I really did not understand the thinking of this woman. I never did during high school, and I still don't. Back then, she was the kind of girl who sat in the back of the classroom, quietly observing everyone with those sharp, calculating eyes of hers. She never raised her hand, never joined a club, never seemed to care about the things the rest of us obsessed over. Yet somehow, she always knew things. Things she had no business knowing. Who was cheating on who. Who was failing which class. Who had money troubles at home. She moved through the hallways like a ghost who had already read the ending of every story playing out around her. And now, years later, she had materialized again — in the flesh, at this absurd gathering — wearing that same unreadable expression.
"Do you not agree with my proposal? I know your situation, and I can tell that you're in no position to decline."
The way she said it — so measured, so clinical — it was as if she were discussing the weather, not something that could unravel whatever fragile thread I was still hanging by. Her tone carried no malice. That was the worst part. Malice I could have handled. Malice would have given me something to push against. But this? This was worse. This was the quiet certainty of someone who had already mapped out every possible move I could make and had prepared for all of them.
She paused, as if waiting for my response. The silence between us stretched like a wire pulled taut, vibrating with something I couldn't name. None of it felt real. It was as if someone had placed a glass dome over the two of us, and the rest of the world had become nothing but blurred shapes and muffled sounds.
"If — if you could give me some thinking space, then I would give you a clear answer," I said, my voice trembling. I hated that it trembled. I hated that she could hear it. I hated that she probably expected it.
She didn't react. Not a flicker of surprise, not a hint of disappointment or satisfaction. She simply looked at me the way a surgeon looks at an X-ray — with detached, professional interest.
"I'll be in Room 306. Knock softly."
With that, she left. Left me with unanswered questions piling up.
I stood there for a long moment, staring at the space she had just occupied. The air still held a faint trace of her perfume — something expensive, something that didn't belong in any store I'd ever walked into. It lingered, curling into my senses like smoke, refusing to dissipate.
Was this something rich people always do? Do they hold weird parties like this, all the time? Gather in sprawling mansions with marble floors and crystal chandeliers, drinking wine that costs more than a month's rent, and casually ruin each other's lives between courses? Was this just... Tuesday for them? Of course, I couldn't ignore my father's wealth that i had thrown away, but this was a different level. I looked around the room — at the tailored suits, the designer dresses, the easy smiles that never quite reached the eyes — and I felt like a stray dog that had wandered into a wolf's den by accident.
And why me? Why me, and why drag Jeff into this mess?
Jeff, who had nothing to do with any of this. The thought of him — blissful, oblivious Jeff — made something twist in my chest. Guilt, maybe. Or fear. These days, I couldn't tell the difference between the two.
I reached for the nearest surface — a marble-topped side table — and steadied myself. My reflection stared back at me from a gilded mirror on the wall, and I barely recognized the man looking back, and the expensive clothes that I was dolled with didn't hide my imperfections. Hollow cheeks. Dark circles carved deep beneath bloodshot eyes. A jaw that had forgotten how to set itself with confidence. My tie was loosened, my collar wrinkled, and there was a small stain near my cuff that I hadn't noticed until now. I looked like what I was: a man drowning, pretending he knew how to swim.
I couldn't even recognize myself anymore. The young, authoritative man who took life by the balls was no longer in sight. Where had he gone? When exactly had he slipped away?
Did he vanish when I grovelled at her feet for money two days ago?
I promised myself. That I wouldn't be led anymore. That I wouldn't follow the lead of people who were supposed to be below me. That's how it was, and that's how it should be.
Tap, tap.
The sound was pathetic. Barely a whisper against the heavy wood. I hated how small it made me sound—how small she had made me feel. But I waited, my heart slamming against my ribs, for the lock to turn.
The lock turned, and behind it was a young service girl.
The room was beautiful. Not as big as the one I came out of, but just as fancy, and even more ornamented. Where the ballroom had been designed to impress — to overwhelm with scale and grandeur — this space was engineered for intimacy. For secrets. The walls were papered in a deep burgundy silk, pinned with delicate brass tacks that caught the warm glow of the overhead light. A vanity sat against one wall, its surface cluttered with antique perfume bottles and a silver-handled hairbrush that looked like it belonged in a museum. Heavy velvet curtains — the color of dried blood — framed a single window that had been draped shut. No escape. No view. Just the two of us, sealed in this velvet coffin.
The air was thicker here. Warmer. It carried the scent of old wood polish and something floral — jasmine, maybe, or gardenia — layered beneath that same expensive perfume she wore. A single armchair sat in the corner, tufted and upholstered in dark leather, looking like a throne reserved for someone who expected to be obeyed. She wasn't sitting in it. She was standing by the window, one hand resting on the curtain's edge, her posture relaxed in a way that made my skin crawl. Like a cat who had already cornered its prey and was simply deciding how to play with it before the kill.
"Have you had your time? Or should I give you the next week?" she asked, mocking me. I hated that. I hated the slight upturn at the corner of her mouth, the way her eyes glittered with amusement that felt personal. Like my struggle — my visible, pathetic struggle — was entertainment for her. A private joke that only she understood the punchline to.
My jaw tightened. She wanted a reaction. She had always wanted a reaction, even back in high school. That was the thing about her — she fed on the emotional responses of others like a vampire feeds on blood. Deny her that, and you took away half her power.
"If you would, then I would. I accept," I said, my voice stronger. I was surprised by how steady it came out. Maybe some part of that old me — the one who took life by the balls — was still in there somewhere, buried under the rubble. "If I do put on a show, you'll give me that raise?"
"It is dependent on how well you do. I may be rich, but I do not throw away money for no reason. Make yourself useful, and you'll be rewarded. Hold on to this." she pointed out as she tossed a black mask, before leaving promptly. It looked like a traditional Japanese mask, straight out of some drama series.
Time passed as I stared blankly into the mask.
My time was up