Chapter 06

NEFERTARY

Volveré a levantarme, como siempre lo he hecho.

—Miss Nefertary, do you need help?

—No, thank you, I'm fine —I say without taking my eyes off the fruit pieces I'm cutting.

Yesterday, ten minutes after taking the pills, I completely passed out; I didn't wake up for the rest of the afternoon until 9:23 p.m., feeling much better, except for a damn hunger that hit me, so I had to come down to the kitchen to eat something. When I was going back upstairs to lock myself in my room after eating, I heard noises in my father's study. I went to take a look and found my mother there, completely drunk. She wouldn't stop crying, and I couldn't believe it; somehow, she looked so vulnerable, so weak.

I didn't interrupt her at all, she needed to vent, and I'm not good at comforting people.

Yesterday was the worst day of my fucking life, but today is a new day. I don't live in the past, I'm not that kind of person. I live in the present.

—Miss, are you sure you don't need help with anything? —asks the maid, Elizabeth.

—Okay, finish cutting the fruit while I make the pancakes —I order her so she'll stop insisting.

I was dead yesterday, and today I've come back to life. He's already dead, there's nothing I can do now except take revenge, make the person who planned that murder pay, because it wasn't a coincidence, it wasn't just some accident; he had a lot of enemies.

—Elizabeth, who helped my mother to her room? —I ask bluntly, because in the state she was in yesterday, there's no way she climbed those stairs on her own.

—I did, miss —this time I do turn to look at her. I've remembered her working in this mansion since I was ten. She's always been good at what she does, an excellent person you can trust—she's kept a lot of secrets.

—Thank you! —I say kindly, this time it's genuine. She simply nods. —The pancakes are ready. Did you finish cutting the fruit?

—Yes, miss.

—Good —I say, placing the pancakes on the plate. I walk to the fridge to pour a glass of orange juice, and also grab a jug of water.

—Miss, here —she extends her hand to give me some pills for the hangover. I take them.

—Thanks! I'll bring her breakfast now —I say, placing the pills on the tray, which holds pancakes with honey, scrambled eggs, fruit salad, yogurt, orange juice, a water jug and an extra empty glass.

I head up the stairs carefully, trying not to screw it up and drop the blessed food. Maybe she won't eat it all… or maybe she will, depending on whether she only drank vodka, rum, and whatever else is in the mansion's mini bar all afternoon and night yesterday—or who knows, maybe she hasn't eaten since then.

After passing the challenge of not dropping anything on the stairs, I head into her room.

—What the hell? —I exclaim—. You look radiant. Did you resurrect too? —I've never used that kind of language in front of her; yesterday she looked like a woman who didn't want to live anymore because her husband had died. She's standing there, in front of me, staring at me, wearing a striking red dress, makeup on, her hair looking amazing—not like the bird's nest she had yesterday.

—Good morning! —she says.

—Good morning. I brought you breakfast. And sorry for my langua—

She doesn't let me finish the sentence.

—Don't apologize, it's funny hearing you talk like that, but don't get used to it —she says as she walks toward me—. This looks delicious. Did Elizabeth make it?

—No, I did —she looks surprised, since I honestly don't remember the last time I made her breakfast and brought it to her room.

—Thank you! —a genuine smile appears on her face. It's pure and real.

—Okay... I need to talk to you, Mother. If you want, we can talk after you finish eating.

—Now's fine. What's it about? —she says, picking up the tray and sitting on the black aux lady armchair to eat.

—Alright, here's the list of questions and clarifications: First, have they found my father's body? I ask because since the jet crashed into the ocean, maybe it didn't burn up; second, since now you have to run the companies alone, I'll take care of the shady business; third, I don't think it was just an accident, since not everyone liked my father, let's be honest; and fourth, has the news reported anything about my father yet? —I finish saying everything without sugarcoating it, and at least I haven't ruined her appetite—she's eating like nothing happened. 'Big win'.

—Alright… so far, it seems like the news has reported the crash, but they haven't released the names of the people on board. Apparently, the jet—or what's left of it—is about 67 meters underwater. Divers are already looking for the bodies. It's still unclear how exactly it happened. I thought the same—that your father's crash wasn't just an accident and… —she stops eating and looks at me—. I don't think you're ready for that yet.

—Do you really think I care about your opinion? Please, don't make a fool of yourself, Mother.

—Being a perfect liar, a perfect manipulator, living a double life just to not be my true self—and you think I'm not capable of having another life on top of that? Of not being able to handle it? You're wrong about that part.

—Alright, but tell me how you plan to manage school, your social life, your courses, your diet, and everything else —obviously, I'm ready to answer.

—Okay, 6:30 a.m.: morning routine—shower, get ready, and have breakfast. 7:38 a.m.: I need to be at school. 2:00 p.m.: school ends. 2:30 p.m.: I should be home. 3:00 p.m.: Japanese class at home until 4:00 p.m., followed by Russian and Mandarin—only on weekdays. 6:00 p.m.: school assignments and study time. 8:30 p.m.: dinner until 9:00 p.m.; by then, I should be heading to that place, arriving at 9:43 p.m., doing what I have to do there until 12:00 a.m., and being back here by 12:43 a.m. I'd take another shower, review or study, get ahead on schoolwork until 2:30 a.m.; by then, I should either be asleep or getting ready to sleep. I'd sleep a total of four hours on weekdays.

> > On weekends, I'd get up at 7:30 a.m., shower for a workout at the mansion gym. At 8:35 a.m., I'd be done and would take another shower. 9:00 a.m.: breakfast. By 9:25 a.m. I should be done and heading to the car to get to volleyball practice, which starts at 10:00 a.m. and ends at 12:00 p.m. At 12:16, I should be at a café for lunch until 12:47; then head to boxing training from 1:00 to 2:40 p.m. After that, I'd go to self-defense training at the mansion, where I should be by 3:30 p.m. I'll have thirty minutes to rest, because from 4:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m., training begins.

6:30 p.m.: I should be in the car heading to that place—only on Saturdays. By 7:13 p.m., I'd be there and return at 10:30 p.m. At 11:13 p.m., I'd be home and asleep by 11:40 p.m.

Sundays are the same, except I wouldn't go to that place. From 6:00 p.m. onward, I'd have more time to prep, study or catch up in case of surprise quizzes or tests. I'd go to sleep at 11:00 p.m. And I'd repeat this schedule every day —I say without pausing once.

—I like how you're on top of your schedule, but… —the damn "but"—. What about lunch on weekdays, dinner on weekends, your Sunday parties, school activities?

—Lunch would be at school, dinner at that place, the Sunday parties I host to keep my popularity up every two weeks; the back-to-school party this Sunday would be postponed due to my father's death, but if you want me to go ahead with it, it would start at 8:00 p.m. and end at 3:00 a.m. when everyone leaves. I'd be home by 4:00; I'd sleep two and a half hours, or only go for about three hours.

—It's one thing to plan your life, and another to actually live it… I'm warning you, Nefertary: if your grades drop, if you miss your courses, if your meals don't follow the schedule you just laid out, if you can't manage all of it—you're out. Handle it without excuses, understood? —in other words, she said yes, but as far as I know, I didn't ask for permission—I just gave her a heads-up. This is fucking great, seriously.

—It's all clear, Mother.

—Excellent, you may go if that's all. No, wait, I have something to tell you —she says just as I was about to turn and leave.

—Yes?

—Since you're in your final weeks of Mandarin, you'll start a Hebrew course.

—Okay. Is that all?

—Yes. Have an excellent day —well, thanks, I guess!?

I turn around to leave and head to my beloved school. Hebrew, another damn language. 'How many do you want me to speak?' I already know English, Spanish, French, German, Italian, Portuguese—and that's not even counting Mandarin, which I'm a few weeks from finishing, Russian—two months to go, and Japanese—four months left. So, when I finish learning one language, another one starts: Hebrew. 'Soon I'll be taking Korean and Arabic too.'

Lucky me—learning anything comes easy.

—Miss, the limousine is ready —says the driver. I hadn't even noticed he was already out there—I was too focused on all the fucking languages I have to learn or already know.

✧────── ༉───✦───༉ ─────✧

Inside the car, I should stop riding in a limousine, 'it draws too much attention'; I could take my Bugatti La Voiture Noire, black, my father's gift for my 16th birthday. That wouldn't draw too much attention.

Already inside the limo, I dig into my bag to find my phone and call Lucy; she doesn't answer—must be sleeping. I mean, if I did the same, she'd get pissed. I have no choice but to leave her a voice message, telling her I can't look after Martina. She still has Valentina, a girl from her class. This one right here is not going to be anyone's babysitter. She's old enough to take care of herself, right?

Already at school, with about thirty minutes before classes start, I head to the library—rats don't come here much, only during finals—to read a book or, better yet, distract myself from something. I have to admit, the only thing I like about this boarding school is the library: pure art, elegance, and a wide selection of whatever you want to read—fantasy, mystery, self-help, physiology, etc.

Luckily, I don't have to choose which book to read because I brought one in my backpack. Once in the library, I go up to the second floor; there's a spot where you can admire the mountains that surround the school. It's breathtaking.

I thought no one was here since it's early and we're not in exam season, but I was wrong.

—The Selfish Gene, excellent choice —I say, grabbing his attention.

—Thanks, mute swan —I smile at him with a hint of mischief.

—Do you mind leaving? You're in my spot —I say, pointing to the table he's at.

—I didn't know it belonged to Nefertary Ibagon.

—It didn't. It does. And now you're informed.

—Well, I don't plan on leaving. And I got here before you —he goes back to reading his book.

Whatever. It's my place of peace and I'm not moving. I sit in the empty chair, facing him. I pull my book from my backpack and start reading.

—Soul Thief? Seriously? —Oh no, we are not disrespecting my book. No fucking way I'm letting that slide.

—'What the fuck do you care what I read, Michael?' —he bursts out laughing.

—Not here. Don't use that kind of language. Gotta protect your popularity, Miss Perfect, etc. —his voice turns a bit deeper than usual.

—Why not? —he bites his lower lip. Shit, is it just me or am I killing him when I talk in that seductive tone? A few seconds ago, I wanted to kill him, and now I'm like this. 'What a fucking bipolar bitch I am.'

—Just don't make me lose my self-control here. Let's stick to what we were doing —he turns his attention back to his book.

—Who are you to tell me what to do or comment on what I read?

—Just the only person you talk to like this, who knows you have to keep up appearances around here. You never know if there's a snitch nearby who'll hear your language and spread it around the school —he says without even looking up from his book. Honestly, he's right.

—Just because I have what I have doesn't mean I have to read books on manipulation —I say, changing the subject—, or how to torture people —because I already know how, and honestly, I probably deserve the death penalty for my crimes, which are not innocent at all.

As soon as I say that, I regret letting my mouth speak instead of biting my tongue to shut it.

—Good point —he places the book on the table, leans forward, resting his elbows on it—. How are you? —Now he asks.

—Perfectly. Why do you ask?

—There's a bit of dullness in your eyes. Most people wouldn't notice, but since we both know I'm not just anyone, it's obvious something really serious happened. And I know you're not the type to get upset over just anything, or someone who breaks that easily —how those green eyes can radiate calm, and how that brain guesses everything. 'What the fuck, where did this guy come from?'

—I don't intend to tell you —my voice is colder than usual.

—Was it really that bad...? Yeah, seems like it was —he says more to himself than to me—. Either way, I'll respect it —he stands up, puts the book in his backpack, and walks away—. Have a good day —and with those words, he turns his back on me and walks off.

—'Everyone will find out anyway. No need to say it.' —I whisper.

I know my father's death wasn't an accident, and the people involved are going to pay dearly.

They'll regret the day they were born.

This won't be a simple revenge—it'll be the most entertaining game in history. Highly satisfying for me, but a fucking nightmare for them. 'We're bringing back medieval punishments, modernized.'

It's going to be super fun—too fun, if you ask me.

Author:

Have you ever felt like someone could read your soul with just one look?

What would you do if pain became the driving force behind the perfect revenge?

Nefertary isn’t your average girl, and her game is just beginning.

Who do you think will lose this battle?

Do you dare to find out with me?