Still, I have to admit, her attitude is irritating.
"You're quiet," I say, pacing slowly in front of her. "I expected more... crying, perhaps? A little begging?"
Della lifts her head. Her hair is tousled, her face is pale, but her eyes... her eyes are burning like two hot coals. The terror is there, but there’s something else. A defiant fire I find intensely irritating.
"The grand finale?" she rasps, her voice rough. "This whole... production? Seems a little desperate, even for you, Leah."
My smile tightens. The little stray has claws.
"Desperate? No, darling. This is meticulous. This is what happens when you try to take something that doesn't belong to you."
As if summoned, a trilling sound cuts through the silence. I pull Della's phone from my pocket. The screen lights up—Dorian’s calling. I can’t help it; my grin stretches wider, mean and slow.
“Well, look who it is. Right on time. So nice of him to join our party."
I hold the phone up so that she can see the screen.
She jerks against the ropes, a strangled noise slipping out. I watch her face for a beat—there it is. That quick, dark shadow of pain, something deeper than plain old fear. Terror, real and raw.
Does she honestly think he'll stop me? Does she actually believe he’ll save her? Pathetic.
I let the call ring twice, savoring the sound, before my thumb seals his fate with the red 'decline' button.
If he only knew how much I’m enjoying this...
“Oh, poor thing,” I say, pouting with fake sympathy as I tap the screen to open a new message. “He’ll be worried. I really think you should be more considerate and let him know how you are. We should put his mind at ease.”
I pause, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. A thought strikes me, and I give her a look of genuine, cold curiosity.
“I admit, I don’t understand why you did it, Della. Why did you leave his side? But I’m so glad you did. It gives us this... privacy. Time to play.”
She just glares, her jaw tight.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, composing a masterpiece of guilt. Each word is a perfectly aimed twist of the knife, designed to shatter him. When I’m finished, I turn the glowing screen so she can read her final words.
"A final note," I say, my voice dripping with mock-pathos. I read it aloud:
The lake house was a perfect dream, Dorian. But I can't live in a world where the man who promised me a universe sold it for a handful of silver. I can’t take it anymore. Goodbye.
I look up, expecting tears. Instead, I get that fire again. Della doesn't thrash or scream. She simply lifts her chin and looks me straight in the eyes with something that feels like pure defiance. And then she smiles.
“Fine, Leah. Spit your venom one more time. But just tell me this. Did you really write that for Dorian? Or was that final scene always for you?”
The absence of the expected breakdown, the refusal to validate my power sends a spike of white-hot, visceral fury through me. She is supposed to be shattered. Instead, this little piece of nothing dares to psychoanalyze me.
I lean in, bringing my face close to her, forcing her to hold my gaze.
"The scene is for both of us, darling," I whisper, letting the words drip with condescending pity. "It's for Dorian so he understands that I am the woman he needs by his side. And it's for you so you understand your role."
I straighten up, the perfect picture of cold elegance. "You are the punctuation mark, Della. The beautifully tragic end to my story. That's all you've ever been."
“Oh, I will be the end of your story, Leah. You got this right.” She dares to reply.
But I am done talking, so I snap my fingers to the two men waiting in the dark for my signal.
I can see the startle on Della’s face as the men step out from the shadows but the defiance doesn't fade. She tenses in her chair and that makes me smile.
"Oh, darling, a grieving girl needs her liquid courage," I coo as the men approach with a bottle of vodka.
