“Before or after we make him confess?” I ask.
“During,” Gabe murmurs against my neck. “Each truth earns him one piece.”
The thought sends a shiver of excitement through me. I turn in his arms, pressing myself against him.
“I never knew this part of me existed until you,” I admit. “This darkness that wants to watch him suffer.”
“We’re mirrors,” Gabe says, tracing my lips with his thumb. “You see me, and I see you—all of you.”
I lean into his touch, marveling at how natural this feels. Planning a man’s torture should horrify me, yet with Gabe, it feels like coming home.
I check my watch for the third time in five minutes as Gabe positions himself behind the bar. His eyes catch mine—a silent reassurance that everything is ready.
The club door swings open, and Gregory Walsh strides in like he owns the place. His tailored suit screams money, and his salt-and-pepper hair is styled to perfection. My stomach clenches at the sight of him.
“Amelia, darling!” His voice booms across the empty club as he approaches, arms outstretched. Hekisses the air near both my cheeks. “What a charming venue. A bit... underground for the caliber of work you’re producing, but I suppose we all start somewhere.”
I force a smile. “Thank you for coming, Gregory. It means so much that you’d make time.”
“Well, I’ve always had an eye for talent that just needs proper... guidance.” His gaze slides down my body, lingering where it shouldn’t. “I’ve been thinking about our previous discussions. Perhaps I was too hasty in my assessment of your commercial viability.”
Gabe approaches with two glasses of champagne. “Mr. Walsh, welcome to The Blue Room. I’m Gabe Dawson, the owner.”
Walsh takes the champagne without really looking at Gabe. “Excellent. Now, Amelia, about these new pieces?—”
“They’re downstairs, actually,” I interrupt. “I’ve set up a private viewing area.”
Walsh’s eyebrows rise. “How... intimate.” He downs his champagne in one gulp. “Lead the way.”
I guide him through the kitchen to a door marked “Private.” The staircase descends into darkness before motion sensors trigger soft lighting.
“Unusual space for art,” Walsh remarks, his voice echoing slightly.
“I wanted somewhere special for this particular collection,” I explain as we reach the bottom of the stairs.
The door to our prepared room waits at the end of a short corridor. I push it open.
“After you,” I say.
Walsh steps inside, then freezes. The center chair. The plastic sheeting. The tools laid out.
Gabe closes the door behind us with a heavy click.
“What the hell is this?” Walsh spins around, confusion turning to fear as Gabe blocks the exit.
“This,” I say, picking up one of the scalpels, “is a reckoning. You’ve ruined lives, Gregory.” I circle Walsh as Gabe forces him into the chair. “Seventeen women who trusted you, whose careers you destroyed when they wouldn’t sleep with you.”
Walsh struggles against the restraints Gabe fastens around his wrists. “This is insane! I made you, Amelia?—”
“Made me?” I slap him hard across the face. “You blacklisted me. Called me ‘difficult’ to every gallery in Chicago because I wouldn’t fuck you on your desk.”
Gabe finishes securing Walsh and steps back, nodding to me. We’ve choreographed this dance perfectly.
I press the tip of a scalpel into Walsh’s cheek, just enough to draw a thin line of blood. “Tell me about Sophia Martinez.”
“I don’t know what?—”
Gabe grabs Walsh’s pinky finger and wrenches it backward until it snaps. The sound of breaking bone is followed by Walsh’s scream.
