He fell in love with a performance—the sweet, supportive girl I pretended to be. He never once looked deeper to see the ambition, the claws, the absolute will to win at any cost. He thought my cruelty had limits. Poor thing. He is about to find out that my only limit is victory, and his lesson will be spectacular.
I turn my attention back to the window, the guy already forgotten. Why waste fire on kindling when I’ve got a whole damn forest to burn?
Casual power games, easy conquests? Been there, done that. Feels cheap now.
My anger’s gone pure, almost holy. This isn’t just revenge. It’s ritual. Taking down Della? Personal. Sacred. Every ounce of my energy, my focus, my spark, must be preserved for it.
I’m the priestess; she’s the sacrifice. And Della, lounging in her fancy little borrowed heaven by the sea doesn’t know it yet, but the sun’s about to set on her whole world.
I lift my glass, the cold liquid a final, silent toast to the clueless girl who’s about to learn what real darkness looks like. Anticipation? It’s a better high than any man could ever give me.
* * *
Della
The setting sun paints the sky in bruised shades of orange and purple, the colors bleeding into the calm surface of the ocean. The whole scene is soaked in a lazy, golden-hour glow. Sunsets like this feel like they're ripped straight from a postcard. I enjoy the warm breeze on the terrace of this small beachside bar Ben invited us to, just when we were leaving the rescue center.
The air is filled with the easy laughter of the after-work crowd and the steady, soothing rhythm of the waves. And something deliciously deep fried.
Silvia’s got this light about her tonight. She’s glowing. She keeps laughing at Ben’s stories, her eyes sparkling in the tiki torchlight.
I haven’t seen her this relaxed in so long. He leans in, his smile meant only for her, and the air between them crackles with a bright, hopeful energy. Seeing my friend so happy, so full of life, feels like a gift.
"I’m serious, you two," Ben’s off on another one of his “nature tried to kill me” stories. "You think the ocean is wild, you should try spending a wintertracking elk in Yellowstone. I once woke up to a bison using my tent as a back scratcher. Yellowstone isn’t all pretty postcards, trust me."
Silvia’s eyes sparkle as if the idea just lighted up a dormant dream. "Della, we have to go there! Remember how we planned this trip in college, five years ago? Mountains, geyser, waterfalls..."
"Yeah, I remember," I say, taking a sip of my drink, my own smile genuine. "But if a bison even breathes near my tent, I’m calling in the rangers, the coast guard and the Air Forces."
We all laugh and dig into our fish and chips that the waiter just brought to the table.
After another round of drinks, I decide it’s time to make my exit.
“Guys, I’m exhausted,” I say, fake-yawning hard enough to sell it, pushing back from the table. “I’m going to take a slow walk home along the beach. You two should stay.”
“No, no we’ll come with—” Silvia starts to protest, but I stop her with a small shake of my head.
“No need. It’s just a couple of minutes away down the beach. I need this walk.” And I give her a pointed, knowing look.
She gets it. I hug her, whispering, “Have fun, Chiquita!” before turning to leave.
I walk away from the warmth of the bar, feeling genuinely happy for her and quietly content in my own decision.
The walk home begins peacefully. I slip off my sandals and let the cool, damp sand squish between my toes. The ruby at my throat feels warm against my skin, and my thoughts drift towards another barefoot moment, another landscape.
Away from the bar and all the lights, the sound of the waves turns into a gentle lullaby beneath the stars. For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, my mind is quiet. I’m not running from the past or bracing for the future. I’m just here.
That’s when I hear it.
Footsteps pounding on the sand behind me. Heavy, rhythmic, and getting closer.
My first thought is a flash of dark amusement.
Seriously? Is Mr. ‘I was checking my phone’ from this morning back for a sequel? I roll my eyes, readying a sarcastic comment as I start to turn.
But the sound is wrong.
It’s not the steady pace of a jogger. It's a sprint. Too desperate. Too… aggressive.
