Page 77 of Insatiable

"Each of you will be assigned a servant," Ballam says, his voice cold and matter-of-fact. "A personal butler, maid, aide—whatever you prefer to call it. Unlike the demons you've dealt with in other circles, these are humans. Humans here for their punishment. Each one of them has committed a grievous sin. So, spare yourself any qualms about how you choose to treat them."

I glance around the atrium, noting the people gathered here—women draped in furs, men wearing watches worth more than a typical salary. They reek of wealth, the type who flaunt it at every opportunity. The only person not looking like he was born into wealth is Orlin, but he’s kinda special in that he’d look pathetic in whatever he chose to wear.

“What I don’t get,” I say, finally speaking up, “is why these humans look like the elite. I’ve known people like them. They don’t work for others, don’t bow down. They sure as hell aren’t maids or butlers.”

Ballam’s smile tightens. It’s clear he’s not used to being questioned, but I’m not here to play nice, and he knows it. Meanwhile, some of the other contestants look all too eager at the idea of having servants.

“Let me clarify,” he says, his voice a little cooler now. “They aren’t servants. They’re slaves. They’re yours for the duration of your stay in this circle. Each one has been specifically chosenfrom those who have stood up to me in the past. They will obey, whether they want to or not.”

In life, I had sycophants lining up to win my favor, but the idea of actually owning a slave? It makes me sick.

“Can these slaves be forced to do anything?” asks a voice from the other end of the couches, someone I don’t recognize.

Ballam barely holds back an eye-roll. “As I said, they’re at your beck and call.”

“So… they can’t say no?”

One of the new women shakes her head slightly, her face twisted in disgust. She knows where this is going, and it’s nauseating.

“They won’t have the power to say no, if that’s what you’re asking,” Ballam replies with a bored sigh. “Now, enough with the questions. You’ve all been through numerous trials to get here, so there isn’t much left for me to explain. The tower has the same layout as the others, but rest assured, it surpasses them in both style and decadence. I suggest you take the time to explore the dining options and relax before the games start tomorrow.”

I stand up, not waiting for any more of Ballam’s smug instructions. I’ve heard enough, and the last thing I need is some forced servant. There’s only one person I need, and she cowers to no one. She’d laugh in Ballam’s face and tear down every illusion in this place just for the hell of it. But she isn’t here. And I’m not going to find her by sitting around, listening to their twisted version of generosity. I stride toward one of the restaurants. The man who asked about the slaves falls into stride with me. “You’re Felix Barclay. I recognize you from the Times Man of the Year. I’m Don Smith.”

“Hmm,” I mumble. I already don’t give a shit.

“You’re fucking awesome. I can’t believe I’m now as rich as you. Look what they put in my wardrobe.”

He lifts his hand and shows me a Patak Phillipe. It’s the very same watch I was showing off to my friends before I was shot. The fucking irony.

“Cool about the slaves, huh? I hope I get a fucking supermodel. You get me?”

I think of all the supermodels I’ve known, and I’ve known a lot. Yes, I’ve slept with many of them. Not once did I have a conversation with them that wasn’t about my needs, my wants. It was always about me.

“Whoever you get, treat them well. Get to know them. You might be surprised.”

He gives me an odd look, as though I’ve lost my mind. “Nah, I’m going to fuck them senseless and get them to bring me food. I mean, what’s the fucking point otherwise, huh?”

“Of course you are,” I reply, my voice heavy with sarcasm. “If you’ll excuse me,” I don’t bother to smile as I pull open a restaurant door and stride in, leaving him behind.

The inside of the restaurant doesn’t disappoint, with its towering white marble columns and sparkling chandeliers. Every inch of the space oozes luxury, from the velvet-upholstered chairs to the intricate gold trim on the walls. The far wall features a fresco so exquisite it wouldn’t surprise me if Michelangelo had painted it himself.

“Are you requiring a table for one, sir?” A pompous concierge asks, his nose already tilted upward. Like all the other demons here, this one is adorned in gold.

“No, actually. I want two burgers, two portions of fries, and two chocolate milkshakes to go.”

The concierge raises his nose even higher, sniffing as though the air itself has offended him. “Sir?”

“You can do that, right?”

“Why, yes, but may I suggest the Wagyu beef topped with foie gras and truffles on a base of San Francisco sourdough with?—"

“No,” I cut him off, grinning. “I want the cheapest, greasiest meat, the cheapest bread, and normal potato fries with lots of salt.”

The look of disgust that flickers across his face is carefully masked behind a professional smile. “And would sir like a seat while he is waiting?”

“Nope. I’ll wait right here.”

The concierge, clearly affronted but maintaining his composure, summons a demon waiter and relays my order. The waiter disappears for a moment and reappears almost instantly, balancing two burgers artfully on gold-edged porcelain plates, the milkshakes inexplicably served in champagne flutes.

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