Velvet sat before the glowing screens, her body languidly reclined in the velvet chair that had become her throne. The pale blue light of the monitor illuminated her face, sharpening the angle of her cheekbones, casting a soft sheen across her lips. Her dashboard pulsed with life, numbers climbing as though a hidden hand had given them wings. Ten thousand new followers. Three separate clips climbing the platform's trending list. Fan art, compilations, edits—her image refracted through a thousand lenses, each one portraying her as something larger, more myth than flesh.
She should have been satisfied. The original Velvet had never dreamed of these numbers, had never held this kind of sway. Yet the satisfaction was fleeting, dissolving into a gnawing awareness. Numbers did not rise on their own. Numbers were nudged, pushed, bought, manipulated. And when they rose too quickly, they brought shadows with them.
Velvet curled her fingers around a crystal glass half-filled with wine. The ruby liquid caught the light like blood as she swirled it, watching the numbers climb again. Another thousand. Another spike.
Her lips parted, releasing a low laugh that contained no humor. "And so the game begins."
The night's stream had not even started, yet her chat window was alive, her fans restless, buzzing like moths against the glass. She activated the camera, adjusted the angle so the soft golden light caught the fall of her hair. When her face appeared on the screen, the chat erupted, lines of adoration racing upward so fast they blurred together.
"Velvet goddess!"
"My queen returns!"
"Marry me, please—just once notice me!"
Velvet smiled, a curve of lips that looked effortless but had been practiced for hours in the mirror. "My darlings," she purred, her voice spilling like silk into their ears, "you missed me, didn't you?"
The chorus of replies was immediate, desperate. Donations began to flash across the screen, colors blooming like fireworks. Velvet's heart did not stir. Money was sweet, but predictable. Loyalty was sweeter. Power sweeter still.
Then it appeared. A message, buried in the flood, but standing out as if highlighted.
"How long do you think you can pretend?"
Velvet's hand stilled around her wineglass. For a fraction of a second her mask wavered, her pupils narrowing. But only for a second. Then her smile widened, sultry and sharp.
"Pretend?" she echoed, tilting her head as though amused by a child's riddle. "If I am pretending, darling, then perhaps you are dreaming. And aren't dreams so much sweeter when you refuse to wake up?"
The chat devoured it, roaring with laughter and clapping emojis. Admirers praised her wit, fans called her a goddess of words. No one saw the flicker of tension in her gaze, the way her grip whitened on the stem of the glass.
Except perhaps the one who had written the message.
Velvet finished the stream with flawless grace. She played games, teased her viewers, sang a verse or two in that low, honeyed tone that melted them. Yet the unease coiled tighter with every passing minute, wrapping itself around her ribs.
When she finally ended the broadcast, the apartment fell into silence, broken only by the faint hum of the computer. Velvet sat motionless for a long time, staring at the frozen smile of her own reflection in the darkened screen.
Someone knew.
Not guessed, not speculated. Knew.
Her rise to prominence had been deliberate, crafted step by step since she inherited this life. Every smile calculated, every tear rehearsed, every slip of vulnerability polished into a weapon. She had clawed her way into the hearts of thousands, twisting them around her fingers until their devotion became chains. And yet…
"How long do you think you can pretend?"
The words echoed in her skull.
She rose abruptly, pacing across the room. The apartment was immaculate—every book aligned, every piece of decor chosen for its subtle elegance. She had built this space as carefully as she built her persona. It was both stage and fortress. And now the fortress had a crack.
Velvet stopped before the window, gazing out at the city below. Lights shimmered in the distance, each one representing another life, another story, another secret. Somewhere among them was the shadow in the chat. Someone who had seen past the mask.
Her lips curved slowly, not in amusement but in anticipation.
"So you've noticed me," she whispered, her reflection staring back, eyes dark and hungry. "Good. Let's see how long you can survive the game."
Velvet returned to her desk, pulling the wineglass close. She drained the last sip, savoring the bitter aftertaste. Then, with a flick of her finger, she reopened the chat logs. She would memorize every word, every timestamp, every subtle clue. The mask had slipped for a heartbeat tonight—but only she had noticed.
Tomorrow, she promised herself, she would turn that fleeting weakness into strength.
Tomorrow, the game would be hers again.
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