Cleopatra
I woke to a cacophony of screeching noises and overlapping voices. Groaning, I squeezed my eyes shut. What the hell was happening? The noise was an assault on my ears.
"Argh, make it stop," I croaked, my throat dry and scratchy.
My head pounded, and my body felt heavy. It took a moment for the fog in my brain to clear and the memory of the bathroom incident to crash into me. My eyes snapped open, and I tried to sit up, only to find myself bound to a chair. My heart sank. I was restrained, unable to move, and utterly alone.
I scanned the dimly lit room, squinting to focus on my surroundings. It was bare and unfamiliar. Where was I?
A grating sound pulled my attention to the far corner of the room. A TV flickered, its screen oddly distorted as though it were cobbled together from mismatched parts. A national news channel played, and my stomach lurched at what I saw: my name, my face, splashed across the headlines.
"Breaking news: Business tycoon Cleopatra Santiga, queen of the entertainment industry, has been exposed as a mafia princess, the daughter of Fredrick Santiga."
My breath hitched, and the words blurred as a wave of nausea hit me. Who was behind this? Who would destroy everything I'd built with my own hands?
The TV droned on, but my mind buzzed too loudly to focus. Desperately, I glanced at the floor and spotted a remote near my toes. Stretching as far as I could, I used my big toe to press the center button. Relief flooded me when the channel changed—briefly.
Every station showed the same story. Click. Another channel. Click. And another. No matter how many times I pressed the button, the accusations followed me, haunting me like a ghost I couldn't escape.
"Cleopatra Santiga, allegedly arrested for possession of Crystal—a new illicit drug—has reportedly been at the center of its manufacturing and distribution. Sources claim she amassed a fortune for her mafia family through this operation."
My chest tightened. I had never dealt with drugs. I made it a point to avoid that world and ensured no one in my circle did either. This couldn't be real. It wasn't real.
"Show yourself!" I screamed, my voice hoarse and trembling. "Don't be a coward—face me!"
Silence answered. Then, a faint creak. My head whipped toward the sound, my eyes straining to see. A figure emerged from the shadows, tall and imposing. My heart skipped a beat as recognition struck.
"Don?" I whispered, disbelief coating my voice.
His face was unmistakable—sculpted and unforgettable. But something was wrong. He wasn't walking like a fellow captive. No, he moved with the ease of someone who owned the place.
"Don, what's going on?" I stammered. "Why am I tied up? Is your family behind this?"
He said nothing, his expression a mask of cold detachment. Sitting across from me, he grabbed a remote and raised the TV volume. I had no choice but to listen.
"Cleopatra Santiga has been accused of abusing her husband, Don Vincent, a beloved actor. Sources allege she humiliated him, forcing him to do menial tasks like washing her undergarments."
I stared at the screen, dumbfounded. No one touched my personal belongings—not even my maids. I did my own laundry.
"Don, this is absurd!" I exclaimed, but his silence was deafening.
Without a word, he changed the channel again. Each report painted me as a villain. My breaths grew shallow. What was happening?
Then, without warning, something sharp rained down on me. Flinching, I shut my eyes as dozens of photographs fell to the floor. When I dared to look, I froze. They were of me—in lingerie.
"What is this? Why do you have pictures of my lingerie?" I asked, a bitter smirk tugging at my lips. "What is this? Some sick joke?"
His response was chilling. "Who is he?"
"What?"
"The man you cheated on me with."
"I never—" I started, but my words were cut off by a cold, viscous liquid pouring over me. I gasped, the suffocating scent of oil invading my senses.
"Don, please—"
"Lie to me again, and something worse will fall."
My protests fell on deaf ears. Each attempt to explain, each denial, brought another round of liquid cascading over me. My skin burned from the suffocating mix, my voice reduced to desperate gasps.
"Your cousin, Wendy, sent me the photos," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "She told me everything. I verified it myself."
Wendy. Of course. My traitorous uncle's family.
My eyes met his, and what I saw chilled me to the core. His gaze was cold, calculating—a predator who had already made up his mind.
"Why didn't you just divorce me?" I croaked. "Why go through all this?"
"Divorce?" he repeated, a cruel smile curling his lips. "In the mafia, Cleopatra, 'till death do us part isn't just a phrase. I thought your father taught you better."
He stood and turned on the TV once more.
"Breaking news: Cleopatra Santiga has reportedly murdered her husband, Don Vincent, before taking her own life on an exotic island. Authorities are investigating."
I stared at the screen, disbelief twisting my features. "But I'm not dead—"
The gunshot cut me off. My head jerked back, pain exploding through me. As my vision dimmed, my final thought betrayed me.
He's so... dangerous. So commanding. So... alluring.
Was I trembling from fear—or from admiration? It didn't matter. The world went black.