Content Warning:
This chapter contains mature themes, including psychological manipulation, violence, and criminal acts. Reader discretion is advised. All characters and events are entirely fictional.
***
Chapter 3
"That is a perfect chance," Tara said, her eyes shining as if she'd just discovered the meaning of life. "You should invite him to your birthday. I'm telling you, Erica, this is fate knocking."
I leaned back on her couch, crossing my legs, trying not to choke on the absurdity. "He'll obviously be invited to my profit-chasing birthday, Tara. He's another profiteer after all. My parents collect them like rare coins. He'll fit right in, just another investment in a suit."
She waved her hands dismissively, ignoring my sarcasm. "No, you don't get it. I'm not talking about them trying to make a business arrangement. I'm talking about you. This could be… your day. You could turn this whole awful thing into something useful for yourself."
I arched an eyebrow. "Useful? You mean like a merger but with feelings?"
Her face scrunched in irritation. "You know what I mean. You always say you hate when your parents rush things, but this could be different."
I could already feel the headache beginning, pulsing behind my eyes. Tara's matchmaking enthusiasm was like being trapped under a leaky faucet; small, constant drops that drove you slowly insane. "Tara," I said, standing up, "I think we've had enough of your romantic strategies for one day."
She followed me to the door, her tone shifting from playful to desperate in the space of a breath. "Do you… have any idea why my boyfriend's ignoring my calls? I miss him so much, but… maybe I don't mean anything to him anymore."
I kept my gaze fixed on the doorknob. I hated Jacob with a passion that burned like acid in my veins. The fact that she even brought him up to me -knowing exactly how I felt- was proof she either didn't value my opinion or enjoyed torturing me.
"I hope he never contacts you again," I said flatly.
"Don't say that. I love him. I can't live without him."
I rolled my eyes so far back they nearly got stuck. That was my answer, served on a silver platter. No further discussion needed.
***
Once I was in my car, the air outside hit me; clean, crisp, the kind of late afternoon breeze that feels almost unreal. The windows were down, and the wind tangled itself in my hair, soft and insistent. It carried a scent I couldn't place, something sweet and faintly nostalgic.
For a moment, I let myself sink into it. The way the wind brushed over my skin felt… familiar. Like a memory I couldn't fully recall, lingering just out of reach.
But peace never lasts. Not for me.
A sharp vibration against my thigh pulled me out of it. My phone. The screen lit up with the name I least wanted to see: Grandfather.
Of course. Who else could take a perfectly good day and grind it into dust?
The thought of rejecting the call danced in my mind for a moment. The thrill of rebellion, the delicious idea of letting him stew in unanswered silence. But I knew better. There would be consequences. There were always consequences.
I swiped to answer.
"Erica," his voice crackled through, cold and clipped, "I assume you've heard about your birthday party."
"Yes?"
"Don't invite anyone from your father's side. We don't need… lowly souls."
Rich words from a man who'd sold his own decades ago.
Before I could speak, before I could even sigh, the line went dead.
I stared at the phone in my hand, jaw tight. He probably knew I'd been at Tara's. Probably knew I'd been enjoying the wind. There was likely a camera hidden somewhere in my car; one I wasn't allowed to search for. Or maybe someone was parked across the street in a nondescript black sedan, watching my every move, their very existence something I wasn't permitted to acknowledge.
That was how it always worked.
He didn't just want control; he wanted proof of it. He wanted to see the moment I cracked. To sit in some dark room, watching me on a flickering '90s television set, his wrinkled fingers steepled in satisfaction, waiting for me to indulge in my… hobby.
He knew how I broke, why I broke, and exactly how to pull at each fracture line. And I, fully aware of this, still couldn't stop him.
***
I didn't drive home. Home was nothing more than another gilded cage. Instead, I turned toward one of my usual bars. Not the glamorous ones, no. My places were tucked away in dim corners of the city, where shadows stretched long and the walls whispered secrets.
I pushed through the door, the scent of cheap whiskey and burnt coffee grounds greeting me like an old friend. A band played something soft in the background, though I barely noticed. This wasn't about music or drinks.
It was about the hobby.
In the restroom, I peeled off the designer clothes my family insisted I wear fabrics that whispered "too expensive for you" to anyone who got too close. My body was just another mannequin for my grandfather's display cases. But not tonight.
Tonight, my body was mine.
I painted my face with unrecognizable makeup, the kind that blurred every familiar line and shadow. Most women wore it to enhance beauty, to create art. I wore it like a shield, or maybe a weapon.
When I emerged, I scanned the bar, my eyes catching on a man leaning lazily against the counter.
I approached, leaning in just enough to make him look up. "Hey. You up for a good time?"
He smirked, tilting his head. "You after free drinks? Trying to use me for my money?"
I let my gaze trail over him; the shirt that had survived at least half a decade, the faint musk of sweat under a cheap cologne long past its prime. Even in my toned-down disguise, I still looked like I could buy him a house.
"No," I said, brushing my fingers lightly over his arm, letting my voice soften into something warm and false. "I'm only interested because you look… dangerous."
He blinked, caught off guard. When he leaned in for a kiss, I pulled back just enough to whisper, "I know somewhere private."
I led him out into the night, through side streets until we reached a secluded spot I'd used before — a quiet, forgotten corner of the city where the only witnesses were stray cats and peeling brick walls.
"You're not vanilla, right? You don't look boring," I teased, the rope already in my hand.
He smirked, oblivious. "Are you counting your… victims like that?"
I smiled, slow and deliberate. "Yes. You're number thirteen."
His laugh rang out, rich and unknowing. Mine followed, sharper, cutting through the air until my throat ached.
The rest is a blur. Not because I've forgotten — but because some things live better in the shadows.
And when it was over, I didn't worry about cleanup. I never had to. That was the one luxury my grandfather afforded me. The shadows he set to follow me in daylight were the same ones who erased my sins by night.
***
Unknown Voice: Even in crime, the privileged are still privileged… She's not even skilled enough to hide…