Page 14 of Sinful Games

two things most precious to the life of man.”

?Owen Feltham

Caia

My eyes darted around the ballroom, scanning for any possible escape routes. An emergency exit I could bolt through, a dark corner or a VIP room where I could hide, or hell, even a decorative sword to slice off the wandering hands I knew would come my way soon enough.

Despite all my pleading—and the sick, twisted feeling in my stomach that had been there since this morning—my father had insisted I show up.

So here I was, trapped in this deep grey silk dress that hugged me way too tight, high heels that felt like they wereslowly breaking my feet, and fake diamond earrings that probably cost twenty bucks but looked like they could cover someone's rent. Oh, and let’s not forget the makeup, caked on so thick that I felt like I should be competing in a drag queen contest.

All of it—every last detail—was just part of the armor I needed to survive these nights. My shield against all ofthis.

I raised the champagne glass to my lips, forcing myself to take a sip even though the second the liquid touched my tongue, I regretted it. I hated alcohol—the taste, the way it burned going down, the way it made me feel the next day. But here I was, sipping it like it was water, pretending it was helping me cope.

I swirled the champagne in my glass, watching the bubbles rise like they had a better escape plan than I did. It almost made me laugh—how even something as mindless as champagne bubbles seemed to have more freedom than I did right now. If only I could float out of this nightmare as easily as they did, drifting away from this circus my life had become.

But, of course, I wasn’t that lucky. I may hate alcohol, but in moments like these, I needed something to take the edge off. Without it, I was one sip away from an anxiety attack or, worse, feeling like I was a contestant in the “Biggest Whore in Moscow” contest.

So, I brought the glass to my lips, pretending like one more sip was going to magically fix things, even though what I really wanted was to hurl the damn thing at the nearest wall and watch it shatter. At least that way, something would feel cathartic about tonight.

“Miss Mankiev, what’s your lucky number?” Gregor Lanchekiev asked as I plopped down next to him at the poker table. The scene was straight out of a bad noir film: fourother guys, each with a woman draped over their laps like trophy furniture, all puffing away on cigars.

I pretended to ponder deeply. “Eight.”

Eight, as in, Ihatebeing here, but Lanchekiev didn’t need to know that. Although, if he had any sensitivity, he’d probably notice how every single one of my pores was practically oozing disdain and disgust.

Lanchekiev grinned, showing off his impressively yellowed teeth, and his hand predictably landed on my thigh. “Eight it is, then.”

He signaled to the bouncer, who handed him eight cards.

As his hand began its unwelcome journey further up my thigh, I fought to ignore the creeping disgust. I brought my glass to my lips and finished the champagne in one gulp, grabbing another from a passing waiter and downing it like it was a lifeline.

As the bouncer deftly shuffled and dealt the cards, Gregor Lanchekiev confidently announced, “All in.”

When the cards were revealed, his victory was inevitable. The room’s atmosphere shifted from tense to celebratory. Applause erupted, the women at the table cheered with exaggerated enthusiasm, and the men roared with laughter. The bouncer handed Lanchekieva substantial pile of poker coins, totaling 80K.

His attention turned to me. With a self-satisfied grin, he seized my chin and planted a theatrical kiss on my cheek. “Thanks for your sweet help, Miss Mankiev.”

He then grabbed a handful of coins and let them cascade into my open hands. As if that weren’t enough, he leaned in and placed a lingering kiss on my shoulder.

I watched the scene unfold with a detached sense of boredom, my gaze drifting away from the spectacle. I found myself yearning for something—anything—to take the edge off,whether it be another glass of champagne or something stronger.

Lanchekiev’s smirk stayed firmly in place as I excused myself, sliding the poker coins into my clutch with a mix of disgust and pragmatic relief. If I could keep them hidden long enough, they might just cover my groceries for the next two years—assuming I could stash them away before my useless father discovered them.

I gave him a flirtatious wave, masking my irritation with a thin layer of charm, and made my way to the ladies' room, desperate for a moment’s peace away from the incessant noise.

Navigating through the crowd, I felt the weight of stares burning into the bare skin of my back, exposed by my hair pinned up in a bun. I didn’t dare turn around to see who was watching—my nerves were frayed enough as it was.

When I finally reached the ladies' room, I was relieved to find there was no line. I headed straight for the nearest stall, locked the door behind me, and let out a shaky breath.

The toilet was a grotesque display of excess, made of gold with deep green walls and black tiles. It was as if someone thought that opulence could mask the darkness that these walls witnessed night after night. I lowered myself onto the seat and buried my face in my hands.

“Come on, Caia, just forty-five minutes left and you can go to bed and forget about this night,” I muttered to myself, trying to summon some last shred of motivation.

But even as I said it, a tight knot spread in my chest.

I took a few more moments to breathe and clear my mind before flushing the toilet and stepping out.

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