Not tonight. Not ever.
My blood’s ice in my veins, heartbeat a metronome counting down to violence. Every muscle in my body is locked in ruthless calm. I feel no rage, just a slow, lethal clarity sharpening my focus like a blade ready to slice open skin.
Douglas Everhart.
That bastard’s smug, bloated fucking face haunts me. His laughter, his tailored suits, the arrogance of a man who’s spent decades thinking he’s untouchable. Above justice. Above consequences.
But he’s never dealt with me.
Not yet.
Not until tonight.
I’ve taken men apart before, slowly, brutally, meticulously. Reduced powerful men to husks, stripped them of pride, wealth, sanity. But this? This isn’t business. This isn’t negotiation or strategy or calculated collateral damage.
This is personal.
This is mine.
I move swiftly down the hall, pulling out phone, mind already flicking through options, how I’ll break him, dismantle every inch of security he thinks protects him.
Joaquin answers on the first ring, his voice instantly alert.
“Douglas Everhart,” I say flatly, voice colder than ice. “I want him stripped bare. Assets, debts, affairs, addictions, every filthy secret. Every single thing he thought he buried. I want it delivered in less than twenty-four hours.”
Joaquin pauses briefly, he knows this tone. He’s heard it before. He knows better than to question it.
“Consider it done,” he says finally.
“And Joaquin?” My voice is low, precise. “I want constant surveillance. Constant. I want cameras in his home, in his car, in his fucking bedroom. I want access to his emails, his texts, his bank accounts, everything.”
He exhales; his tension audible even through the phone. “You got it.”
I hang up, breathing slow, steady, deliberate.
My reflection stares back at me from the black glass, calm, composed, monstrous. My heartbeat doesn’t quicken. It slows, steady, methodical, ruthless.
This isn’t revenge. This is surgery. Precise incisions through arteries he doesn’t yet know are exposed. He’ll bleed slowly, painfully, intimately.
And then, when he’s begging, when his whole world collapses around him and he finally understands what fear truly tastes like…
Then, I’ll end him.
Camille thinks she wants mercy.
But mercy died when he laid hands on her.
And now I’ll make sure he dies begging for it.
***
I don’t go back inside.
Not yet.
Let them smile and pose for pictures. Let Preston tighten his grip on Camille, believing she’s his to parade around, ignorant to the storm about to shatter every carefully constructed wall they’ve built.
My violence doesn’t need noise or spectacle. It thrives best in silence.
