Viago de Riva’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Sunday, 9:39p

“Tomorrow’s Monday,” Viago announced from the bathroom doorway, as though the fact of the day itself were a threat.

Teia lay facedown on the bed, naked, scrolling her phone with a faint smile.

“Mm?”

“Monday,” he repeated. Unbuttoning his shirt, he crossed the room and patted her soft brown curls with deliberate gentleness.

“It’s almost time for my ritual,” he added, matter-of-fact.

Teia exhaled, irritated, and rolled toward the edge of the bed. “Do I at least have time to shower?”

He shook his head.

She gathered her clothes and brushed past him into the bathroom, taking her time freshening up. Checking her watch, she calculated—long enough to make him sweat, not long enough to ruin his evening. With five minutes left, she slipped out, blithe, overnight bag in hand.

“See you tomorrow,” Teia murmured, kissing him long enough to sabotage his schedule again.

Relieved she was leaving on time, Viago kissed her back, sucking lightly on her lip until she moaned into him.

“You are the worst, Vi.” Her hands slid down his back, kneading his ass, their bodies pressing closer.

“Quite possibly,” he smiled. “Time’s up.”

Knowing she was no match for the cruel mistress of the Sunday Night Routine, Teia slipped out, checking the lock behind her.

Alone, Viago sighed, removed his shirt, and folded it before placing it in the laundry basket.

He had just enough time to start the bath and gather his supplies before 10:00p sharp. Candles flickered to life as he moved through the bedroom, flames like watchful eyes around the room. The notebook—a slim folio with a “Top Secret” sticker Aydenne had given him half‑joking months before—waited on the nightstand. A pen stamped World’s Most Boss along two sides was tucked into its pages.

“Sylaise,” he intoned, “initiate the Sunday Night Routine.”

The voice assistant chimed obediently, smooth and faintly sinister.

• Lights dimmed in the living room and bedroom.

• The bathtub began to fill with steaming water at exactly 104 degrees.

• A bottle of wine in the kitchen uncorked itself with a mechanical sigh.

• The podcast Crimson Depths: Murder at the Lake queued up, its intro music swelling like a funeral dirge.

Viago opened the linen closet and drew out a wicker basket. Flipping back the lid, he lifted its contents with reverence: the wireless red‑light therapy mask, a handful of bath bombs, and a folded washcloth—ritual implements waiting quietly the last six nights until their time arrived to sanctify the next Sunday evening.

The podcast’s opening music faded, replaced by sponsor messages echoing through the smart speakers. Viago retrieved the bottle of wine and a glass, setting them beside his notebook on the narrow wooden tray spanning the tub. He shut off the tap, dropped two bath bombs into the water, and slid off his pants and boxers, folding them into a neat stack atop the toilet.

He lowered himself into the steaming bath, sighing as the podcast host, Chance Candide, began to speak.

Welcome back to Crimson Depths: Murder at the Lake. This week’s episode is The Mystery of the Lyrium Addict. Tonight, we return to Cassian Durelli’s lakehouse retreat, where eight tech entrepreneurs gathered for reflection, detox, and digital abstinence. But that silence…gave way to screams. Among the dead: Liora Vassenti, her fingernails stained with lyrium. The accused: Domenico Bravari, a man with a past steeped in addiction, a man who swore he was clean. He claims an alibi. He claims innocence. But the truth of his dark history may hold the key. Was Domenico framed—or did the lake claim another soul?

Viago sipped his wine, then flipped the notebook open to a fresh page and scrawled 6: Lyrium Addict across the top. He let the host’s voice wash over him, warm as the bathwater’s steam. He sipped, scribbled, paused—wine glass, pen, notebook, mask glowing faintly red.

His pen scratched fragments: Liora Vassenti—lyrium under nails. Domenico Bravari—scapegoat? Alibi weak. Cassian—ties to the Ravens? Lakehouse walls carved with talons. Symbol. Warning. The lake remembers. (underlined three times) The lake remembers.

Sponsor breaks punctuated his notes. He underlined Cassian Durelli’s name twice, tapped the notebook against the tray, and muttered, “The murders were too historically accurate.”

By the time the clock struck the hour, the bath bombs had dissolved, the wine was half gone, and his notebook bore another page of jagged shorthand. He closed the folio with care, set the pen across its cover, and leaned back in the water. The ritual was complete. Order had been restored; the week ahead would hold. And with the mystery gnawing at him until its next revelation, he would have something to occupy his thoughts.

Draining the last of the wine, he rose from the bath with deliberate care, water sliding from his shoulders in sheets. Each movement was neat, practiced: towel folded, clothes stacked, candles extinguished one by one until the apartment was swallowed in shadow.

At the doorway he paused, listening to the silence that followed the podcasts’ creepy outro.

“The lake remembers,” he murmured, almost reverent, before shutting off the lights and climbing into bed.

Monday, 5:45a

The light of another Monday morning peeked through Viago’s curtains and he immediately reached for his work cell phone.

There was a message waiting in the Fade chat app.

4:45a Arthik Toset (PA Extraordinaire): Hey boss, quick reminder, I’m off today. It’s my wedding anniversary. Don’t forget it’s Take Your Daughter to Work Day and you agreed to let Isadora come to the office with you. The event runs from 9a–1p and includes lunch. I left an extra eluPad in your desk drawer with some games and such. My kids won’t miss it for a couple days, and if she gets bored you can just give it to her to keep her busy. Have fun!

Viago read the message again. Convinced his eyes were playing tricks on him, he got up, slipped in his contacts, and re-read the line that refused to vanish:

Don’t forget it’s Take Your Daughter to Work Day and you agreed to let Isadora come to the office with you.

He sat on the edge of the bed, phone dangling from his hand. The words felt like a curse. His Sunday ritual was precise, immaculate, untouchable. As a result, Monday was supposed to be orderly and peaceful—that was how it went. Instead, he was about to shepherd a child through the office, armed only with an eluPad and…and what?

Viago rubbed his temples. “The lake remembers,” he muttered, as though the podcast’s refrain might somehow apply to corporate childcare.

Isadora was not his daughter, but the adopted daughter of his adopted nephew. The specifics didn’t matter, not really. In the eyes of paperwork—and perhaps Andraste, if one stretched the definition—he was her guardian in the case of an emergency. Father in faith, or whatever you called it when you didn’t actually attend Chantry.

He checked the time. 6:02a. He had to get going or he would be late for work.

It hurt to admit it, but he wanted to be late to work today. Or even to call in.

Monday, 7:50a

“Good morning, Vi,” Teia said, waving her mug in his general direction.

In point of fact, it was his coffee cup, but Teia had pointed out that yes, Viago was a freak in the (Excel) sheets, she would be the only one spreading rumors like that.

Viago gave her a thin smile, the kind that suggested both acknowledgment and quiet suffering. He set his bag down, checked the time again, and thought of Isadora—nine o’clock, Take Your Daughter to Work Day, the inevitable chaos.

“Did the Sunday Ritual fail you?” she asked. “Don’t tell me you forgot what today is.”

Viago rubbed his temples. “Lyrium poisoning,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

Teia blinked. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, sliding into his chair and opening his laptop. “I didn’t forget what today is. I just don’t want to remember.”

The spreadsheet glowed to life, neat rows and columns waiting to be filled. For a moment, he let the order soothe him. But the clock ticked forward, and the promise of a child in the office loomed larger than any formula.

Monday, 9:02a

“Where is she?” Viago fumed, staring at the clock as though it was responsible for all his problems.

Teia sat comfortably in the chair behind his desk, sipping something from his mug again. “Relax, Vi. She’s nine. She’s not going to show up in a power suit with a résumé and expect you to hire her.”

“That’s exactly the problem.” He tapped the edge of his monitor as though it owed him an explanation. “She’s unpredictable. Children are chaos incarnate. They’re…strange. Unsettling.”

Teia raised an eyebrow. “Isadora is the furthest thing from chaotic. Strange? Please. That’s rich coming from the man who bathes by candlelight while listening to murder podcasts.”

Viago shot her a look, but the corner of her mouth was turned up in amusement.

“I listen to my podcast predictably,” Viago muttered.

Across the office, the elevator dinged. A cheerful greeting floated over the cubicles. Viago straightened, shoulders tense. The sound was too bright. Too final. A death knell.

Teia smirked. “Guess the lake remembers after all.”

At 9:07, the doors slid open. Isadora stepped out, small but purposeful, blazer two sizes too big and hair braided back to mimic Viago’s severe hairstyle. A notebook with a “Top Secret” sticker was clutched to her chest.

Viago cursed Aydenne for attending her birthday party with him. No more matching gifts. At least only Teia knew about that, though judging by her grin, he’d be lucky if it stayed that way.

“Good morning, Viago,” Isadora said, voice pitched low in imitation of his. She set the notebook on his desk, uncapped a pen, and began scribbling furiously. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

Teia nearly choked on her coffee. “Maker help us, she’s a miniature you.”

Viago pinched the bridge of his nose. “Isadora, you don’t need to—”

“I’m shadowing you,” she interrupted, straightening her blazer. “I learned from Aydenne what the expectations are. I already wrote down the time of arrival. Nine-oh-seven. I’ll log all anomalies.”

Teia sat on the edge of the desk, grinning. “She’s better behaved than you, Vi.”

Isadora beamed, clearly pleased. “I folded my pajamas before I left home. Just like you did the last time we slept over!”

Viago sighed heavily, remembering the disaster of family invading his personal space. Still, the corner of his mouth betrayed the faintest twitch of pride. He returned to his spreadsheet, resigned. “Fine. But if you’re shadowing me, you’ll need to keep quiet during meetings.”

She nodded solemnly, already scribbling Silence in Meetings across her page.

9:30a — Checking Emails

His inbox scrolled past, Arthik’s reminder glaring: Check in to department KPIs.

With a sigh, Viago opened the dashboard and began typing notes into the objectives and goals portal.

Beside him, Isadora perched with her own notebook, copying every keystroke. “KPIs. Key Performance Indicators,” she whispered, carefully inscribing the words in block letters.

10:15a — The Meeting Room

Chairs scraped as Viago settled in. Isadora mirrored him instantly, notebook open, pen poised. When he crossed one leg, she crossed hers. When he tapped the table, she tapped hers.

Brad from analytics nearly had an aneurism trying not to laugh.

11:05 — Break

At their usual table, Teia slid a cup of cocoa toward Isadora. She shook her head with solemn gravity. “Viago doesn’t drink cocoa. He drinks wine. And coffee.”

Viago groaned. Teia grinned and fetched the little shadow a coffee drowned in cream and sugar.

10:45a — Desk Shadowing

Formulas filled the screen as Viago typed. Isadora echoed his keystrokes into her notebook, whispering, “Equal sign, sum, parentheses.”

Glancing up from her laptop, Teia murmured, “Dora’s better at explaining than you.”

Viago shot her a glare, then asked—polite but strained—“Why are you here? You have your own office!”

11:30a — Lunch Prep

Napkins folded into neat squares under Isadora’s hands. “Order is everything,” she announced.

Viago rubbed his temples, though pride flickered at the edges of his expression.

12:15p — Lunch

Coworkers clustered around, amused by Isadora’s deadly‑earnest imitation. She introduced herself as “Assistant CROW‑in‑training,” then peppered each person with questions. Within minutes, half the office was laughing, confessing, and promising her tours of their departments.

12:30p — The Speech

When someone jokingly asked if she wanted to say a few words, Isadora stood, cleared her throat, and declared: “KPIs are important. Viago says they are everything. And spreadsheets are like puzzles. If you solve them, you win.”

Applause erupted.

Viago stabbed his salad like it had personally betrayed the quarterly metrics.

12:45p — The Aftermath

Teia leaned across the table, grinning. “She’s better at public speaking than you, Vi. Charm is a weapon. Remember that, little one.”

Viago grimaced. “Isadora is a people person. A disgustingly useful trait, if one can stand people.”

Isadora beamed, scribbling Charm is a weapon into her notebook.

1:00p — Time to Say Goodbye

“It’s one o’clock,” Viago said to his Assistant CROW‑in‑training. "Time for you to go."

“My dad can’t be here until three,” Isadora replied.

A headache bloomed. “This would have been useful information earlier in the day.”

“It says right here that the most important thing in a new negotiation is not to give your opponent leverage,” she said.

“Do you even know what that means?” Viago asked. “No, don’t answer that. Would you like to sit with Teia until your dad comes to get you?”

“Yes please!” Isadora loved Teia, and the feeling seemed mutual.

Of course, when he needed her, Teia was nowhere in evidence. Naturally.

Viago picked up the phone and dialed her extension.

“Yes?”

“Isadora will be here until 3pm. Can she go over to your office?”

“I’ll send Lucero to pick her up.”

Setting the receiver down, Viago looked at Isadora. She stared back with large, trusting eyes. He cleared his throat.

“Are you having a nice day?”

“No.” Her scowl was immediate and sharp.

Shocked, he blurted out, “But we did so much work together!”

“Yes, but Arthik isn’t here. Therefore we are having a Bad Day.” She crossed her arms with theatrical finality.

Mierda. Did he really look like that?

Viago stared at her, the scowl too familiar, too precise. It was his own expression, shrunk down and sharpened by imitation.

He closed his laptop with a snap. “Fine. Bad Day. Logged.”

Isadora dutifully wrote it down in her notebook: Arthik gone = Bad Day.

Lucero appeared at the door a few minutes later, cheerful as ever, ready to escort her away. Isadora hopped down from her chair, blazer sleeves flapping, notebook clutched tight. She gave Viago a solemn nod. “Assistant CROW-in-training, signing off.”

The CROWS in cubicles nearest Viago’s office erupted in laughter as she marched out confidently, head held high.

For a moment, Viago buried his head in his hands. When he finally looked up, the empty chair seemed louder than her presence had ever been.

Viago muttered, “Charm is a weapon,” and reopened the laptop.

The spreadsheet glowed, but the formulas blurred, dissolving into patterns that looked more like talons than numbers. His ritual hadn’t failed him after all; order was intact, the week secured.

He could almost forgive Arthik for taking a day off.

The lake remembered.

And now—disgustingly, inevitably, and yes, charmingly—so did Isadora.