Page 1 of Omega's Faith
1. Alex
It seemed like a good idea at a time. Terrible ideas often do, especially if it’s two in the morning and you’ve been on the champagne since breakfast.
But like every other time that I’ve screwed up after midnight, the memories don’t come back straight away.
Instead, my morning starts with a pounding headache. I crack one eye open and immediately regret it. Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suite, stabbing directly into my brain. My mouth tastes like something died in it. Possibly several somethings.
The cotton sheets stick to my skin where I've sweated through them. I'm still wearing my boxers from last night, which is more than I remember having on at some point. My head pounds with each heartbeat. I want to crawl under the covers and die.
A knock at the door splits my skull in half.
"Go away," I croak, but my voice comes out as barely a whisper.
The knock comes again. Then the electronic beep of a keycard.
"Sir?" Ricky's voice floats through the suite. "I know you're awake. The concierge called to say you ordered room service."
Did I? I have zero memory of that.
Footsteps approach the bedroom. I drag a pillow over my face, blocking out the murderous sunshine. Maybe if I pretend tobe asleep, he'll leave.
"I can hear you breathing, Alex" The mattress dips as my personal assistant sits on the edge of the bed. "Come on. Dr Morrison is here to check my stitches."
Urgh. Morrison. It’s great being rich enough to have my own doctor on staff but I wish I had one who wasn’t judging me all the time. Unfortunately, I’m not the one who pays her salary so I wasn’t able to hire someone a little more... understanding.
Wait. Did Ricky say stitches?
I lower the pillow and force both eyes open. A stark white bandage covers half of Ricky’s forehead, medical tape crisscrossing from his hairline to his left eyebrow. The skin around it is purple and swollen.
"What the fuck." I push myself up on my elbows, ignoring the way the room spins. "What happened to your face?"
Ricky's expression doesn't change. After three years as my assistant, very little surprises him anymore. "The glass table happened. At the pool. During our gladiator battle."
Gladiator... pool...
Fragments start filtering back. Tequila shots. Lots of tequila shots. Also champagne. And whiskey. The hotel pool glowing neon blue. Someone handing me a pool noodle.
"Fuck."
"Indeed." Ricky stands, smoothing down his perfectly pressed shirt. How does he look so put together when I know for a fact he was just as drunk as me last night? "The doctor is waiting in the living room. It’d be nice to have her finish before Diana summons you."
"Diana?" I swing my legs over the side of the bed. The movement makes my stomach lurch dangerously. "What did I do to summon the great Diana Norris?"
Ricky's phone buzzes. He glances at it and his jaw tightens. "Well, the video has three million views and climbing."
"What video?"
Instead of answering, he hands me his phone. The screen shows an X post with over fifty thousand retweets. The caption reads: "COLBORNE HEIR GONE WILD!!!!". A number of emojis follow. Most are laughing. Three are aubergines.
Oh no.
I hit play.
The video quality is surprisingly good for something filmed from a hotel window. There I am, in my swim shorts, wielding a foam pool noodle like a sword. Ricky faces off against me, both of us clearly hammered. Party guests form a circle around us, cheering and placing bets.
That’s not so bad? We’re just being a bit silly.
"To the death!" Past-me shouts, raising the noodle overhead.