Insatiable (Inferno Games #3)

33. Riches

33

RICHES

FELIX

I 'm awake long before my portal beeps. I’ve been awake for hours, maybe since they dumped me here. They must drug us between circles, because the last thing I remember was being in the Earthery, and then—nothing. Just darkness. Now, I’m starving, but even that’s not enough to make me want to check out whatever new hellhole they’ve dragged me into. It’s all the same—the same twisted mind games, the same psychological bullshit.

I haven’t opened my eyes yet. I had a dream about Ro, and I’m not ready to let it go. Her voice, her touch, they felt so damn real. It’s the first sense of peace I’ve had since this nightmare began, and I’m clinging to it like a lifeline. I know the second I open my eyes, it’ll all disappear, leaving me with the cold, hard reality of this place.

When the Portal finally goes off, its annoying buzz drags me back, forcing me to face another day in this living nightmare. I sigh, letting the dream slip through my fingers like sand. Slowly, I start to wake up. The bed feels warm around me, softer than usual, which makes me pause. Groggy, I blink against the haze of sleep, my hands running over the sheets.

They’re different. Softer, almost silky, like they belong in some fancy hotel and not... wherever the hell I am now. The air smells clean, too. Fresh linen mixed with something I don’t recognize—sandalwood, maybe? Definitely not what I’m used to in Hell. This is more like I was accustomed to on Earth. My pulse picks up as I crack my eyes open. I’m not in my room. The ceiling is impossibly high; the walls gleaming with subtle hints of marble and gold accents. Panic surges through me as I push myself up. Where the fuck am I? This isn’t my bed, my room, my anything. This feels all too familiar and, at the same time, not familiar at all. For a second I wonder if I’m back on Earth in one of the hundreds of swanky hotels I frequent.

“Fuck!” I run my hands through my hair, my breath catching in my throat as my eyes scan the space.

A massive window stretches across the entire far wall, flooding the room with an eerie red light. So I am still in Hell. I stand, my legs shaky, and stumble toward the edge of the bed, my bare feet sinking into the plush, cream-colored carpet. Everything feels too perfect—too pristine.

I glance around the room—opulent, untouched, like a space carved out for someone of impossible wealth or status. For me? Velvet chairs sit near a sleek, black marble coffee table, a vase of fresh white orchids perfectly centered on top, as if waiting for someone important to arrive.

“What the fuck?” The words slip out before I can stop them.

I know I’ve never been here before, but the vibe is unsettlingly familiar. I’ve stayed in places like this before. Back when I was alive. Back when luxury penthouses were my norm. But now? Now it feels like a sick joke. Like some twisted reminder of a life I no longer have. Of a life before Ro. Ro’s face flashes into my mind—her body beneath mine, the sound of her moaning when I made her come, the intoxicating scent of her skin. There’s no way I could have dreamed something so vivid, so visceral. Which leaves me with one question: Where the actual fuck am I?

I glance around again. The room is as big as Anthura’s penthouse, but ten times more luxurious. Where her place had been sterile, this is the pinnacle of refined decadence. I cross the room, heading for the bathroom. As I step inside, I’m momentarily gratified to see my own belongings scattered near a marble sink. So this is my room now?

Then it hits me. We’re in the fourth circle. Avarice… Greed. That’s why it feels so familiar. I spent my life taking everything I could, never giving back. This is the circle I should have been in right from the start. If anyone lived a life of greed, it was me. Ro and my child are somewhere above me, trapped in a circle they’ll never escape. I’ll never see Ro again. I’ll never meet my son or daughter. The thought rips through me, and the luxury around me suddenly feels cold, empty. Worthless. All of it.

I take one last look around the room, and the hollow echo of it sinks in. The marble, the gold, the velvet—it’s all a farce. It’s a gilded cage, and I’m its latest occupant. And there’s the rub. This is how Hell gets under your skin. The demons don’t need to chase you with pitchforks and fire. They know us better than we know ourselves. Hell itself reads our minds, our desires, and it twists those dreams into something sickening.

This isn’t just torture. It’s personalized torment. A prison dressed up in luxury, a trap disguised as everything I ever wanted. All of it is meaningless. None of this matters when Ro is gone and my child will never know me.

I fall back on the bed, the soft duvet pooling around me like a suffocating wave. This is how they break you—by giving you everything you ever dreamed of, while taking away the only things that ever really mattered.

My portal beeps again, and this time I pick it up and read it. It’s from Anthura, which almost makes me hurl it across the room, but then I see it’s a group message.

WILL ALL INFERNO GAMES CONTESTANTS MEET IN THE ATRIUM AT 10AM SHARP.

I look at the time. Fifteen minutes to get dressed and haul my ass downstairs. Entering the walk-in wardrobe, I stop in my tracks when I see the rows of designer suits, all perfectly pressed and hung in neat order. Tailored jackets, silk shirts, shoes polished to a mirror shine—everything looks like it was pulled straight from the pages of a fashion magazine. The wardrobe itself is larger than my whole room in Gluttony. This is how I’m used to living. There’s nothing in here that I’ve not owned at one point of my life or another, but now that they are here, it reminds me how shallow my old life used to be. I reach out and run my fingers over the soft fabric of a suit that probably costs more than most people’s first apartment. My name is even stitched into the inside label. It’s unsettling, like they’ve tailored everything to my exact taste and size. I pull down a charcoal suit, trying not to think too hard about who’s pulling the strings here, and start getting dressed.

As I walk toward the massive windows, it becomes clear that I’m not in a penthouse after all. The curved donut shaped balcony is still there, but it’s also made from chrome and glass, allowing me to see the whole tower. Every apartment has floor to ceiling windows. Finally, I get it. Everyone has everything here, but then so does everyone else. Part of the fun of being insanely rich was that I could look down on people. Everything was exclusive. Here, nothing is. I laugh silently as I pull the glass door open and step out onto the balcony. I’m in Avarice and everyone is rich. The irony doesn’t escape me. This is where I should have come right at the start. I wasn’t good enough to go to Purgatory. I know that now. Ro and Juliette and Quinn and even Dade were there because they never really did anything wrong in their lives beyond not believing in a deity. I did everything wrong. I guess I was pulled into Purgatory somehow because of Quinn. We were both shot with the same bullet. It’s not against the realm of possibility that we are linked in this hellhole. It occurs to me that Quinn is the only person I know in this circle that isn’t a demon. Except Orlin and he doesn’t count.

I look up and see the familiar glass-domed ceiling, the same one featured in every tower I’ve stayed in so far. Beyond the glass, the red clouds swirl ominously, churning like a restless sea. I wonder how far above those clouds Ro is, if she can feel me thinking about her. The ache in my chest deepens, but I push it down. No use in dwelling.

Then, because I know if I don’t move, Anthura will come pounding on my door. I round the balcony and begin to jog down the stairs.

The atrium has the same layout as the other towers, but it couldn’t be more different. Gone are the wide, open spaces with modern furniture and clean lines. Instead, old leather armchairs have been placed haphazardly on the gleaming marble floors, their weathered surfaces speaking of luxury and age. The room reeks of money, with just a faint whiff of cigars lingering in the air, like a distant memory of a time when men sat in smoky lounges making deals worth millions.

My stomach growls, a reminder of just how long it’s been since I’ve eaten anything. But checking out the food will have to wait. My eyes sweep over the canteen—or what used to be the canteen. The massive, communal dining hall with its cheap booths and giant screen is gone, replaced by a row of what look like exclusive restaurants, each one decked out in dark wood, gleaming silver, and soft lighting.

Of course, they’re exclusive to everyone. I let out a dry laugh. This place is trying so hard to remind us that we’re all on the same playing field now.

I sink into one of the leather armchairs, letting it swallow me up as I scope out the competition. My eyes settle on Quinn, who flashes me a half-smile. It's strange to think how Hell has leveled us. All those months ago, I was a billionaire, and she was just one step above a street urchin. Now? Now we’re both just playing this same twisted game. I don’t bother looking at the other contestants. I barely know them and in a few weeks, I’ll be leaving most of them behind. No point in making friends down here—that only ever bites you in the ass.

My eyes shift to the leadership team. Hades is here, but his dark little shadow isn’t clinging to his side for once. Strange—she’s usually glued to him. I don’t dwell on Anthura, though; she’s looking more furious than usual, and frankly, whatever’s twisted her up today isn’t my problem. I catch sight of Moloch trailing behind her, like a kicked dog, skulking back when she snaps at him. I almost feel bad for the guy. Almost. He might be spineless, but he sure didn’t sign up for this circus.

Then there’s the guy standing between them, notable only in his blandness. I know his type well. Hell, I used to be one of them—overconfident, money-obsessed, egotistical, the kind who measures self-worth by the number of zeroes in his account. Seeing him is like staring at an old reflection, a reminder of who I was back when boardrooms and quarterly profits defined me. No doubt he’ll have the rest of the room crawling up his ass by the time he’s done with his speech. Everyone but me.

“Good morning, everyone. I’m Ballam. I oversee the games here in Avarice. I trust you’re finding your accommodations satisfactory?” he says, his voice dripping with polished charm. “This round will be unlike anything you’ve encountered so far. You’ve got the best of the best here—the finest rooms, the finest food. Downstairs in the Earthery, we have the most luxurious shops and the most decadent restaurants. Whatever you desire, you’ll find it here.”

Someone farther down the row yells, “Yeah, baby!” Ballam’s mouth pulls tight, and he shoots them a cold glare before quickly smoothing it into a thin-lipped smile. I’ve heard spiels like this before. Hell, I’ve given them. Promises of the world, but there’s always a catch. Always something they aren’t telling you. I’m too seasoned in Hell’s games to believe for a second that all this opulence isn’t just a layer of glossy deception.

"Each of you will be assigned a servant," Ballam says, his voice cold and matter-of-fact. "A personal butler, maid, aide—whatever you prefer to call it. Unlike the demons you've dealt with in other circles, these are humans. Humans here for their punishment. Each one of them has committed a grievous sin. So, spare yourself any qualms about how you choose to treat them."

I glance around the atrium, noting the people gathered here—women draped in furs, men wearing watches worth more than a typical salary. They reek of wealth, the type who flaunt it at every opportunity. The only person not looking like he was born into wealth is Orlin, but he’s kinda special in that he’d look pathetic in whatever he chose to wear.

“What I don’t get,” I say, finally speaking up, “is why these humans look like the elite. I’ve known people like them. They don’t work for others, don’t bow down. They sure as hell aren’t maids or butlers.”

Ballam’s smile tightens. It’s clear he’s not used to being questioned, but I’m not here to play nice, and he knows it. Meanwhile, some of the other contestants look all too eager at the idea of having servants.

“Let me clarify,” he says, his voice a little cooler now. “They aren’t servants. They’re slaves. They’re yours for the duration of your stay in this circle. Each one has been specifically chosen from those who have stood up to me in the past. They will obey, whether they want to or not.”

In life, I had sycophants lining up to win my favor, but the idea of actually owning a slave? It makes me sick.

“Can these slaves be forced to do anything?” asks a voice from the other end of the couches, someone I don’t recognize.

Ballam barely holds back an eye-roll. “As I said, they’re at your beck and call.”

“So… they can’t say no?”

One of the new women shakes her head slightly, her face twisted in disgust. She knows where this is going, and it’s nauseating.

“They won’t have the power to say no, if that’s what you’re asking,” Ballam replies with a bored sigh. “Now, enough with the questions. You’ve all been through numerous trials to get here, so there isn’t much left for me to explain. The tower has the same layout as the others, but rest assured, it surpasses them in both style and decadence. I suggest you take the time to explore the dining options and relax before the games start tomorrow.”

I stand up, not waiting for any more of Ballam’s smug instructions. I’ve heard enough, and the last thing I need is some forced servant. There’s only one person I need, and she cowers to no one. She’d laugh in Ballam’s face and tear down every illusion in this place just for the hell of it. But she isn’t here. And I’m not going to find her by sitting around, listening to their twisted version of generosity. I stride toward one of the restaurants. The man who asked about the slaves falls into stride with me. “You’re Felix Barclay. I recognize you from the Times Man of the Year. I’m Don Smith.”

“Hmm,” I mumble. I already don’t give a shit.

“You’re fucking awesome. I can’t believe I’m now as rich as you. Look what they put in my wardrobe.”

He lifts his hand and shows me a Patak Phillipe. It’s the very same watch I was showing off to my friends before I was shot. The fucking irony.

“Cool about the slaves, huh? I hope I get a fucking supermodel. You get me?”

I think of all the supermodels I’ve known, and I’ve known a lot. Yes, I’ve slept with many of them. Not once did I have a conversation with them that wasn’t about my needs, my wants. It was always about me.

“Whoever you get, treat them well. Get to know them. You might be surprised.”

He gives me an odd look, as though I’ve lost my mind. “Nah, I’m going to fuck them senseless and get them to bring me food. I mean, what’s the fucking point otherwise, huh?”

“Of course you are,” I reply, my voice heavy with sarcasm. “If you’ll excuse me,” I don’t bother to smile as I pull open a restaurant door and stride in, leaving him behind.

The inside of the restaurant doesn’t disappoint, with its towering white marble columns and sparkling chandeliers. Every inch of the space oozes luxury, from the velvet-upholstered chairs to the intricate gold trim on the walls. The far wall features a fresco so exquisite it wouldn’t surprise me if Michelangelo had painted it himself.

“Are you requiring a table for one, sir?” A pompous concierge asks, his nose already tilted upward. Like all the other demons here, this one is adorned in gold.

“No, actually. I want two burgers, two portions of fries, and two chocolate milkshakes to go.”

The concierge raises his nose even higher, sniffing as though the air itself has offended him. “Sir?”

“You can do that, right?”

“Why, yes, but may I suggest the Wagyu beef topped with foie gras and truffles on a base of San Francisco sourdough with?—"

“No,” I cut him off, grinning. “I want the cheapest, greasiest meat, the cheapest bread, and normal potato fries with lots of salt.”

The look of disgust that flickers across his face is carefully masked behind a professional smile. “And would sir like a seat while he is waiting?”

“Nope. I’ll wait right here.”

The concierge, clearly affronted but maintaining his composure, summons a demon waiter and relays my order. The waiter disappears for a moment and reappears almost instantly, balancing two burgers artfully on gold-edged porcelain plates, the milkshakes inexplicably served in champagne flutes.

I shake my head. “I don’t think you understand what I want. Pretend we’re in a cheap burger joint. I want my food in paper bags, and the drinks in cups with more than a sip and a half in them. And no fancy cutlery. I’ll be eating these with my fingers.”

His expression tightens just enough for me to know I’m getting under his skin, and that’s exactly what I want.

Eventually, I have exactly what I asked for. My stomach is almost tearing itself out with hunger, but there’s something I have to do. I step through to the platform and summon it.

I’ve been Felix Barclay, billionaire, asshole ceo for long enough. Rowena made me see who I was and I don’t like it. Meeting Don only strengthened my resolve. I can’t be a better man for Rowena anymore, but I sure as hell can try to be a better person for me.

I step into my room, and the first thing I notice is the cage in the corner. Inside is a young girl, no older than sixteen, dressed in the same gold material as the demon staff, but the scraps of fabric barely cover her. It’s sickening, and the reality of this circle slams into me all over again. They’re catering to the worst kinds of people, and until a few weeks ago, I was one of them.

The girl looks up at me, her eyes wide with shock, trembling in her cage. It’s fucking disgusting. Without a second thought, I head to the wardrobe and pull out one of the robes. The lock on her cage clicks open, controlled by my portal, just like everything else in this hellhole.

I open the door and hand her the robe. “Here, put this on.”

Her eyes flash gold for a moment, and she steps out of the cage with a robotic movement, taking the robe and slipping it on. Once it's wrapped around her, her eyes return to their original warm brown, but the robe itself disappears. Hell magic? Of course they want her half naked and suffering. I pull one of the sheets from the bed and drape it over her and this time it seems to stick.

“Here,” I say, handing her a bag with a burger and fries. “I’m Felix. I don’t give a damn what the bosses here say. You’re not going to be my slave, nor my servant.”

She hesitates, her eyes brightening with a flicker of hope.

“Sit on the bed,” I tell her. “You won’t be going back in that cage again.”

Her eyes flash gold once more, and she moves mechanically toward the bed. It’s as if the magic in her compels her to follow my orders. Once her eyes fade back to brown, she smiles, looking relieved as she sits down. “Thank you so much. I’m Jen.” She pulls the burger from the bag, grinning wide. “I’m ravenous. This smells like heaven.” Her gaze shifts, unsure. “But... I don’t think I’m allowed to eat without your permission.”

What the hell have they done to her? She’s just a kid. “Just eat it. It’s yours. I got it for you.”

Her eyes flash gold again as soon as I say it, confirming what I’d already suspected. It’s every time I give her a direct command, every time I say something, she has to follow. That’s the magic—why she’s a slave here. Thankfully, her eyes return to brown as she tears into the burger.

I sit beside her, unwrapping my own meal. She’s right about one thing: it does taste amazing.