After getting that second sample, he left the room with a satisfied smirk.
He played me. That motherfucker played me.
I hope I had gastro-acidic, stinky breath at least. And what about my food?
I'd stopped hoping someone would come for me days ago. Did he fool me? Yes. Did he also crush the last flicker of hope I had left? Also yes. But who cares?
Where is my food?
He even took the crouton. That mushy, pathetic crouton. I have nothing.
Claus entered the room after a while. Empty-handed, I might add.
"Had fun playing the policeman?"
No response. Just that look—like a mischievous puppy that got yelled at by its owner. The bitch was probably under Emiliano's orders not to speak.
He opened the door and gestured for me to go up. Back into the kitchen. Same one I'd first seen when I arrived.
The air still smelled like laundry detergent. And pancakes. And coffee.
Oh God.
I didn't care who was in the room. My eyes locked on the plate in front of me. I could barely see anything else.
I think there were strangers. I think Emiliano was talking. Maybe showing me something?
Too busy stuffing my face. I can't focus. My stomach growls in my ears. I'm about to choke, but I can't stop. I use my hands. I spill orange juice down my chest. I think I'm crying. I'm not sure.
"Well, this is not what I expected," Emiliano chuckles.
That smug, irritating voice pulls me halfway back into the room.
Claus sits behind him, head down. Three buffed men in bodyguard uniforms stand near the counter. And there's a camera.
He's filming me.
"Are you going to blackmail me with that?" I ask between bites. "'Cause people will say I'm relatable and make memes. And, however embarrassing that might be, it's still publicity. Might even improve my image in Parliament, even if I lose respect."
Emiliano chuckles again.
"I just need to film an interview for our sponsor."
Sponsor?
Someone is paying for this?
Who would—
Lucrezia.
That old, wrinkly witch.
She barged into my office a few weeks ago, thinking she had the upper hand. She'd discovered what my flower really is. Threatened to go to the police.
If she had, it wouldn't have been just me behind bars. My entire family. I'm an unlawful flower, after all. I should've been sent into confinement, sealed away from the world.
Can you imagine my father's career if word got out?
Over.
She wanted a marriage contract with her nephew. And forty percent of our family's funds and voting shares.
Expensive bitch.
So I pulled a plan. Made a grand reveal right in front of her—prosthetics, hallucinogens, the whole show. All courtesy of the "charming" nephew who thought betraying his aunt would win me over.
Cute bastard. Still an idiot.
And now? After buying into whatever lie I sold her, she pays this psycho to kidnap me?
Jesus, lady. Don't you have other hobbies besides me?
Love Island might have a new episode for you, you drama-starved hag.
I catch my breath. I feel like throwing up.
You know when you're young and you stuff all your clothes into the closet, and then the door bursts open and everything spills out?
That's what my stomach feels like.
I can't concentrate, and this smug bastard keeps talking. Jesus, does he ever stop?
Can't he see I'm out of it? I can't understand a thing.
Is he explaining something? I think I heard him say my name. Something about my flower?
Who knows? I just stare at him. If I stare at his lips long enough, maybe it'll remind me of our kiss. Motivates me to throw up, you know?
"Are you listening, Luther?"
"Nope."
He smiles, but I catch that eyebrow flinch. Oh, he's mad. Probably doesn't like to repeat himself. Hah. I made him into a parrot.
I don't listen.
I look around.
I could totally take out one or two of these monkey bodyguards. I think. Not now, of course—but give me one or two more meals.
Ugly mugs, the lot of them. I wonder if Emiliano is hiring ugly dudes as a form of community service.
Hah. This guy? Doing charity? Can you imagine?
He looks neat again. Back in the white lab coat. What a shame. Those Levi jeans really brought out the definition in his ass.
He's looking at me. He doesn't smile.
Am I in trouble?
Back in the white room I go, I guess.
Should I just die? Like… of starvation?
My dad would love that. He'd totally milk the grieving father card for sympathy. Might even run for president.
People would so vote for him.
My death could bring my father his biggest achievement, huh?
Then I'd rather eat the floor marble than die and do him that favor.
Wait. Something's happening.
Since when did Claus have a knife? What's with his face?
Wait, wait. He's aiming at Emiliano?!
Did he just stab him?
The monkeys are jumping him. They keep hitting. Emiliano's bleeding from the side?
One of them just threw me over his shoulder and dumped me back in the white room.
Oh God. I can still smell the blood.
What just happened? Why? What did Emiliano say to me before? Is he dead? I don't think so. But there was so much blood.
And Claus? They were beating him to death. He's going to die.
What if they both die?
Who's going to get me out of this room?
Oh my God.
I'm gonna make my dad the fucking president.