“Love thrives on celebration, not on secrets and isolation.”
Cleon lowered his gaze as he spoke, letting his finger ripple the water surface with delicate movements. In a split second, he shifted into splash mode, sending a handful of liquid straight at his lover’s face. Her feigned yet adorable indignation nourished his soul.
“Stop it, you brute. I don’t appreciate skullduggery, either, but we are two drunks operating a nuclear plant. Intoxicated by love and lust, and blind to reality, we live in denial, our dream doomed from its inception. Besides, you’d resent me, knowing I caused a rift between you and your parents. My devotion to you doesn’t permit me such pain.”
“I can’t help myself. You’re my best friend, the perfection I’d otherwise spend a lifetime chasing, only to discover dead ends and die alone. Fate has graced me early in life, and I live for you.” Cleon inched towards the opposite end of the bathtub, pulled by a force not of this earth, an attraction defying logic and sexual desire. He cupped her left cheek, the index finger brushing aside two rose petals stuck to a patch of dampened hair. The touch made her shiver, imperceptible to the naked eye, but enough to electrify their pleasure centres. His breath hastened, and as their chests pressed against each other, her hardened nipples tickled him to the point of outright laughter.
She grinned as he pulled back from nibbling the curve of her neck. The seductive scent of the Turpe perfume wafted deeper into his conscious.
“There is no sexier sound than hearing you laugh and nobody touches me the way you do. But, Cleon, it’s the last time I come to Philadelphia. Our tangled past suffocates the present. What happens when the lies end?”
Cleon reclined, saddened by the increasing frequency of the topic. His head rested on the rim while he gazed upward through the skylight. Dimmed lighting allowed starlight from a few distant suns to reach the austere bathroom. Worn, white wooden floors, creaking from each step, bore a bathtub in the middle of the room. A steam-covered vanity mirror with golden edgings hung over the handbasin and rounded out the romantic decor.
Cleon lept out of the tub and snatched a towel from the floor. He leaned against the locked door, steeling himself for a tough conversation. She had to understand. The world didn’t matter; only their love did. Why not have it all?
“What do you want me to say? How the idea of you with another makes my heart twinge out of despair? I spend every night hugging the covers, pretending it’s you and longing for your embrace. Maybe you wish to listen to how I compare you to other women and why they lose each time? Let’s not run in circles, chasing our tails. Love is mad, and I’m stuck on you.”
He turned, conscious of his vulnerability, hands pressed against the wall. The white-gold hair, tied in a bun at the back, aged him beyond his 24. Blue eyes, bronze tan, and androgynous facial features, coupled with a statuesque height, made him a desirable catch across the gender spectrum. Yet, he only wanted the queen. To hell with excuses.
“My prince, there’s no other; they’d always play second fiddle, and no one deserves the role of an afterthought. You believe it’s easy for me? I keep your clothes in my apartment, your aura soothing me after a hectic day at work. The anticipation and yearning for a kiss, the overwhelming intensity and passion of our joining, it boils my blood. Yet, I refuse to live the life of a robin, destined to repeat the same song from dusk till dawn. Amorous fixation is detrimental; thus, I’ve accepted the sad reality of me dancing on my own.” She stared at him without blinking, her way of signalling strong intent.
Blunt, as usual. Still, words didn’t sway him. “You’ve developed an ability to lie with conviction. It matters not; I’m going to have you on the wall, like the god-damn masterpiece you are. Tell me to stop. I defy you,” Cleon said and dropped the towel.
“I can’t resist those hypnotic angel eyes,” she replied and emerged from the water, approaching him with a naughty gleam in her eye. “Cleon, I spy, you will eat out.”
“Rekindle, the dating app helping you reconnect with old flames, continues its meteoric ascent. Rumours of a forthcoming initial public offering, an IPO, are rife, but does recluse founder and CEO, Antigone Temera, intend to go along with the board? Tom, you followed Miss Temera’s rise to the top; what plans might the young entrepreneur have?”
“You asked the billion-dollar question, Melody. I can’t tell you. Nobody can. The deep-throated New York University alum remains a mystery. Although a celebrated tech figure, few interviews exist, and sources offer little detail. The family history is an impenetrable wall, yielding no insightful clues to Temera’s attitude towards the stock listing. After the biological parents disappeared, Antigone entered foster care at seven...”
“Close TV.” Antigone had enough. The board’s leaks to the press had to stop. Sweat dripped from the forehead onto a thick plastic carpet designed to absorb the shock of free weights tumbling to the ground. Ten more minutes of training before the session ended. She got into position and readied herself to bench 84 kilos.
“Five times. Come on; you can do it!”
The door to the private part of the company gym swung open, too fast and aggressive for a subordinate, meaning Gretchen had entered the building. The woman approached in a cat-walk-like style, sporting a bone-white designer pantsuit paired with a plunging bustier. Corporate slut, Antigone thought.
“You’re early,” she said, not moving an inch. The deep, spurious voice even startled people she interacted with on a regular basis. Employed to cement a memorable persona in the New York business world, it flowed without impediment, given years of practice.
“And you appear to carry a heavy load. Shall I spot you?”
Gretchen’s polished, soft-spoken style didn’t fool Antigone, who relished in provoking the low-born mannerisms the chairwoman did her utmost to hide.
“I thrive on my own, thank you.” Antigone adored her Rubenesque figure, tight in the right places and voluptuous where it mattered, especially in spandex training gear. A 16th-century painter’s muse media called her. She trained to become stronger, not thinner, a concept Gretchen had a hard time understanding given her shallow personality. Antigone’s long auburn hair, styled in corkscrew locks, framed a face of elegant, classical beauty. The deer-shaped, yellow-flecked eyes, dark brows, high cheekbones and petite nose attracted paparazzi rags with an unnerving frequency.
“Always alone. Antigone dear, you’re 27 without relationship experience. I’m worried Rekindle users will write you off as a spinster.”
The smug smile in the mirror infuriated Antigone to no end. Love and fame equalled a toxic cocktail; therefore, she settled for the latter years ago, burdened by the sad consequences. She let go of the barbell inches from Gretchen’s feet before unleashing much-needed shade.
“If they prefer a whore, married into the aristocracy, you’re a shoo-in. It’s no secret you wish to replace me, brimming with envy for my youth and famous persona. Didn’t you turn 50 the other month? We can’t have the firm fronted by someone who belongs in a museum.” In truth, a life of opulence allowed the investor to appear mid-thirties. Wrinkles botoxed to oblivion, a toned and slim body, voluminous chestnut-coloured hair, and silicone implants which got her paid and laid.
“Your temper is not an asset. Why not try metaphors and innuendos? A prodigy you might be, but wisdom comes with age. Stay on the ground, girl; you work for us. We won’t let you go too high.”
Gretchen struggled to maintain false positivity, and Antigone loved it. A deliberate and protracted silence caused her foe to cross the line and show her vindictive spirit.
“I suppose you foster children come with issues. Didn’t you get enough love from your stepfamily? Or is it latent resentment towards the biological parents who spurned you?”
Antigone rued the day she raised the second round of financing, the series B. Even in the beginning, Rekindle generated revenue, but advisors pushed for another cash injection to scare off potential competitors. As a result, Praeda Capital, with principal owner Gretchen Lecoup, an haute couture-wearing French investor, seized a sizeable chunk of equity. Together with three other venture funds, they held a controlling majority. Unfortunately, Antigone made the cardinal error of a rookie entrepreneur, parting with too much ownership at an early stage.
“Get used to me-speak,” Antigone said and launched into a round of squats. “Your opinion matters less than the dog shit under my shoe. I summoned you to convey my vigorous objection to going public. In addition, you miscalculated by leaking to the media. I refuse strong-arm tactics, especially since I have serious qualms concerning Rekindle’s current direction with the Anima Pep partnership.” Antigone wiped sweat off her forehead. “Be a darling and hold this.” She threw a drenched towel at Gretchen, who failed to sidestep in time.
“You allow petty jealousy to cloud your business acumen,” Gretchen replied, trying her best not to lose it as perspiration stained the designer suit. “I brokered an agreement with Anima because of my personal connection with Tekton Terra. Their White Rabbit device saved Rekindle from irrelevance.”
“White Rabbit cost us eyeballs in the first place. These alternate reality simulations are bad luck, and I’m not comfortable sleeping with the enemy. It stresses me.”
“You speak of things you can’t comprehend. Stress is filling out a digital user form and having to scroll for an eternity to find your damned birth year. Besides, you sang a different tune at the beginning. Tekton is not an adversary, and I doubt he remembers you. Either way, the man could execute you on national TV and receive a medal of honour. No power can oppose the richest person on the planet.”
“You’re scared of him,” Antigone said during a jump rope exercise. One more aged fellow trying to control the narrative of her life. A hectoring stepfather made it easy to spot new offenders. The heavy gold necklace with an eagle dangling from the chain pounded her chest with every bounce. A memento from happier times, which never left the confines of her cleavage.
“You lack sense, unable to fathom what power the Terras possess. Don’t let foolish pride and a shortfall of humility blind you to sound advice. I learned of your meeting with Tekton’s son Satis, Director of New Projects. An impetuous fellow, refrain from antagonising him with your crude ways. We need deeper integration with White Rabbit data.”
Antigone stopped dead in her tracks, panting from the arduous jumps and incredulous over Gretchen’s uninformed statement.
“You’re not the only one with a connection to Anima Pep. Satis and I studied at NYU together, and I am acutely aware of what type of man, or boy, he is. He ignores how Rekindle has become synonymous with divorce, infidelity, and perversion. We targeted single people at launch, and now we implore everyone, married or alone, to hook up with their exes. It’s a gateway to disposable relationships, a profitable monstrosity, evil in its design.”
“We’re not a public conscience and must not lecture our user base. We provide a means to find intimacy. The rest lies outside our purview. And these amorous liaisons take place in a simulated reality, immersive but not real. If it leads to divorce, the relationship is already on life support. Here, you need a drink; you’re sweating like a politician on a polygraph.”
Antigone caught a bottle of water inches from the face. She finished half before continuing the Gretchen-bashing.
“Love is never easy and a notion alien to you. Tell me, who’s next on your marriage ladder? Big boy, Tekton? The ultimate prize for a power climber, although I’m sure he’d smell your Cleopatra character a mile away.”
“Insolent brat! Your ethics act is a mirage. If society is rotten, you play your role in it. Your sins are as deep as mine, and nothing you do will wash them clean. You care only for the glorification of Antigone Temera, part of your mania to become the next January Vindler. It’s obvious why you revere Anima Pep’s illustrious product executive. She, too, holds herself above matters of the heart, consumed by work. However, you forget two crucial distinctions. January is no friend; to her, you are competition to wipe out. More importantly, she’s Tekton Terra’s jewel in the crown. An unassailable edge, which means no matter how hard you try, number one status can never be yours. And that, my plus-sized prima donna, brings me more joy than a happy pill.”
“Hello, are you blind? We’re ready to order.”
Satis’ loud and abrasive holler made Antigone regret meeting him. The obnoxious and entitled brat she had grown to despise during business studies at NYU refused to let go.
“Can you believe this idiot? She’s walked past us two times. I want to speak to a manager.” The arrogant tone had become more prominent, but the trembling voice still spoke of an insecure boy desperate to prove himself. Satis’ torrid personality overshadowed an otherwise handsome appearance with thick and glossy dark hair, chiselled cheeks and lime green eyes. Limitless wealth and European clothing brands indicative of a billionaire budget helped. Today he sported a black satin shirt, unbuttoned at the top, and coal-coloured linen pants.
“Please don’t be that guy. You got her attention; here she comes,” Antigone said, determined to order a small salad, hoping for a quick end to the meeting. She imagined the old hangout in Greenwich Village as ideal to stimulate conversational nostalgia. Little had changed in the Italian diner; the same red and white dotted cloth, wicker chairs, romantic dimmed lighting, and transparent glass, exposing a chaotic kitchen. The high ceiling gave it a church-like atmosphere, while the intense chatter reduced the serenity.
“Welcome to Concupisco. I’m Poppy. Can I take your order?” A frazzled young woman with purple highlights stood ready with a digital pad and pen.
“I’ll have the lobster-filled ravioli. You still have them on the menu, I assume?” Satis asked without acknowledging the waitress.
“We do.”
“Is the pasta al dente? If not, it’s tantamount to a war crime.”
“Always.”
When Satis spotted the hair colour, his eyes popped.
“Do you even know what it means? And it must be fresh, not those wooden lumps normal people buy in supermarkets.”
“It is.”
Antigone smiled. Poppy held her own.
“Made today? Otherwise, forget about it.”
“Prepared two hours ago,” Poppy said as Satis launched another volley.
“The lobster has to be from Maine, or I won’t touch it.”
“Flown in early morning.”
“How red? If you detect patches of grey, give it to the homeless and inform them they’re eating at the largesse of Satis Terra. No, I changed my mind. I’m not getting a foodie vibe from you. Bring me a Caesar salad; it’s more in line with the ability of your establishment.”
Poppy, jaw scraping the floor and stunned into silence, took too long to confirm the order, drawing further ire from Satis.
“Run along now. My time is valuable.”
The waitress muttered douche a tad too loud.
“Say, Poppy, would you wear shoes if you didn’t have feet?”
“No...,” she said, confounded by the riddle.
“Then why are you wearing a bra, you flat-chested bitch?”
Tears welling up, Poppy threw the pad and stormed into the kitchen.
Antigone, familiar with Satis’ viper-style verbal retaliations, understood he had no intention or capacity to apologise and ran after the distraught girl to offer comfort. When she returned a few minutes later, Satis wrote a message on his phone titled Operation Red River. Aware of her presence, he closed the application in haste.
“Did you fast-track our order? As I recall, they need a reminder or two to move into gear.”
“Friendly piece of advice. After your outburst, eat elsewhere unless you covet a cocktail of human body fluids.”
“Oh, you’re flirting? It’s no surprise I’d appreciate a crack at you. God knows I, and half the guys in class, tried our best. You didn’t give an inch, though. First, we thought lesbian, which excited us more. Later, we figured you had a secret boyfriend. Either way, please smother me between those glorious twin peaks until I can’t breathe. You chose your outfit with precise deliberation. You remembered I had a thing for women in chokers. And black dresses with peekaboo slits.”
The prospect of Satis without breath enticed in a non-sexual, morbid manner. Antigone wanted nothing more than to purge herself of him and the tentacled partnership with Anima Pep.
“Satis, you remain a charmer of true class, but I recall you preferred females with no clothes, given the tramps you frequented. I’m interested in men, not adolescent, privileged boys, unable to emerge from the shadow of an overbearing father.” How she missed her only love when sitting opposite the reprehensible Terra man-child. The candle-lit dinners when he served his signature dessert, apple slices with cinnamon and mulled wine. Stop it, not now. “Shall we leave before the chef returns with a cleaver?”
Antigone delighted in Satis’ visible and agonising attempt to filter his reply. The deal with Rekindle mattered to him, a needed win to keep Tekton happy, no doubt.
“Your loss, my dear. You’ll soon learn times are changing at Anima; it’s in your interest to stay on my good side.”
The condescending, childish giggle drew stares from the adjacent tables. Antigone rose, retrieved her coat, and exited the restaurant with urgent steps. Satis followed and suggested a walk along the High Line in the Meatpacking District.
Ten minutes of idle gossip about former classmates brought them to the abandoned rail track. The transformation into an elevated, tree-lined pedestrian walkway snaking between highrises drew constant crowds. Satis steered the conversation back to the present.
“I have to ask. What’s with the baritone voice? Too much whiskey during lonely evenings?”
On second thought, Satis had changed. The anxiousness of yesteryear had given way to considerable heft behind the usual insults and threats. Antigone ignored the fishing expedition for personal information and hit back.
“Gretchen believes January is Tekton’s chosen one. Not you.”
Satis smirked, but worry lines along the forehead and scattered eye movement told a different story. A moment of reflective silence took hold as they passed the Whitney museum on the left, promoting an exhibit of ancient Greek tomb decorations.
“I harbour a deep respect for January, who is integral to the company’s future,” he said in a hushed voice. “Now, let’s focus on business. I want to expand the partnership beyond the US and Europe. White Rabbit has billions of users, and with our intimate knowledge of their desires, we can make love happen across every continent.”
Several pedestrians turned their heads at the sight of the famous couple. Antigone agonised at the thought of potential romance rumours in the scandal press.
“I founded the company while attending NYU as a solo project. While I value investors and partners, I ponder a complete shift in strategy based on societal needs. In large part, as a counterweight to the effects of White Rabbit.”
“And people say I suffer from hubris,” Satis said and rolled his eyes. “You’re gunning for the world record in reality distortion if you believe you can dent White Rabbit’s success.”
Truth be told, the temptation to submit to the advanced simulator reared its ugly head with increasing intensity.
“Antigone, the lone rebel. I’m impressed you resisted until now, even with Rekindle using our technology to fuel your growth.” Satis’ raised voice attracted further unwanted attention.
“A moment of weakness. However, I aim to correct a wrong and combat the evil unleashed,” Antigone replied as the duelling pair passed a modest flea market. “The task is monumental, I admit. Individuals discover simulated versions of their existence stemming from past choices. How to compete with such ego-masturbation?”
“You can’t, and why should you? With White Rabbit, you star in your own production and have the freedom to explore new directions. Even people with no money and boring lives obsess over their station and which decisions led them to oblivion.”
“Dabbling with regret leads to paralysis, opening old wounds.”
“It’s harmless fun, lessening the need to cheat in reality.”
Antigone grabbed Satis by the arm and pulled him aside, under cover of a building jutting above the High Line. His amused or aroused expression, impossible to tell which, made her take a step back.
“Bullshit, increasing divorce rates and breakdown in relationships don’t lie. Of course, it’s in corporate and government interest to further navel-gazing and weaken the bond between individuals.”
“You’re not qualified to have an opinion before you try White Rabbit,” Satis said with a mischievous countenance.
“I abhor surveillance tech and Maslovian rhetoric. Relationships make the world liveable, not rushing through a maze of glory to achieve false self-actualisation.”
Satis’ phone pinged, and his demeanour changed in an instant. An order from Tekton, Antigone imagined.
“Don’t stand so close. I’ll call the police,” he said to a man hovering too near. As the fellow scampered off, Satis turned to address Antigone, gazing deep into her eyes.
“Important business, I’m afraid. I leave you with an offer to ponder. Try White Rabbit for a change of perspective; if it doesn’t convince you of its merit, I promise to help stave off the IPO.”
Satis reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a White Rabbit device, hard to distinguish from regular over-the-ear headphones.
“A customised unit, with a special greeting from your role model, January. Ask yourself, isn’t there a moment in your past where you wish you had made a different choice? Perhaps, in another reality, you chose love and actually have a life.”
“Danciiiing queeeen!”
Antigone belted out the lyrics to the classic ABBA disco tune while dancing like nobody watched. Exaggerated rag-doll style bouncing, head banging to the point of nausea and, as always, in the nude, eagle necklace exempted. Tonight’s choice of music came courtesy of January Vindler, plucked from an interview where the half-Swedish Anima Pep executive offered a rare piece of personal information. Dance boosted morale, released excess energy and restored clarity of mind, as she put it.
Antigone had settled on an audacious plan to embrace White Rabbit. She had to pursue any opportunity to rid herself of the investors and Anima, although Satis lied through his bonded teeth in relation to stopping the IPO. He’d keep close tabs through the device. Anima Pep mined data of intimate character. Herein lay the opening she needed.
“What do you say, old boy, care to cut a rug?” Antigone tried to emulate January’s private school British accent and honeyed tonality, but it sounded contrived. The object of inquiry, Akhenaten, a heretic pharaoh ruling Ancient Egypt around 1350 BC, graced a poster on the living room wall.
Antigone had grown fascinated with the man who brought monotheism to the Egyptians, albeit for a brief time, during a promotional Nile cruise for Anima Pep partners. In him, she recognised a kindred spirit, not afraid to disregard convention, no matter the consequences. The hermaphroditic shape of the pharaoh’s body and face added to the intrigue; he took a contrarian approach in many domains, not only religion and politics.
Antigone danced through the high-ceilinged room, underneath splendid wooden beams, between brick walls of yellow ochre and up a chromed-out staircase to arrive at the enormous panoramic windows. The 200-square metre loft apartment overlooked the NYU buildings in NoHo, an area she’d fallen in love with when studying.
Antigone finished the dance routine and threw herself into a colossal beanie bag in the middle of the entertainment section. The White Rabbit device lay on the floor, waiting for an inaugural run.
She strapped it over the head, and immediately massage-style pulsations propagated across the skull. White Rabbit manipulated the optic synapses to produce a desired visual outcome. Soon, January Vindler’s face dominated the room, blurring the surroundings. The glamorous champagne-blond corkscrew curls, piercing blue eyes, copper-tinted lipstick, and delicate fairy-tale princess features made Antigone swoon. A meditative voice, capable of putting an anxiety-ridden, obsessive-compulsive sufferer into an instant state of nirvana, had Antigone ready to join a death cult if asked. The fateful decision to choose work over love stemmed from Antigone’s desire to emulate and overtake January’s position as the most celebrated woman in the tech scene.
“Dear Antigone, I’m delighted you gave White Rabbit a chance. I guarantee a life-changing experience. Thank you for selecting Anima Pep as a partner. As one female executive to another, I find myself both impressed and envious of you founding Rekindle at such an early age. At present, your application is an obsession with a growing fan base, thirsting for a sip from the well of love.”
Antigone blushed, flattered by the personalised message and lapping up January’s praise. How could the same company produce a bona fide rockstar such as January and a third-rate, lip-syncing boy band reject like Satis?
“I offer two choices. Decide on a new reality, or let White Rabbit suggest one for you. I suspect you don’t allow anyone to dictate your path. Therefore, permit me to explain how you choose an alternate version of life. First, have a lie-down, as I predict you opting for Control mode rather than Watch. When inside your alter ego, your own body enters a light sleep as you take command of the host.”
Antigone burrowed deeper into the beanie bag.
“Close your eyes, relax, and focus on my voice. Travel to a distinct fork in your past where life presented multiple paths. Ask yourself, what if I had chosen differently? If White Rabbit identifies an outcome divergent enough compared to reality, you step into a new world. When ready to return, say a predetermined exit word to wake. Save favourite realities for quick access and live stream on social media if desired. You are a role model for women determined to walk two steps ahead of men.”
“Antigone, I have little to offer beyond words of encouragement and lessons from past mistakes. Use your wings to attack life head-on. Don’t get sidetracked by lesser obstacles; spike them on your high heels and push forward. Love can be a hindrance, keeping you from reaching the sun. It is rare to rise to the highest echelons of both happiness and success. Paradise demands an exorbitant entrance fee.”
“Well, I do declare! January Vindler, my bosom friend.” Antigone said with a beaming smile. She had followed January’s every move for the eight years at Anima Pep and credited her with the inspiration to focus on the career. Now an opportunity to re-examine that choice presented itself. Did a reality, where luck in business walked in lockstep with love, exist?
On the sixth floor of the New York City Exchange, known as the NYCE, the much-vaunted Board Room marvelled with its gilded walls, eight-metre skylight ceiling and monumental video screen.
Antigone sat in awe, appreciating the gravity of the occasion. To the right, the top lieutenants from growth marketing, sales and product development, Esme, Hyman and Polly, grinned from ear to ear, dressed to the nines. The appeal of White Rabbit registered without delay; controlling your alternate in a first-person perspective explained users’ retreat from society. Yet, Antigone thought the moment neither genuine nor hers. Instead, it belonged to a simulated alter ego.
The personalised badge, modelled after the ones worn by traders, spelt out Antigone Temera. It’s only a product of my mind, Antigone said to herself. The five-sense immersion, coupled with 100% photorealism, turned users into movie stars in their own universe.
“30 minutes until Rekindle becomes part of the gold standard of companies, with an IPO at NYCE.”
The exchange executive dimmed the lights and stepped aside. A presentation on the stock market’s unique role in the global economy followed as Antigone rejoiced over the positive reality she’d entered.
“Next, a short remark from Rekindle CEO Antigone Temera.” The speaker’s introduction focused the attention on the young founder. Esme, in an uncharacteristic cherry red dress, led the team in raucous applause.
Antigone swallowed hard, straightened the black suit jacket and took to the stage, slow and deliberate, with a smile oozing with sincerity. She’d entered the reality an hour earlier, amid a promotional event in front of the exchange, where Rekindle tents ran speed-friending sessions for people to reconnect with old friends. Antigone wanted to do cartwheels of joy as the company’s new focus presented itself. Friendships, not romance.
“To the best team on the planet. Today is your and Rekindle’s day. I won’t be long-winded as you want to ring the bell. Take pride in your work as we continue to build back the world we lost, trapped in the allure of fanciful vanity technology such as White Rabbit. It turns us into attention-seeking gladiators, debasing ourselves to combat loneliness and chase validation. Get over yourself and rekindle connections with your brothers and sisters. Enjoy your well-deserved time in the spotlight.”
Not terrible for winging it, Antigone thought as she and the 20 closest colleagues received engraved medallions and listing certificates. The congregation meandered to the trading floor, where divine chocolate cake and champagne awaited their arrival. The old flaming Rekindle logo had undergone a radical change and now featured two individuals engaged in a fiery embrace.
Rekindle staff and guests signed the exchange’s guest book, adding their names to the list of illustrious VIPs. Then, Antigone led the group up an enclosed 15-step staircase to the podium with the famous video wall and an unobstructed view of the trading floor. The atmosphere of wild cheering warmed the soul. I did it! A NYCE executive instructed Antigone on how to operate the bell as the lights flickered off and the cameras rolled.
“Now!” he said and stepped back.
“Ding ding ding ding.”
For ten seconds, Antigone’s finger held firm to the sound of roars, smiles, tears, hugs and handshakes. The worshipped heartbeat of capitalism signalled the start of trading and the birth pangs of Rekindle as a public company.
In the moment of delirium, she spotted him. At the centre of the exchange floor, applauding with immense pride, Antigone’s angel-eyed prince mouthed I love you. The hair on her arms shot out in salute, the face flush with fresh blood. The rush of adrenaline and state of euphoria lasted mere seconds. Stabbing sensations in the chest, difficulties breathing, and jealous rage followed as Esme rushed to the edge of the podium, shouting at the top of her lungs.
“Love you too, Cleon!”
“Watch it, buddy. Any closer, and I’ll castrate you where we stand!”
The cloying creep vanished before the green light, darting ahead between honking and swerving cars. Antigone continued with determined steps, her thoughts a chaotic blur of melancholy and conviction. The years wasted without Cleon now bordered on travesty, the business not worth the sacrifice. In the real world, she had, of course, not expected Cleon to remain celibate. Yet, the simulated reality with Esme played on repeat, a gut-wrenching reminder of how she needed to unbreak her heart. January had to be wrong. Empowering love acted as a shield against the ugliness of society.
Satis had a point; White Rabbit offered a new perspective. One the trust fund baby would find hard to digest. Irrespective, the plan should work, the juicy scandal sending the rats scurrying in fear. She needed the freedom to rebuild the business and rekindle a relationship ended due to misplaced priorities.
From Hell’s Kitchen, via West 45th Street, Antigone approached Times Square, taking in the unfolding spectacle on the streets and the billboards. Lights in a multitude of colours glared in the evening light. A video ad promoted an upcoming reality show. A Life Ruined, starring your favourite narcissist Friston Sabio, the copy read. In the clip, the actor seduced a girl wearing a mask of his likeness. The name rang a bell. Of course, repeated violations for sending pictures of genitalia got him banned from Rekindle.
Diverse masses on zebra crossings, venting steam under the sidewalks, and incessant beeps of car horns contributed to Antigone’s mental cacophony. The request for a follow-up meeting led Satis to call for a rendezvous in an apartment hotel on Broadway, a highrise with an exquisite view of Times Square. Antigone suspected ulterior motives of the sexual kind. Hence an outfit of baggy jeans and a raggedy sweater with more holes than a Swiss cheese.
The lobby receptionist confirmed the appointment and pointed toward the elevator. During the rapid ascent, Antigone scolded herself for having danced to the tunes of investors. No more. From now on, she’d break the rules and damn the consequences.
At the entrance, Satis glowered at the unflattering clothing. In contrast, he’d overdressed, draped in a drug lord-style white outfit with a silly red handkerchief sticking out of the chest pocket. Antigone stifled a laugh with great effort, only for nausea to hit as he moved aside. Gretchen lingered on the balcony, savouring the theatre of Times Square in a blinding yellow-orange pantsuit. Two half-filled glasses and a diamond-encrusted bottle of ridiculously expensive cognac graced the table near the glass door.
“I asked for a private session. Why invite the wicked witch of capitalism?”
“I’m aware of my irresistible nature, but now isn’t the time for your Mata Hari advances. It’s strictly business,” Satis said, with a circumspect leer.
Antigone visualised herself pulverising the arrogant face using fists and elbows to the degree where only dental records could identify the prick. Gretchen interrupted the pleasant fantasy on her way into the suite.
“Two meetings in as many days. I’m blessed. Satis, why don’t you offer our young friend a mug of apple juice? She looks harried. Have you consorted with the homeless, or what’s the story behind the flee-infested fashion malfunction?”
Antigone pulled the pants higher.
“I apologise for disturbing your tête-à-tête. Who knew you hunted cougars, Satis?”
“How dare you!” Gretchen ground her teeth, fighting to remain calm. She blushed at the sight of Satis’ bemused grin.
“You’ll find I have more impactful news to share. I made a decision, and it’s final,” Antigone said.
“Do tell, dear. I’m near the point of a fake orgasm,” Gretchen replied.
“I will pivot Rekindle from romance to loneliness. People are alone, trapped in a labyrinth of self-discovery and egoism. The company’s new purpose is to blossom friendships, deep and long-lasting. My vision is to rebuild a powerful society, free from the terrorism of the prevailing Zero Brother culture, championed by Anima Pep and its ilk.”
“White Rabbit didn’t alienate you from friends and family. You mastered it on your own.” Satis said while moving to the table near Gretchen. He opened a laptop and pressed play on a video recording, pausing the clip as Cleon came into view at the IPO ceremony. How predictable.
“Don’t bother with evasive answers. I identified the gentleman and recognised what he means to you. White Rabbit records what you see, think, and feel.”
“Anima Pep has more cash than a central bank; it’s not related to money. What do you want?” Antigone said, pretend-shocked. “End the partnership? Shelve the IPO?”
“Right on both counts,” Satis replied with a quizzical expression.
The ugly truth came fast and merciless.
“Anima Pep bought Rekindle. Satis and I signed the papers moments before you arrived, and a qualified majority of the investors backed me. You understand, we can’t go public with a Richter scale transgression souring the market. Imagine our relief when Satis offered to buy the company. Here’s to Miss know-it-all’s failure and Rekindle nestled in the safe arms of Anima.” Gretchen swigged a glass of cognac, only to wretch seconds later.
Once an enemy, never a friend, Antigone thought, picturing herself as an unwanted mongrel, betrayed and discarded by the investors. No surprises they bolted, but Satis buying Rekindle? Surely Anima didn’t care for the scandal, either?
“Satis, you lured me into White Rabbit, and like a Pavlovian slut, I responded. A villainous scheme well conceived, I must admit. Is it Operation Red River?”
The blood drained from Satis’ face as he weighed his answer. “I hatched the plan knowing you despised the idea of an IPO, and as Head of New Projects, I spotted a value-adding acquisition. As a result, we gain a user recruitment channel and prove my partnership strategy works. Father will be pleased. And let me offer you one comfort, your idol, January, is not involved. It’s me all the way.”
Satis, you are an idiot of the highest order. January directed the scheme, guiding the clown without him understanding. The sinister nature and true depth of Vindler’s manipulation, disguised as advice, both revolted and impressed Antigone. January made it seem as if Antigone picked a reality; in fact, she had engineered the White Rabbit simulation to prove a point. Start anew, both in business and life, the rational course of action. Rekindle in its current state had become a yoke, a lesser obstacle to cast aside, much like Cleon.
“Don’t worry, dear; your shocking secret is safe with me. You have a duty to follow the board; I implore you to use common sense. Accept your cut of the sale and repent.”
Antigone refused to let Gretchen believe she’d won.
“Who needs to fear hell? The devils already move among us. It’s a momentary setback, and if you think I’ll bend over and take it up the arse, you are dead wrong. Release the information. It won’t bother me. In fact, I planned to come clean myself. At last, news juicy enough to distract people from themselves. I will be the primary draw for months, with a mass following and the money you secured for me. And with Cleon by my side, watch me rocket to heights gutter trash like you can’t even imagine.”
“Cleon’s dead,” Gretchen said, unable and unwilling to mask genuine glee.
Enraged, Antigone pushed the despicable shrew using both hands. “Careful, liar. You’re on the razor’s edge!”
“Freak, touch me again, and I’ll send you to an early grave!” Gretchen’s manufactured façade evaporated as she scrambled to get in Antigone’s face.
Satis delivered the blow which broke reality.
“It’s true, suicide two years back. Guess Cleon couldn’t live without you.” The casual tone of the statement made Antigone first doubt its validity, but the truth resonated in the heart, causing her to shake. She sank to the floor, head fixed between the knees, gasping for air. Tears flowed like a biblical flood. January proved prophetic; destiny prevented love.
“Rex and Drusilla blame you for Cleon’s death, as they should. You seduced their son and left him an empty shell. They buried him in a secret location to stop you from disturbing him in the afterlife.”
Gretchen’s tirade made Antigone spring to action. The crone had no right to judge. With an open palm, she slapped Gretchen hard enough to force the woman to clutch the wall. Satis laughed and pulled further away, expecting a retaliation. He didn’t have to wait long as Gretchen spun around and struck Antigone with a counter-slap, her nails rupturing the lip.
“I don’t have to play nice anymore,” Gretchen said. “You’re finished.”
Antigone shifted her jaw back and forth, wiping off blood before rushing her opponent.
Tangled in an awkward embrace, they smashed into the adjacent sofa, the combined force tipping it backwards. The pair rolled across the room to the soundtrack of high-pitched screams and grunts, Gretchen emerging on top of Antigone. She grabbed the founder’s hair, dunking the back of her skull on the marble floor, while Satis followed the fight with cognac in hand.
“Ladies, shall I order jello for the Manhattan rumble?”
The fighters, wrestling for higher ground, paid him no heed, crashing into a recently watered citrus tree. Antigone had the adversary’s head in a vice but slipped. The muddy discharge prevented Gretchen from a clean get-away, the pantsuit stained and dripping with water.
Antigone threw herself on Gretchen’s back, grabbed both legs and dragged her into the centre of the apartment. The irate investor snatched a vase from a pedestal and lobbed it at Antigone’s left temple.
Satis recorded the melee of Antigone’s collapse, crushing a table as she fell. “Great sound effects. Count yourself lucky I’m wealthy; otherwise, I’d sell the video to a scandal rag.”
“You’re not fit to clean toilets at Anima Pep. It’s only a matter of time before your father tires of your cowardice and ineptitude,” Antigone said, shaking shards of glass from her hair.
“Shut it, you fat cow.” Satis stirred the bowls of cashew nuts, cautious in his study of each nut before ingestion. Unlike ordinary people who threw back a handful, he ate one, scrunching his face the way a child eating broccoli exaggerates the ordeal. Antigone stared at him with similar affection reserved for a mosquito feasting on her blood.
Satis focused the video on Gretchen, who flailed both arms as if on the verge of drowning. Antigone parried and pummelled Gretchen with a couple of fast jabs, swiped her legs and kicked the drowsy woman out onto the balcony.
“A second-rate investor, grovelling for crumbs at talented people’s tables. You have a knack for it, plenty of experience digging for gold, I presume.” Antigone stepped outside, ready to hurl further insults.
“Gretchen, where’s the comeback?” Satis’ male fantasy mattered more than his dignity as he joined the antagonists in the burgeoning evening air, phone in hand.
His ally obliged, harpooning the enemy in the chest, head first. Antigone responded by grabbing Gretchen’s throat and shoving her over the ledge.
“Release me, incestuous sinner. Your actions cost your stepbrother’s life. Let Cleon’s death forever haunt you.”
Antigone’s fury grew a hundredfold. She pushed harder, deaf to Gretchen’s panicked screams, as half the body now hanged outside the railing.
“Enough,” Satis said. “Don’t go mental, not here in my suite.”
Gretchen slid her hand between Antigone’s throat and eagle necklace and jerked forward hard. With both heads over the side, gravity kicked in, sending the women flying towards an unexpected stone tomb amidst a river of blood on the streets of New York.
“Cleon, soon we become one, my prince. Let us rekindle our glorious love,” Antigone said as she soared in the sunset, free to enjoy a second chance with her brother.
Thank you for reading my free speculative fiction short story. A writer's best friend is feedback so please review at the bottom of the page. I'd love to hear your thoughts.
Rekindle - The Rise and Fall of Antigone Temera is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used entirely fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual companies or persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2022 Richard Lindberg
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published by Alium Res AB, Stockholm, 2022
Cover photo attribution; With the aid of AI art generator Dalle-2.