Chapter Three: The Players

The room that Marcus led me into was truly magnificent; it was like something out of a regency novel, or an Agatha Christie mystery. And the cast of characters within would have given Poirot himself something to write home about.

As I entered, twenty heads turned my way, and I realised with an inward groan that I was the last contestant to arrive. Typical. They were an eclectic group, men and women of all ages gathered around a beautiful marble fireplace, some sitting on the sumptuous couches, some standing against the luxuriously tapestried walls, and all staring directly at me.

As I stepped through the doorway with some trepidation, I had a second revelation; I was woefully underdressed. The ladies were in what looked like matching cocktail dresses and the men wore well-pressed linen shirts and dress trousers. I looked down at my outfit; shiny black doc martens, an old pair of bell-bottom jeans and a petal-pink cardigan over a tank top. Definitely not the vibe.

I looked around at Marcus, but found that he had already left my side. He was now hovering over by the gently undulating fire, speaking with a woman who was probably in her late twenties or early thirties, and who, I could tell, was flirting shamelessly with him. I felt the familiar sting of jealousy settle low in my gut. Fuck. Here I was, looking like some sort of peasant, and all of these women were dressed to kill. If I had wanted to compete for Marcus's attention, one look at his spellbound expression told me that I had fallen at the first hurdle. At least, in these clothes, nobody could ever suspect me of being a vicious Saboteur. That was some comfort.

As I was cursing my horrible fashion sense, a bookcase that was set into the wood panelled wall swung open, and one of the red-cloaked figures emerged. A girl, of about eighteen or so, who had been leaning casually against the wall beside me, turned and whispered in my ear.

"Hey, don't worry - we all arrived in civvies. This fella'll take you up to your room now and get you sorted right out". Her accent was hard to place; possibly Australian, although there was something about her that suggested she had spent time in Europe. Elegant and poised, she had the aura of a woman who had seen something of the world in her short years. I envied her; such effortless grace was a talent that I didn't possess, and, though I hated myself for it, I was reminded of Alyna.

I smiled at her, nodding my gratitude, and saw a sincerity in her eyes that I knew would make it impossible to harbour any ill-will towards her. I turned towards my masked guide, and he (or she, although who could tell) led me through the room and towards a corridor beside the fireplace. I felt all eyes on me again. As I passed by the bookcase, I caught a glimpse of the gong that had announced my arrival. They really went all out; this show must have a hell of a budget.

Not only were eyes following me across the floor, which was disconcerting in itself, I was also hyper-aware of the cameras that I knew were hidden throughout the room. In order to create the most authentic experience for participants and viewers alike, The Producers had explained to me, Treachery! Would not be filmed like a traditional game show. Cameras would be inconspicuous, and there would be no host. Once we entered the castle, we basically had to fend for ourselves, with the limited guidance of our cloaked servers. The only places that wouldn't have cameras would be the bathrooms, obviously, and our bedrooms.

The corridor led to a marble tiled hall and a grand spiral staircase, which I climbed at the direction of my companion. I was then led to a nondescript white door on the first floor. This, I presumed, was to be my room. Opening the door, however, my jaw dropped. In the centre of the room was an ornate four poster bed, beautifully made up with a golden bedspread. My suitcase had already been emptied and the limited wardrobe that I had brought with me had been discreetly tucked away. Crossing over to the desk, I realised why I had been told to pack lightly; there, on a laminated sheet of paper, was a list of the outfits I would wear for the duration of my stay.

At the top of the list were the words, Welcome Reception: Cocktail Dress, Red. Below it, in bold lettering, were the directions: Open closet to right of desk. I did so, and found myself once again in shock. Hanging there was the most beautiful collection of clothes I had ever laid eyes on. I felt a grin slowly spread across my features. In record time, I had slipped into a gorgeous red cocktail dress. I felt like a goddess; the silk was smooth against my skin, and the garment fit me like a glove. It even came with a matching pair of red heels.

In the vanity I found that I was provided with any skin and cosmetic products I could possibly need, and I threw on some red lipstick before turning to leave. Catching a glimpse of myself in the gilded mirror, I smirked. Marcus would certainly notice me now. I looked ravishing.

I entered the room, once again, and was greeted with gasps of awe. Even the young woman who had spoken to me earlier stood up straighter upon my entrance. She made her way over to me immediately.

"Wow", she whispered, "You certainly clean up nicely! I know this isn't a dating show, but leave some of the guys for the rest of us, would ya?" A blush creeped up my neck and I smiled shyly. She held out her hand to me, and I shook it.

"I'm Emily, by the way. Didn't get a chance to mention it earlier". I responded, telling her my name, and we fell into pleasant small talk. Emily had been the first to arrive to the castle today, and therefore had the advantage of knowing who all of the other players were. She would be a useful ally. She went around the room, lazily throwing her hand out in their direction.

"Alright, if we start on my left: that's Marjorie, she is a mother of two and grandmother of five. Lovely, bubbly, and deeply unthreatening. Next", she pointed at an older man staring out of the window, "is Andrew, who I have christened Arrogant Andrew. His first words to me were, and I quote, 'A little thing like you won't last three days against an intellect like mine'. Sooner he's gone the better, in my view.

"Then there's Sandra", she gestured at the woman that Marcus had been so enthralled by earlier. Glowing in the firelight, she was a knockout - long blonde hair fell in waves over her shoulders, and a soft pink blush coloured her cheeks. "She's pretty, but dim. Next to her is Marcus - hey, you came in with him, didn't you?" She turned to question me, and I opened my lips to answer her.

Our conversation was interrupted all too soon, however, by a cough from behind me. I turned to find myself crashing into a broad chest. I jump backwards and suddenly I was staring directly at a perfectly chiselled jawline, accompanied by a cunning pair of dark eyes. Taking in the man in front of me, I couldn't help but appreciate his aesthetic qualities, his toned physique, his sculpted face, his large hands... which I had now been staring at for far too long.

I looked into his eyes again, embarrassed, and found them flickering with amusement. He moved past me, then, and greeted Emily. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?" he asked her snidely, waving his hand in my direction. She looked flustered, and stammered out the words, "A-Ali! Is her... Is her name, I mean... um, this is her, this is Ali!" She jerked her head towards me, and after a moment of awkward silence, continued in my direction, "Oh! How rude of me! Ali, this is Anthony. Anthony Braxton".

I felt like the air had been knocked out of my lungs. Fuck, how could I not have recognised him?! Anthony Braxton, social media tycoon and entrepreneur, youngest billionaire of his generation, Forbes richest man like five years in a row, People's hottest man probably the same amount of times, he was... exquisitely wealthy and so handsome he once made a woman faint just by looking at her. He was notoriously hotheaded in the boardroom, and in the bedroom if the rumours were to be believed. And here I was, in the same space as him, wondering whether I could ever meet his eyes again.