Chapter 11
NIKKI
The sheer arrogance of that man is mind-boggling. He thinks he's so smart, so in control. But I saw the flicker in his eyes. I saw the crack.
I'm getting to him.
Or I hope I am.
A knock at the door breaks my spiral. I swear, there's always someone knocking. This one's slower, quieter. Hmm...new management, maybe? Or just someone who actually respects personal space. Shocking, if true.
Two women enter in dark uniforms, pushing a rack draped in white cloth and a smaller cart that gleams with polished chrome. They look like they stepped out of a high-end fashion magazine, all sleek hair and understated elegance.
"Are we doing a makeover montage?" I ask, trying for my usual breezy influencer tone. It feels a little forced, even to me. "Because if so, I want my own theme song. Something with a really sick beat drop."
They don't reply, or even offer a faint smile.
Just glide the rack into the dressing area, their movements silent, almost robotic.
Then they peel back the white sheet to reveal sleek, neutral clothes.
Blazers. Silk blouses. Tailored dresses.
Not a sequin in sight. Nothing neon. Nothing me.
It's all beige. And gray. And the kind of dark navy that disappears into the shadows.
Then they unveil the cart of velvet-lined skincare cases. Tiny, ridiculously expensive gold spoons for applying face cream. Designer creams in heavy glass jars. Products I've seen in unboxings on my FYP, products I dreamed of owning, not in real life.
"Oh, wow," I mutter, picking up a stiletto from a carefully arranged pair on a velvet tray.
It's simple. Black. Pointed. Expensive. And soul-sucking boring.
It's the kind of shoe a CEO wears with a pants suit to a board meeting to project power, not the kind of shoe a social media star wears to go clubbing.
"I guess this is what Option One looks like. QueenNikki in exile, brought to you by the color beige and the concept of utter, complete blandness."
Well, this is it…my erasure in real time.
They don't react and continue to hang the clothes with precise movements, then placing the bottles with meticulous care. Their faces are impassive, betraying no emotion. They're either programmed or dead inside.
My fingers tighten around the shoe, the sharp heel digging into my palm.
This is what he thinks I want? To be erased?
To be softened into silence with luxury silk and thousand-euro serums?
To be scrubbed clean of everything that makes me who I am?
Does he think I'll just melt because he upgraded my prison with expensive skin care?
"Rafe," I say aloud, my words rising, scanning the room for a hidden camera, because I know he's watching. He has to be. "Hey asshole! You think this wins me over? You think I'm that easily bought?"
No answer. No response. Just two unbothered women, their faces blank, placing shoes, folding scarves, arranging jewelry as if I'm not standing here, screaming into the void.
It makes me furious.
A hot, rage flares in my chest.
I rear back, the stiletto clutched in my hand, and hurl it at the nearest wall. It hits with a soft thud, a pathetic, anticlimactic sound. Not a crash. Not a satisfying shatter of glass. Just a scuff mark on the expensive wallpaper. The heel didn't even break off.
They don't flinch at my tantrum. They continue their work. And somehow, that's worse than if they'd flinched. Worse than if they'd yelled.
Their indifference is a chilling reminder of how little my rebellion matters here, how utterly insignificant my anger is in this world.
His world.
I sink onto the bed, suddenly exhausted. The anger burns out as fast as it sparked, leaving me empty. I look around at the glossy armor laid out for me. New face. New look. New collar around my neck. He thinks he's controlling me.
But he can't erase me. Not even close.
Beneath all this beige and the silk and the oppressive silence, the fire's still burning. It's just burning quieter now. More controlled. More strategic.
He wants to turn QueenNikki into a mannequin.
A silent, beautiful puppet to control.
Instead, I'll give him a wildfire.
A wildfire dressed in beige, yes, but a wildfire nonetheless.
He has no idea what he's unleashed and then, when he least expects it, I'll take over his goddamn freak show.
I walk over to the clothes rack and pull out a sleek, boring, dark dress. It's exactly what he'd want. "It's okay, I'm fine," I say, giving a smile to the silent women, my words calm now, controlled. "Help me pick something out. I need to make a good first impression, don't I?"
They exchange a glance, then nod.
I spend the next hour letting them dress me, do my hair, apply the expensive, neutral makeup. I check my reflection. It's me, but muted. This isn't a surrender, it's a transformation.
By noon, I'm strolling into the sunroom as if it's a set. Chin up, shoulders back. Face ready for my close-up, even though there's no camera.
Rafe's there already, exactly where he always is, glued to the same spot.
He's reading something off a tablet, or pretending to.
He does that thing where he doesn't look up right away, as if he's too important, too busy to notice the prisoner walking in.
Probably thinks it's intimidating. And honestly?
It usually is. But not today. Today, I'm ready for him.
"Good morning, my favorite kidnapper," I chirp, my words bright and a little too cheerful.
I drop into the armchair across from him, making sure it sinks heavily with a satisfying sigh.
"What's the vibe today? Compliance with a side of espresso?
Or are we going for full-on existential dread before lunch? "
He finally looks up. His eyes, dark and unreadable, meet mine. Still insufferably calm. He doesn't even twitch. It's infuriating, how still he is. How calm when I'm freaking out.
"You made a decision," he says.
It's a statement. He already knows.
"Yes, I have, darling," I confirm. "I'm staying. Option one. Tethered like a designer balloon at a New York City parade. But with better outfit choices, hopefully. The wardrobe update is growing on me, by the way. Very… understated rich chic. It’s a new look for me."
He watches me, waiting. "Why?"
I shrug, a theatrical, careless movement.
I cross my legs slowly, the new fabric of the dress rustling softly.
"Maybe I'm becoming fond of the view. The sunsets here are amazing.
Or maybe," I lean forward slightly, "I realized disappearing won't solve anything.
If I vanish, if I just become a ghost, I don't get to control the narrative.
Not even a tiny bit. And I've always been about controlling the narrative. That's my brand."
He says nothing.
I smile, a wide, confident grin. "Now that I've officially agreed to sell my soul to the Valentino Syndicate, what do I get in return? Beyond the cashmere and the fancy face cream, I mean. Designer ankle monitor? A personal bodyguard who also serves as a lighting assistant?"
"You'll be briefed soon," he says, ignoring my humor. "Every move you make online will be vetted. Every appearance, every post will come through us first. You'll have handlers. People who manage your public image, your security. They'll be your interface with the outside world."
"Wow. So glamorous. I hope one of them knows my lighting angles.
And my good side. Because honestly, if I'm going to be a puppet, I want to be a really well-lit puppet.
Do I get creative control? Or am I just a face for your agenda?
Do I get to approve the captions? Because if not, we're going to have a serious problem.
My brand standards are very high." I press him, trying to find the line.
"This isn't a joke," he warns.
"I know it's not," I snap back. "Believe me, I know.
But if I don't laugh, I'll cry. And I am not ruining this contour for anything less than an Oscar.
And let's be real, you're not giving me an award, are you?
So, I get to make jokes. It's my only perk here.
And my right as a professional performer. "
He exhales, almost a sigh. A brief sign he's almost human. I watch it, fascinated.
"You'll begin prep right away," he continues.
"We'll script a timeline for your return.
We'll leak a carefully crafted story. And then we'll bring you back into the spotlight with a narrative we control, a narrative that explains your absence and reshapes public perception both for your fans and my enemies. It'll be ironclad."
"What's the story?" I ask, genuinely curious now.
"Let me guess. Emotional exhaustion. A retreat to focus on mental health.
Some vague but empowering nonsense about finding yourself and coming back stronger.
Something that makes people forget what I was really doing, which was getting kidnapped by a man who looks like he walked off a high-fashion runway to stab someone in a dark alley. "
He shakes his head. "No, you'll be my girlfriend."
My brain flatlines. For a solid five seconds, the only sound I hear is the blood rushing in my ears. "I'm sorry, what did you just say?" I manage to squeak out.
He walks over to the tablet on the marble table, a casual stroll that makes me want to trip him.
He taps the screen. The viral video plays again, the one where I'm all bubbly and glamorous, completely oblivious to the shadowy transaction happening in the background.
My reel captures him, his car, and a drop for some dangerous associate.
I don't bother watching it. I know it by heart now.
I've watched it more times than any reel I've ever posted, scrolling through the comments, the reposts, the thirst edits.
They weren't obsessed with me. They were obsessed with him.
They called him "MafiaBae," which, honestly, is the lamest nickname ever.