The Caviar: the new queen
THE CAVIAR: PART 2
The towering stone walls of Volterra held the chill of a thousand years, but inside the private chambers of the tower, the air shifted from a prison of ice into something dangerously close to a sanctuary. The morning sun broke lazily over the Tuscan hills, spilling pale golden light across the heavy velvet draperies. The golden era of her systematic starvation was officially over, replaced by a reign of absolute, unapologetic spoiling.
The Volturi kings had wasted no time turning their vast, terrifying power into an engine of domestic pampering.
While the girl was still sleeping wrapped in the softest down blankets, the private quarters had undergone a miraculous architectural evolution overnight. The ancient, austere bathing chamber—once just a functional stone basin—had been entirely transformed into a gleaming marble sanctuary. A massive, deep-soaking clawfoot bathtub made of pristine white Carrara marble now dominated the center of the room, filled with steaming water scented with crushed white rose petals. A glass-enclosed rain shower stood beside it, featuring heavy brass fixtures and water pressure that felt like a warm summer storm.
Lined up neatly along the marble sink were dozens of heavy glass bottles and branded luxuries: Sol de Janeiro body washes, Oribe and Olaplex shampoos that smelled of amber and jasmine, and a row of high-end skincare bottles she had only ever seen through the glossy pages of discarded magazines.
As she padded out of the steam-filled bathroom, wrapped in a soft towel that swallowed her small frame, the low coffee table from the night before had been cleared of the caviar trays and replaced with a sprawling feast, flanked by the promised gifts.
Aro sat in a low armchair nearby, his dark velvet cloak draped over his knees, wearing an expression of supreme, theatrical satisfaction. Next to him, resting on a velvet pillow, sat a brand-new Nintendo Switch one and a Nintendo Switch 2, both in a custom pastel pink casing, pre-loaded with every cozy game imaginable—Animal Crossing, Mario Kart, and Stardew Valley—waiting to be plugged into the massive flat-screen television that had somehow materialized against the stone wall.
"Good morning, my sweet ma chérie," Aro purred, his crimson eyes gleaming with delight as he gestured to the spread of fresh pastries, warm brioches, and a steaming cup of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream. "Did you sleep well? I trust the bath met your standards?"
Before she could even stammer a reply, Caius stepped out from the arched balcony, his silver-blond hair catching the morning sun, he carried a sleek shopping bag bearing the logo of a high-end boutique in Florence.
"The device requested," Caius said, his voice a low, vibrating rumble as he placed a soft, light-blue silk dress onto the armchair next to her. "Along with proper garments that do not look as though they survived a famine. You will wear clothes that fit you, and you will touch whatever catches your eye. If anyone attempts to restrict you ever again, their existence will be brief."
With a gasp, she saw her previous clothes that she had wear the day before. They were burning in the fire of the fireplace. Someone must had took them when she was bathing herself.
Marcus sat quietly in the corner, his melancholic gaze resting on her with a profound, quiet peace. For the first time in millennia, the heavy fog of despair in the room had been replaced by the warm, humming comfort of a child finally safe, finally full, and entirely, irreversibly spoiled by kings.
She blinked once, twice, her eyelashes fluttering against skin still pale from years of malnourishment, half-convinced that if she closed her eyes too tightly or breathed too harshly, the illusion would shatter into dust. The morning sunlight slicing through the high lancet windows of the tower room did not look like real light; it felt like a golden theatrical backdrop painted across a stage where she was the accidental, terrifyingly misplaced lead actor.
Two Nintendo Switch, one and two. In pink. Sitting on a velvet cushion where a ledger of death sentences or an ancient parchment of coven laws ought to belong.
Her small, fragile hand reached out with agonizing slowness, fingers hovering just millimeters above the pastel casing of one of the consoles before retracting as if burned by an invisible wire. The phantom ghost of a slap, the sudden sting of a wooden spoon across her knuckles, the vicious hiss of “You touch what isn’t yours, you miserable parasite, and you won’t eat for a week”—all of it screamed in the back of her mind, a conditioned reflex wired deep into her nervous system.
Caius noticed the microscopic flinch. The subtle retreat of her hand did not escape those burning crimson eyes, which tracked her every tremor with the absolute focus of a predator evaluating the safety of a wounded fawn. A muscle feathered tightly along his jawline, the pale marble of his face hardening into something close to lethal glass.
"It is yours," Caius said again, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly register that seemed to vibrate directly against her ribs. He did not step closer—recognizing, with a sudden, terrifying instinct for her panic, that enclosing her space right now would trigger flight. Instead, he remained where he was, his arms loosely folded over the dark silk of his tunic. "No one is going to snatch it from your hands. No one is going to tally its market value and deduct it from your rations. It is a toy. It was manufactured to be played with, and it was brought here solely because you exist."
She swallowed hard, her throat clicking dryly. Her eyes shifted from Caius to Aro, whose smile was no longer the chilling, theatrical facade he wore for the execution of rebellious nomads, but something terrifyingly soft, pooling with an indulgent, grandfatherly warmth that felt entirely alien coming from a creature who could level cities with a word.
"And the dress, my darling," Aro murmured, gesturing gracefully toward the light-blue silk draped over the arm of her chair like fallen sky. "Silk of the finest Italian weave. Feel the fabric. There are no patches, no hand-me-downs from cousins who wore them until they frayed at the cuffs. It was chosen to match the color of your eyes when the morning light hits them just right. You are permitted to ruin it, if you wish. You are permitted to stain it with chocolate or toss it aside because it displeases you. The consequence for wasting cloth here is simply... more cloth."
The sheer absurdity of the statement hung in the heavy, perfumed air of the tower. More cloth. In her old life, a single lost button or a stained hem was treated like an economic catastrophe, a sin committed against the household budget that required hours of screaming and days of silent, icy punishment. Here, three ancient monarchs of the underworld were casually treating material wealth as an infinite, trivial river meant exclusively to wash away the scars of her past.
Slowly, almost against her own will, her gaze drifted past the console and the dress, landing on the marble vanity table across the chamber.
The heavy glass bottle of Thank U, Next caught the slanting rays of the sun, refracting tiny rainbows across the polished stone. It was sitting right there, unshielded by a security lock, unhidden in the back of a high cabinet reserved for the adults. It was just... waiting.
Without realizing she was doing it, her bare feet slid off the edge of the velvet chair, the plush wool of the rug sinking softly beneath her toes. She didn't dare walk with confidence; she crept across the floor like a ghost afraid of disturbing the dust, her oversized silk robe dragging slightly behind her.
When she reached the vanity, her fingers trembled so violently she could barely wrap them around the glass. The bottle was cool against her feverish skin, heavier than she expected. She lifted the cap, her heart hammering a frantic, deafening rhythm against her ribs, and pressed the nozzle down.
A fine mist of coconut, white pear, and macaroon sugar burst into the air, instantly driving out the smell of ancient stone, candle wax, and vampire cold.
A soft, broken gasp escaped her lips. It wasn't just a perfume; it was the realization of a phantom desire she had locked away in her chest when she was seven years old, staring longingly at a glossy magazine page torn from a trash bin while her aunt screamed downstairs about the price of electricity. It was the proof, undeniable and sweet, that someone had actually listened. Someone had reached into the dark, miserable vault of her childhood memories, pulled out a secret she had never dared speak aloud, and materialized it out of thin air.
Behind her, the faint rustle of heavy velvet signaled movement. She didn't turn around, frozen in place with the perfume bottle clutched to her chest like a shield, bracing herself for the inevitable trick, the sudden cruel awakening.
Instead, Marcus stepped out from the shadows of the stone alcove, moving with that effortless, ghostly grace unique to the undead. The eternal fog of profound melancholy that always clung to his shoulders seemed slightly lifted, replaced by a strange, quiet stillness as he looked down at her.
"You are safe here," Marcus said softly, his voice like the rustling of dry autumn leaves, devoid of all threat, carrying only a heavy, unshakable finality. "The past has no jurisdiction within these walls. Let it go, little one. Let it all go."
Caius closed the remaining distance between them, stepping up directly behind her chair—not towering over her with menace, but standing guard like a statue hewn from mountain stone. His crimson eyes reflected the small, trembling figure in the glass of the vanity mirror.
"If the scent pleases you, you may empty the entire bottle," Caius murmured, his breath brushing the air near her ear without a trace of mortal warmth, yet radiating an absolute, suffocating protectiveness. "And if you wish for more, we will drain the stock of every boutique in Europe. Sit down, ma chérie. Your hot chocolate is growing cold, and you have a pink console waiting to be conquered."
