Penelope
Leaving the teas untouched, I walk through the house, my footsteps silent on the Persian rug. Passing portraits of severe-looking ancestors whose eyes seem to follow. I entered my room at the end of the west wing. A shrine of soft pinks and creamy white. A four-poster bed draped in white fabric. Dolls with porcelain faces sat on shelves
A stage set for a girl who doesn't exist.
Crossing the room, I end at my walk-in closet, a space as large as a small bedroom. Stepping inside, the smell of cedar and expensive fabric encircles me. At the back was a section of wallpaper that looked less pristine than the rest.
Finding the invisible seam, I pressed, and a small click echoed. A section of wall swung inward, revealing a small windowless space. Photos, hundreds of them, were pinned to the walls. There were candid shots of him getting out of his car, frowning in a board meeting, him laughing with a woman who became wife number three.
Below the photos, there were binders. Each binder was labeled.
Financials (Consolidated), Psychological Profiles: Inner circle, Patrol Schedule (East Wing), Vehicles: Maintenance and GPS logs.
In the center of the back wall was a special section. It had a date for every kill he had made. It ran from top to bottom. My eyes scanned the central timeline. Red lines marked significant dates.
Age 16: First kill confirmed. A rival's son
Age 21: Took control of the family
Age 24: Wife #1 Ambitious. Tried to leverage family connections against him. Eliminated.
Age 27: Wife #2 Greedy. Embezzlement from a shell company. Eliminated.
Age 29: Wife #3 Bored. Wanted validation from external sources.Eliminated.
Age 31: Wife #4 Clever. Mistook cleverness for power. Eliminated.
Age 34: Wife #5 Weak. Eliminated.
They were all so obvious. They saw his power, wealth, and beauty and thought they could use, tame, or simply enjoy it. They were playing checkers while he was playing chess.
I moved to the next section. This was my favourite part. A binder labeled in block letters. PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE. It was filled with my observations. Years of watching, listening, and acquiring information.
Core Belief: Order is fragile. He creates systems, then celebrates the eventual collapse.
Violence: A sensory experience. He prefers it clean and personal.
Social mask: Disarmingly normal. He can laugh at a dinner party, remembers birthdays. People relax. This is intentional.
My fingers trace a quote I transcribed from an intercepted wiretap. "Love is not restraint. It is permission without oversight. I want a witness who doesn't interfere."
He wanted a witness. I have been witnessing him my entire life. I want to do more than witness; I want to participate.
My gaze fell on the network map I had drawn. His allies, his enemies, neutral parties. I know whose loyalty has been bought, who was pretending, and who is a time bomb. I know more about his organization than his right-hand man.
In a corner of the shrine, there was a small velvet box. Inside lay a bed of black satin. A monogrammed cufflink he lost at a gala five years ago. A smudged fingerprint from a glass he held. A wine-stained napkin from a restaurant. A single, long, dark hair plucked from the driver's seat he was in. And my most prized possession, a button from a coat he had worn on a winter trip.
I paid a janitor a month's salary for it.
I close my eyes and recall everything that happened that day. The way the snow fell on his coat. The precise angle of his jaw as he looked at the mountains. The cold, distant look in his eye.
Another memory came to mind. I was twelve, watching a news report on television. A younger version of him announced a hostile takeover. It crippled one of the country's oldest families. My parents had called him a vulgar brute. But I didn't think he was a brute. He was someone who understood power. For the first time, the world became static around me. All the fake smiles and empty pleasantries were gone.
There was only him.
This isn't love, I don't need it. I don't want safety. I want unwavering intensity. I want to be in the presence of a person who gives their all, no matter what, applies pressure without apologizing, and without asking for gratitude.
He needs chaos to feel alive. I need a challenge to feel grounded.
I have spent my life understanding him. I have studied his patterns, his preferences. They called him a monster, a cruel man who killed his wives. They didn't understand the kind of person he is. I have built a model of him in my closet. But models are no match for the real thing.
I place the button back in its box and close the hidden panel.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. A notification appeared. Mourning Baron attends the fifth funeral. Sources say he is looking for the sixth.
In my bedroom, I walk to the full-length mirror and look at my reflection. A girl in a yellow dress with innocent eyes and a gentle mouth. Just what he is looking for.
I walked to my wardrobe, pushing past rows of lavender and yellow dresses. My fingers brush a garment bag at the very back. I unzip it.
Inside is a dress, white, ethereal, and simple. Holding it up to the light, it shimmered.
My family's annual gala is in three days. I know he will be there. He was the largest donor. It's the perfect environment for a 'coincidental' meeting.
I'll wear the white dress. I would play the part of a harmless girl. Let him think he is getting a harmless, blank slate. I will be the solution to his problems.
He will choose me.
I will be the softest, most perfect, most innocent lamb he has ever seen.
It's time for me to step into my place and claim my position.