I pocket the phone, straighten my cuffs once more, and descend in silence. Tonight won’t be a spectacle, no open wounds, no loud proclamations. Tonight, violence will whisper. It will linger, slow and methodical, intimate enough to leave scars beneath the surface. The Manhattan Club gleams like an expensive blade beneath city lights, polished wood and marble floors whispering wealth, discretion, power cloaked in silk and drowned in champagne. The valet’s nod is respectful, almost reverent as I step inside. The room murmurs softly, laughter floating gently, men and women trading secrets as easily as smiles.
Everhart fits here, hidden comfortably in expensive suits and lies woven from charm. A predator disguised as an ally. A monster invited willingly.
They have no fucking idea who else they let through the door.
I spot him easily, relaxed at the bar, a calculated smile carved onto his face as he charms men just as rotten as himself. Politicians, financiers, old money built on blood and silence.
My pulse slows, breath icing into stillness as I cross the room.
Everhart notices me too late. His smile falters, then freezes completely, panic flickering behind practiced composure. “Mr. Rivera,” he forces out, voice uneven. “I wasn’t expecting…”
“To see me here?” My voice is quiet, calm, lethal. “The Manhattan Club prides itself on exclusivity, Douglas. Did you think your influence was the only currency that mattered?”
He chuckles nervously, glancing sideways at companions now stepping carefully away. Rats abandoning ship. “Of course not.”
I step closer, crowding him subtly, feeling the air thin between us. “We have mutual interests, Douglas. Or should I say, mutual acquaintances.”
His expression fractures subtly. “I don’t follow.”
“You do,” I reply calmly. Quietly. Mercilessly. “But if you prefer clarity, let me be blunt.” I lean in, my voice dropping to a dangerously intimate tone, each word a blade sliding gently beneath his ribs. “Camille Sinclair.”
His posture stiffens, eyes flickering between confusion and stark terror before settling on cold denial. “Whatever you’ve heard…”
“I haven’t heard anything,” I interrupt smoothly. “I don’t deal in rumors, Douglas. I deal in facts. Proof.” My voice hardens, eyes locked on his, dissecting his façade piece by piece. “Girls you buried in NDAs and payoffs. Girls barely older than children. Girls you silenced.”
His face drains color. He shifts, but there’s nowhere left to run. “Rivera…”
“You took something that wasn’t yours,” I continue, voice barely above a whisper, ruthless and precise. “You hurt something that belonged to me, even before she knew it herself.”
He stammers, desperate, eyes flickering around the club for rescue. “Whatever you think…”
“No,” I cut in sharply. “You don’t get to defend yourself. Not tonight. Tonight, you listen.” My voice drops again, soft as silk wrapped around a blade. “I know every single secret you thought you hid. Every dirty transaction, every frightened child, every tear you caused. And most importantly, I know exactly what you did to Camille.”
He freezes utterly, realization hitting him like a bullet to the spine. “She…”
“She doesn’t need to speak,” I whisper venomously. “Her scars speak clearly enough. And you should know, Douglas, I’m very good at reading scars.”
His breathing grows uneven, fear sweating through his tuxedo, staining his composure. "What…what do you want?”
I smile faintly, cruelly, savoring the crack in his voice. “What I want is already mine. Camille. But what I’ll take from you?” I pause, allowing the promise to settle in deep, lethal silence. “Everything.”
He shakes his head, lips trembling, eyes wild. “You can’t just…”
“I can,” I say softly, evenly. “And I will. Starting tonight, you’re living on borrowed time. Every breath you take, every beat of your heart, is by my grace alone.”
He stares at me, horror dawning fully, raw and unmistakable. “You’re threatening me.”
“No,” I correct calmly. “Threats imply uncertainty. This is a promise. An inevitability.” My gaze bores into him, cold aswinter. “Soon, Douglas, you’ll beg for the mercy you denied her. But it won’t come.”
I straighten my cuffs slowly, deliberately, stepping back and leaving him pale, shaken, and silently panicked.
My phone buzzes again, Joaquin, quiet and steady. “Conversation recorded. Ready when you are.”
“Not yet,” I murmur, letting the words seep from my lips with quiet satisfaction. “Let him suffer first.”
I turn, slipping smoothly back into shadow, heart steady, pulse slow, as Everhart’s quiet, choking fear follows me into the night, knowing with absolute certainty that soon, very soon, the nightmare he’s earned will finally arrive.
Camille
