4. Wolfgang
4
WOLFGANG
“ A nything good today, Bartholomew?” I ask from behind closed eyelids as I enjoy my morning soak in my private bathhouse, my body submerged in warm milky waters.
Smaller than the main bathhouse, it is still just as decadent. Frescoes painted in vivid colors adorn the walls and ceilings, depicting lush sceneries of extravagant revelry.
My favorite painting has always been the one near the north-facing window. It’s of a naked figure gazing into a handheld ornate mirror. It reminds me of myself. Just like these frescoes, I provide beauty to a drab Pravitia.
My head rests on the stony edge of the bath, my face slathered with essential oils, mixed with a healthy dash of blood graciously provided by Constantine, whose family has collected it from Pravitian denizens for centuries. It’s said to keep the skin young and dewy, and I am not above any beauty practice that promises eternal youth.
I hear my assistant clear his throat somewhere near my head. While I wait for Bartholomew to answer my question I take a long deep breath, inhaling the sweet floral aromas wafting up like a soothing embrace.
“Slow news day, I’m afraid,” he finally says, “A few articles of you attending different soirees around town.” I detect a small tremble in his voice as if worried about my reaction to his answer.
“How do they describe me?” I ask, my eyes still closed.
Bartholomew falls silent, most likely skimming over the words printed in the newspaper he’s reading from. “One describes you as ‘divinely flawless’ and another as ‘magnetically intoxicating’.”
I hum, letting the words sink in. “That will do,” I drawl.
I listen to scissors cutting through paper, and then footsteps on the bathhouse marble floor before I open my eyes. Bartholomew delicately places the cut-out articles into the water amidst the floating milkflowers, submerging the paper to break the fibrous substance apart with his fingers. When he’s satisfied with his work, he drags his hand in the water and mixes the paper with the bathwater.
I let out a satisfied sigh, visualizing the words from the articles seeping into my skin. “ Omnia vanitas ,” I say under my breath. Closing my eyes once again, I dismiss my assistant. “Leave.”
“Yes, sir,” he chirps before I hear his steps scuttle out of the room.
After my soak, followed by an hour-long body massage, I stroll into my bedchamber naked; skin moisturized and muscles loose. With the large arched windows facing the rising sun, and the thick crimson curtains open, the early morning rays dance across the room as I make my way to the canopy bed.
Everything about Vainglory Tower has been decorated to our family’s opulent standards—my private quarters especially. The gold coffered ceiling alone took a year to build. And the two hand-carved marble mantelpieces took just as long.
A pair of satin pajama bottoms has been laid out for me on the bed and I put them on before reaching for my phone on the bedside table. With a few quick taps, I put on a modern rendering of Vivaldi’s Il piacere , the music spilling out of the surround sound speakers in the corners of the ceiling. I take a few seconds to savor the smooth, timeless violin notes before I make my way to the Hall of Mirrors. The melody follows me into the vast, empty space, the speakers connecting the music even here.
Barefoot, I relish the feeling of the morning sun’s heat against the soles of my feet as I make my way to the small mat left for me in the middle of the hall. I settle onto the floor cross-legged, facing one of the mirrors. The sun warms my bare back as I begin a long series of stretches, my body backlit as I gaze upon my reflection. First my arms and torso, then my legs. I fall into a meditative state as I feel the soothing burn of my muscles being pulled and stretched.
“Sir?” Bartholomew says tentatively from the door connecting the Hall of Mirrors to the receiving room.
My gaze slices to him, my brows knitting in irritation while my body is still stretched into my final pose.
He audibly gulps before continuing, “You have a meeting in half an hour.”
Letting my arms drop to a relaxed position, I sigh wistfully. Work .
Without bothering to answer, I stand up and stroll back into my private quarters while I mentally decide on an outfit for today’s meeting.
Having decided on a burgundy three-piece suit paired with my favorite cream wing-tipped shoes, I make my way down to the second floor, ten stories below my private quarters. Most of the lower levels of the Tower are dedicated to the family business: Vainglory Media.
The only source of news and entertainment permitted in Pravitia.
Walking into the large library where the meeting is taking place, dozens of eyes shift to me—as they should—as I head for the long table, near the mosaic window. The dozen or so chairs are filled by my inner circle at Vainglory Media, all of them wearing the same signet ring. My family sigil.
Sitting at the head of the table, I give Dizzy, my right hand, a swift nod signaling her to begin the meeting. I try not to drift off as she fills me in on our most pressing affairs until finally something she says catches my attention and I spring forward in my seat, cutting her off.
“What do you mean you don’t know ?” I grit out.
Dizzy’s dark eyes flash me a defensive look but she answers my question in a calm and steady voice. “I had our best men investigate Mercy’s alleged break-in and they still came up empty-handed, we can’t seem to find who this belonged to.”
She delicately places the signet ring on the sandalwood table, an identical ring on her left pinky, and slowly clasps her hands together waiting for a response.
It would be an easy matter if only my most trusted wore the Vainglory sigil. Like Dizzy sitting beside me. She’s been working for me since she turned eighteen a decade ago.
But the ring is worn by everyone employed at Vainglory Media, and I can barely remember the names of the ones sitting at this very table.
“Does it matter?” Marcus asks with a laugh, seemingly trying to break the tension.
My glare slides to him, sitting a few chairs down. Shocked murmurs ripple across the room but Marcus seems unfazed. Emboldened by the longevity of his employment. Or the fact that he’s a distant cousin by marriage.
In truth, I understand why he dared to ask such a question: Why would I be bothered by anything to do with Mercy? I’m not.
But it’s the way he undermined me by saying those words out loud.
I continue to stare him down while I suck on my teeth, my fingers drumming both armrests. I detect the exact moment when he realizes his error. He practically shrinks in his poorly tailored suit. Abruptly, I stand up, fishing out my favorite fountain pen from my vest pocket, the cap flying off.
Marcus is either a complete idiot or fear has rooted him to his chair while I stalk toward him because he doesn’t move an inch before I have the sharp tip of my pen lodged in his cheek.
Oh, but now? He shrieks like a banshee, eyes wide with terror, while the sound of chair legs scraping on expensive hardwood floors reverberates around the room as everyone else gives us a wide berth. While Marcus is still frozen in his seat, I use the leverage of my shoe against his chest to forcibly pull the pen out of his bleeding face.
His screams turn into a wet gurgled gasp when my second blow sinks into his carotid. This time when I remove the pen from his neck, the blood sprays onto my face and suit. Flicking my hair back out of my eyes, I lick my lips, tasting the coppery tang, and kick his slumping body along with his chair down to the floor.
Straightening back up, I take a long, centering breath. Pulling out my pocket square, I carefully unfold it and slowly wipe my face and neck. I delicately fold it back and return the pocket square to its rightful place before smoothing my hands over my tie and turning my attention to Dizzy. Her expression is hard, but she doesn’t say anything.
“I don’t care who broke into Crèvecoeur’s property,” I tell her with a trace of boredom in my tone. “You can consider the matter settled.” Throwing my bloody pen on the table, it rolls toward her. She stops it with her own pen. The silence in the library is decadently thick while her eyes meet mine waiting for me to speak again. “Clean this for me, will you?”