They are caught in a gilded cage of obsession, wandering around their mansion dressed to the nines or not at all.

They sit too close and curl around each other like cats, speaking their own language and watching you with the arrogance of those who know they are beloved.

They are playful in the mad, careless ways that lead to rumours and revolutions. They meddle in each other’s love lives like jealous lovers and throw the kinds of parties of which Caligula would be proud.

Their eyes, when they think you aren’t looking, overflow with dark secrets and darker acts and the darkest lie: that rules apply to everyone, to anyone else, but not to them.

They conspire at cruel, intoxicating games of power that only they know how to play, and the all the while you can’t help watching, waiting, wanting.

They have been raised like little gods, believing that nobody else on earth could possibly compare.