Page 80 of The Gilded Survivor

“Are you cold?” he asked. His beautiful, honey-brown eyes glittered with dancing flames.

I took a deep breath, my mouth suddenly dry.

“Yes.”

His jaw tightened. It felt like an eternity between his next response, enough time for me to reconsider. “Do you want to—”

“Goodnight.” I quickly dove into my sleeping bag and pulled the top up as high as it would go. Burning Ash, was he offering to sleep next to me?

“Dulces sueños.” Antonio’s voice hung in the air like icicles. The embers of the fire sizzled when he kicked freshly fallen snow over them.

It was good we were returning home soon, far away from this frozen wasteland where spirits of the volcanoes came to make fools of us all.

Chapter30

Time Ceased Being an Easily Quantifiable Experience

“No. If someone’s food has not arrived, you do not excuse yourself and start eating. You do not eat until everyone has been served. And even then, you wait for the host to take the first bite,” Señora Olguín said with an audibly disgusted sigh.

I looked down at the table in front of me and tried to remember the diagram she’d given me last week depicting formal table settings. Élites really were full of the shit from every animal in existence.

My brain hurt, and we were constantly butting heads during these infernal hours. In the last month, I’d met with her daily—except on Sundays. The days blurred together, and it felt like a hell of a lot longer than a mere month. My muscles ached from the nightly training, where I often spent my warm-up time with Isaac. I hadn’t asked him about the black pills that were slowly killing everyone, which had been on my mind, but conversations with him never skewed to profound topics.

In the endless hours dedicated to meeting with my strategist, Joaquín Pérez, I’d learned to compartmentalize my ire. Time had given perspective, and perspective led to focus. Screwing up my chance in the tournament would make nothing better. I tucked the hate away in the back of my heart and mind, turning it over every night before I went to bed.

I’d given up all hope of Ana accepting me, or even praising me when I did well, but I would like to not get yelled at. Because when I got yelled at, I fantasized about dark things, like shoving her out the window.

When I looked down at the dinnerware spread in front of me, complete with four different forks, six types of knives, and five spoons, I resolved to abandon all hope.

“All right, let’s continue. You have dinner this upcoming Thursday with some of the other families and mentors from the Quinta Isla. These are important people. Connections to be made to help you assume your duties and responsibilities rewarded you after the tournament.” Ana Olguín had a way of speaking that was short and eloquent. Though she wasn’t kind, when she spoke, I could perfectly envision her intentions and what she was trying to say.

I closed my eyes and saw the faces of the other candidates I had met. I saw Isabela, Santiago, Isaac, and their parents, and imagined which facial features would be spliced from their perfect, luxurious genes.

“Renata, are you listening to me?” Ana demanded.

My eyes flew back open, and I nodded immediately. “I imagined what you were saying.”

Ana pursed her lips. “Imagine with your eyes open. I don’t care how tired you are. Your physical training will not be more important than your etiquette training. Focus.”

I had had a similar conversation with her enough times to know that arguing with her was pointless. My lips flattened in a tight line and I nodded.

She watched me with hawk-like precision for a few more moments as I tweaked and molded my posture before deciding I was sufficiently docile enough. “All right,” she said. “Now, tell me which ones are the cubiertos de pescado.”

I exhaled as much as I dared and scanned the setting before me. Silverware used for fish. These ones were easier because of their unique shape—the fork had a small hole in the middle, and the knife was more rectangular than curved with a strange point at the top.

Excitement at figuring out the right answer had me snatching up the utensils in seconds.

“Renata Valarde Bordón, ¡Que mal educada! This is not a race. You will use the speed appropriate for a lady,” Ana screeched in horror.

Apparently, ladies only needed to whisper. These idiots thought women moving too fast was a crime, but didn’t bat any eyes at slowly drugging people to their deaths.

I didn’t dare tell her that, while she had a way with words, the tone and volume she used with me daily were anything but “pleasant and graceful” as ladies should be.

But honestly, she had the power in this situation, so who cared?

“Perdón, Señora Olguín.” I couldn’t help emphasizing theseñorapart a little more. Subtly reminding her she was getting older and was still unmarried was easier than telling her off immediately.

“Your atrocious mannerisms aside, you have chosen correctly. Now, we are going to practice using them.” Señora Olguín sat across from me after placing a banana on my plate. She produced another set of cutlery and mirrored the correct position to assemble while eating. “Forearms never leave the table, so discreetly adjust yourself so that you are far enough on the edge of your seat to be comfortable. This is particularly useful, especially when wearing restrictive gowns.”

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