Page 65 of In the Garden of Monsters

I didn’t need a translator to tell me that she also thought I was about to lose.

I closed my eyes and waited for Dalí to give us the signal. The room fell silent, the tension palpable.

“Begin!”

His shout made me jump and my eyes flew open. Like a moth drawn to a flame, I locked eyes with Ignazio. The iridescent quality of his pale green eyes seemed to shift with the flickering candlelight, casting an almost ethereal glow that was both captivating and unsettling. It was like staring into the soul of a creature not entirely of this world, and the intensity of his gaze made it difficult to look away. His stare pulled me, silently challenging me, daring me to delve deeper, to discover what lay behind those enigmatic eyes. And in that moment, I felt both vulnerable and strangely exhilarated, as if I were standing on the edge of a precipice, teetering between fear and fascination.

Then, suddenly, I plunged into the abyss. My world shifted and went gray, then brightened. I was no longer sitting in that circle in Bomarzo, but instead standing in a chamber unlike any I’d ever seen. It was as if I’d stepped into a realm where the very fabric of reality had been woven with threads of beauty and enigma. The walls were alive with murals that appeared to breathe, their colors vivid yet ethereal, like the hues of a twilight sky. They depicted scenes both celestial and earthly, as if capturing the essence of two realms in one sweeping panorama.

The room was bathed in a soft, otherworldly light emanating from orbs suspended from the ceiling. They glowed with a captured sunlight that felt both distant and intimate, like a cherished memory. The bed before me was a masterpiece, its frame carved from obsidian but adorned with an intricate filigree of silver and gold. The sheets whispered secrets of unimaginable softness, their colors a blend of pomegranate red and the deepest shades of midnight.

Ignazio stood before me, his jacket and tie missing, and his shirt undone. “All of this is up to you,” he said.

He stretched out a hand and I could not help but take it. Pulling me forward, he lifted his hands to my face, his eyes never once leaving mine.

“I will ask my question of you now.”

The question? My mind was hazy, but it came to me, yes, the question I must answer when I lost the staring contest.

“What is it?” I breathed. I didn’t want to talk. I wanted... Dear god, I wanted him. No, no, I didn’t. This made no sense. My mind whirled with the contradiction.

“Do you like this?”

His mouth found mine and I closed my eyes.

The room erupted in squeals and groans. Jack’s whoop reached me first. “Julia, you barely even tried.”

I swallowed hard, trying to make sense of what had just happened—and what was happening around me.

“Absolutely weak,” Gala sniped.

“The question,” Dalí shouted. “The divine question must be asked.”

All eyes turned toward Ignazio.

“I don’t need to ask my question,” Ignazio said, his voice low but carrying easily in the hushed room. “I already know the answer.”

The room seemed to hold its collective breath, as if waiting for a revelation. Ignazio’s gaze never wavered, daring me to challenge him, to question what he claimed to know. But I couldn’t. Because deep down, a part of me feared he was right—that he did know, and that knowing gave him a power over me I didn’t fully understand.

Lillian broke the silence, her voice tinged with a mix of awe and concern. “Well, that was...intense. What’s the next dare?”

Ignazio handed the hat to Dalí. “Please, continue on without me. I have duties to attend to.”

He left and did not look back.

As the hat of dares and questions began to circulate again, I sank back into my chair, my heart still pounding, my lips still tingling from the dream of his kiss. I was caught in a whirlpool of emotions—desire, confusion, a hint of fear.

The game resumed, the room buzzing with laughter, dares, and the clinking of glasses. But it all felt like background noise, a distant echo that couldn’t reach the place where my thoughts were spiraling. I participated, laughed at the right moments, even completed a dare, but my attention was elsewhere. How could Ignazio have evoked such a vivid vision? Was it a trick of the mind, or something more? And if it was more, what did that mean for me? What kind of power did he hold, not just over my thoughts but over my very senses?

As the evening wore on, I felt increasingly disconnected, as if I were floating above the scene, watching but not truly engaged. Finally, Lillian, sensing my detachment, leaned in and whispered, “I think it’s time we call it a night.”

I nodded, grateful for the escape. Lillian and Paolo accompanied me back to my room, where I explained what had happened during the staring contest. I implored Lillian to stay with me.

“Please. I don’t think I should be alone.”

Lillian hesitated. I sighed. She had obviously hoped to be with Paolo that night.

“Never mind,” I said. “Just go. I’ll be okay.” Although I wasn’t sure I would be.

---