards.
— Poker, Victorio declares.
I frown.
— You think I'm going to play?
— You're already playing, Emily.
I look at him, my jaw tightening.
— What do you want from me, Victorio?
He smiles.
— For you to be honest. For you to stop pretending you can resist me.
I lean towards him, my hand brushing against his knee under the table.
— And if I win?
His gaze darkens.
— Then I will leave you alone.
— And if I lose?
He leans closer, his mouth brushing against my ear.
— Then you will belong to me.
A shiver runs down my spine.
— You're sick.
— Maybe. But you're still here.
The dealer begins to deal the cards. My heart races.
I take my cards. An ace of spades, a queen of hearts.
— Good hand, Victorio murmurs, looking at my cards over my shoulder.
I glare at him.
— Are you cheating already?
He smiles.
— No. But I'm good at reading you.
I grit my teeth.
— Stop underestimating me.
— Show me what you're capable of, then.
The game begins. The stakes rise. Victorio remains calm, his dark gaze fixed on me each round. I win the first hand. Then a second.
— Impressive, he murmurs.
— This is just the beginning.
One last round. A palpable tension fills the room. I play my final card.
— Full house.
I reveal my cards.
A murmur sweeps through the room.
Victorio smiles, but his gaze darkens.
— Well played.
He stands, approaches me, and reaches for my face.
— But you still haven't won the real game, he whispers.
I rise, my eyes locked on his.
— We'll see.
He takes my hand and kisses it gently.
— The game has only just begun, Emily.