Madeline - London, 2026
"Are you going to sleep with me tonight?" Jackson whispers, his face so close to mine I can feel the heat of his breath grazing my skin. His fingers slide along my waist as he moves forward, trapping me in a dark corner, behind the heavy curtains. It is the third time he has posed this question since we arrived at the party.
I let my gaze drift through the mansion's garden, tracing the flutter of banners in the blossom-scented night wind. Women costumed as Greek nymphs play harps, plucking a slow, hypnotic melody that tangles with the low hum of conversation and distant chime of laughter. I part my lips to answer him, but no words come out... I don't know what to say.
All I want is to find reasons to keep myself alive. Find some sort of spark or strength to climb from the pit and remake myself. I ache to live the good things this world promised me, grasp that happy ending that seemed destined for others, yet eluded me.
There was a time when I held it all together, a semblance of a life neatly arranged. I had a job, hope for the future, dreams… and back then, I wanted Jackson, I was in love.
But my life has turned upside down and among the ruins where I find myself now, Jackson has lost his importance. Perhaps some sentiment lingers, buried deep, but it feels hollow, stripped of all its former meaning.
Also; must remind myself... he has failed me before. When we first met, I was looking for a serious relationship, not merely a casual diversion. But after a few dates and some kisses, he ghosted me. Soon after, I saw on social media that he was out and about with some other girl.
I was hurt, yes, but not surprised. To be replaced, overlooked, discarded—this has always been the refrain of my story.
Now, he returns. Saying he missed me... That he thought about me, admitting he was a jerk in the past, but insisting this time it would be different.
Is that not what they all say?
I have been keeping my guard up, for this is the worst possible moment... Yesterday I tried to kill myself. I can't get involved with anyone right now; I'm numb inside. Broken.
A ruin I don't know how to rebuild. I'm tired of my life, of the world, of carrying the heavy burden that is my own existence.
Oh no! I don't want to think about that, not now...
I realize Jackson's hands are sliding over my body, between kisses and whispers in my ear, begging for an answer. But I still don't know what to say. So I run. I simply vanish, slipping away between statues of Olympian gods and columns wrapped in vines. Clutching my purse to my chest, I dart across the dimly lit garden.
I need a drink… I reckon.
I make my way to the bar. The air hangs thick with fancy perfume, wine and a low murmur of voices. Masked figures, costumed as gods and satyrs, drift through the columned hallways. The glowing orbs do not illuminate but deepen the shadows, painting lewd shapes upon the walls.
"They say this party ends in a bacchanal," I heard a woman talk earlier in the bathroom. I don't doubt it. The rich enjoy these kinds of kinks, and this place truly has the vibes... a sense that something libidinous is about to happen at any moment.
What wounds me most is the dawning understanding of Jackson's intention in bringing me here. I was a fool to believe he might actually be interested in me as a person. His question echoes in my mind, leaving a bitter taste, a sting on my tongue… Disappointment.
Jackson was just like all the others. Just another man who wants me only for sex. I'm tired of it, tired of everything. Why did I come to this stupid party anyways?
When I cross the French doors toward the indoor bar, I nearly lose my breath. The room is staggering, with a double staircase at the center and chandeliers above glittering like jewels. At the far end, floor-to-ceiling windows lay the entire city at our feet.
It's disgusting how unfair this world is! While I lose sleep over whether I'll have enough money to pay my rent at the end of the month, others live like this...
My thin heels echo against the black-and-white marble, drawing more attention than I desire. I wish to shrink into myself, to silence the sound, to disappear. Every glance that turns my way seems to confirm a truth I feel within: I don't belong here.
I lean against the cold bar counter, waiting for my drink, but my mind keeps spiralling back to the familiar places that hurt… and to the inescapable truth that I cannot avoid Jackson for long. Coming here has been a mistake...
After yesterday's breakdown, I'm clinging to Jackson simply to keep myself from shattering. Tonight is the last chance, a final, fragile thread of hope I'm offering to life itself.
Oh, these thoughts again. This is not the moment to let myself wander down that road.
My eyes burn with tears as I try to steady my trembling hands, pulling out a chair only to have it slip from my grasp. Damn these impractical black silk gloves sheathing my arms to the elbows.
Someone laughs.
"Goddess Nyx, right?" a smooth yet intruding voice comes from my side.
I turn to find a tall, blond stranger, pale and enigmatic as a vampire, regarding me with a mischievous smile.
I catch my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. The red lipstick still flawless. Only beneath is crumbling. I clench my jaw, as though I could physically hold back the sobs. I swallow the drink slowly, forcing the pain down my throat, but the silent fracture inside my chest remains, wide open.
"I mean... your costume... the primordial goddess of the night." He continues, gesturing to my dress and swirling the ice in his glass. "Everyone else here chose white, or red, or gold… and then there's us. The only ones in black." His smile deepens. "Feels like it was meant to be."
Nodding, I offer a faint, awkward smile and turn away, hoping to end the conversation. It fails.
"I'm the God of Death," he insists, opening his arms theatrically. "Sounds poetic, right? I think it fits me. But you…" His lynx-like grey eyes gleam with mischief. "...you don't need a costume to embody the night, do you? You are already half in love with the darkness."
My breath hitches. I fight the blush, exasperated, thoughts racing as I turn to face him. My lips part for a rebuttal, but he leans in, awkwardly close, breaching the space with a whisper for my ears alone.
"Tell me I'm wrong."