The Slave of Pleasure

Vincenzo

When I finally left the office, the weight of the conversation with my grandmother was still hanging over my shoulders. I was tired, mentally exhausted. The media issue was pressing on me more than I had imagined, and now, the subject had become too personal. I walked to the car, a feeling of irritation pulsing through me with every step. I needed to get out of there as soon as possible.

As soon as I got into the car, I let out a heavy sigh. I sat down, waiting for the driver to get in too. I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to calm my thoughts, but the tension wouldn't let up. The image of my grandmother throwing the newspaper on the table was still vivid in my mind. She had called me irresponsible, and in a way, she was right. I had let the situation get out of hand, and now all eyes were on me.

The driver got into the car, and without saying anything, he started to leave the garage. But as soon as we went through the automatic door, a flash of light invaded the interior of the vehicle. I opened my eyes, and what I saw made me furious. Paparazzi. Flashbulbs everywhere. A crowd of reporters surrounding the car, trying to capture the next sensational headline about me.

"Shit!" I groaned, slamming my hand on the window.

The driver tried to move forward, but the flashbulbs were incessant. The cameras practically blocked our path. Screams echoed outside, with invasive questions thrown from all sides.NôvelDrama.Org owns this text.

"Vincenzo, is it true about the woman on the cover of the magazine?"

"Who is she?" "One of your love affairs?" "When was the last time you saw Rebecca?" "Does your ex-girlfriend know about this?" "Are you involved in a new love scandal?" "Does Model Rebecca know about this?"

"Is your relationship with Rebecca really over?"

They were determined to find out what was going on, not just to find out, but to screw up my life. This isn't exactly the first time this has happened to me.

Each question was like a knife poking at my already frayed patience. I looked around, watching the photographers banging on the car windows, and I felt anger rising inside me. I wasn't the kind of man who handled this kind of exposure well. I always preferred to control everything behind the scenes, without drawing unnecessary attention. But now, everything was out of control.

"What the hell is this?" I muttered, as the car tried to move through the crowd.

The driver did his best to get us out of there, honking his horn and moving the car slowly. My head was spinning. The scandal had already left the company and was on the streets, in magazines, on the internet. The image of the newspaper cover came back to me, that damned photo... and her. Rachel.

For a moment, I found myself thinking about how she was involved in all of this. How she, a woman who until recently was unknown, had become the epicenter of it all. The media was devouring our story, inventing narratives that I could barely control.

The fury I felt in the office began to transform into something more. It wasn't just anger. It was frustration. Frustration at being manipulated by the situation. Frustration at having lost control.

"Let's get out of here," I ordered the driver. "I don't want to see these bastards anymore."

As the car finally made its way through the crowd, I watched the flashbulbs grow more distant. I knew I would be home soon, but what was waiting for me there?

"Damn vultures," I muttered to myself as the driver sped off to make his way through the throng of cameras and microphones.

As we pulled away, I realized this wasn't going to be easy. The paparazzi were relentless, as if they knew something I hadn't yet figured out.

"Let's change course," I told the driver. "I'm out of patience with this."

He nodded and made a sharp left, trying to steer clear of the less busy streets. I thought we had made it out, that we were far enough away from the commotion. But as we drove down the less busy road, the sound of a revving engine behind us made me realize we were being followed.

I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw another car, a photographer hanging out the window, holding his camera like a gun. "Faster!" I ordered, feeling my irritation grow.

The chase intensified, and the driver did everything he could to get us out of the situation. The streets suddenly became narrower, and the scenery became claustrophobic. Growing more anxious, I felt adrenaline rush through my veins. Just as we were about to turn onto a side street, another burst of flashes. The photographer had gotten close enough to take a burst of photos, which disoriented the driver. He turned the steering wheel sharply to avoid the oncoming car, and then everything happened too quickly.

I felt the impact before I realized what had happened. A loud metallic sound echoed, and my body was thrown forward by the impact. My seatbelt caught me.

I stood still, but pain shot through my chest. The car slid, hit something, and came to a thud.

There was a terrifying silence for a second. The sound of the paparazzi was muffled, and for a brief moment, everything was too quiet.

I took a deep breath, trying to process what had just happened. We were somewhere unfamiliar, the car crumpled, smoke billowing from the hood. The sound of the cameras clicking intensified again, and I knew there was no escape. "Shit..." I muttered, bringing my hand to my face, tasting the bitter taste of frustration in my mouth. How had it all come to this?

"Are you okay, sir?" the driver asked me, his voice shaking.

"I am," I replied curtly, but deep down, I knew things were far from okay. I felt a cold liquid trickle down my forehead, I ran my hand over it, and it was blood, my blood. A few cuts and scrapes, I wasn't sure, just...

And I really thought I was okay, until everything went black. I don't know if it was because of the car accident, or the pressure, the work, and the pressure my grandmother put on me, I just completely blacked out.