Even if tomorrow I'll go back to destroying Eve's life piece by piece.
For tonight, I can pretend I'm someone worth caring about.
***
The Elysian Club smells of old money and older secrets. I chose the private dining room specifically for this meeting—discreet, soundproof, and far from prying eyes. The serpent emblem is carved subtly into the door frame, visible only to those who know to look for it. This room has hosted countless Order transactions over the decades.
Fred Greyhound arrives exactly on time, his suit expensive but slightly too tight across the shoulders. He's aman who's gained weight from success, grown soft from easy victories. Perfect for what I need.
"Mr. Hale." He extends his hand, his smile sharp with greed. "Always a pleasure."
I shake his hand briefly, noting the absence of the serpent ring. Fred isn't Order—he's just a useful tool. Someone hungry enough to do what I need without asking too many questions. "Let's dispense with pleasantries, Fred. You're here because you're hungry, and I have something to feed you."
His eyes glitter. "I'm listening."
I slide a folder across the table. Inside are weeks of research—financial records, investor lists, supply chain vulnerabilities. Everything Fred needs to launch a hostile takeover of Sinclair Designs. Information that would take him months to gather on his own, but the Order's resources made it simple.
"The fashion house," he says, flipping through the pages. His excitement is palpable, disgusting in its transparency. "She's been making waves. But she's vulnerable right now—lost her fabric supplier, that bad review."
"Precisely." I sip my water, keeping my voice neutral. "Strike now, and you can acquire a promising company at a significant discount. Within six months, you'll have tripled your investment."
"And what do you get out of this?" Fred looks up, suspicion warring with avarice.
I meet his gaze steadily. "A favor. To be called in at a later date."
The standard arrangement. The kind of transaction the Order was built on—favors owed, debts collected, power consolidated through mutual obligation.
He considers this, then grins. "A man of mystery. I like it." He closes the folder. "When do I move?"
"Immediately. The window won't stay open long."
We discuss details for another twenty minutes, but my mind keeps drifting back to Maria. To her concern. To the casual way she assumed I might have people who care about me.
I will, I tell myself. Soon, I'll have Eve. And she'll fill this emptiness.
She has to.
Because the alternative—that even possessing her completely won't cure this loneliness—is unthinkable. The Order gave me power, resources, connections. But not warmth. Not love. Not the thing I've been searching for.
Only Eve can give me that.
***
I'm back in my penthouse when I see it happen. The monitors show Eve leaving her office building, her shoulders tense with stress. She's been in crisis mode all day—I've watched her on the phone, in meetings, trying to solve the textile problem I created.
But she's not alone.
A young man walks beside her. Early twenties, clean-cut, eager. The intern. Leo Castellano.
They're heading to the small park across from her building. I switch cameras, following their progress. She'stalking, her hands moving in that expressive way she has when she's passionate about something. He's listening, laughing, leaning in.
They sit on a bench. He's brought lunch—sandwiches from the deli she likes. How thoughtful. How presumptuous.
I watch him say something that makes her laugh. Really laugh, her head tilting back, her whole face lighting up with genuine amusement. It's a sound I haven't heard in years, a laugh that comes from someplace unguarded and free.
And something cold and black explodes in my chest.
My hands curl into fists on the desk. That laugh belongs to me. She belongs to me. This boy—this insect—has no right to that smile, that ease, that moment of happiness I should be providing.
