Dread tightens like a noose around my neck when the folder opens.
Inside are dossiers on my siblings, their spouses, photos of me over the years—things I’m not even surprised to see, because Elias is the dealer of secrets. Of course he’d have information on us.
But then I see the emails. The timestamps. The annotations.
And notes from one particular day ten years ago.
Aim the knife at a forty-five degree angle to avoid major organs.
Medical strategies on other survivable angles.
Then, his masculine scrawl underneath.
Twins—alley loop, twice a week. Bodyguards peel off at the entrance. Window: five minutes.
There are observations of my brothers—their personalities, with Elias underlining Maxwell’s name, musing the oldest brother will be the most likely to help him. Notes on how to convince Maxwell to trust him, on engineering opportunities to showcase his morals—stop a bad-faith deal, fake-rescue a sex worker on the Rose floors inside The Orchid.
Every “chance” to look like a savior. Every offhand favor meticulously planned.
Strategies upon strategies on how to infiltrate my family and become one of us.
The knife in his gut when my brothers found him in the alley the day they met?
Scripted. Blocked out frame by frame like a scene.
Birthdays, weddings, which brother has what weakness—Ethan with his bucket list for his wife, Rex with his penchant for coffee pills. No stone is left unturned.
Then there’s me—photos of me, files on the men who’ve shown interest in the past, their pictures crossed off with black marker and hasty scrawls underneath.
Interested in her money.
Secretly has a girlfriend.
Abuser. Eliminated.
Hate the face of this fucker.
The words blur. I collapse into the nearest chair, my mind spinning with the revelations.
This isn’t just revenge. This is carefully crafted obsession.
Years of my life mapped out like a strategy board. Every coincidence, every conversation, every action premeditated.
I’ve married a man who’s sold his soul to the devil to get revenge and use my family as stepping stones.
He has been telling me the truth all along.
Kianisdead. He’s been dead for years.
The boy who kneeled in the rain and offered me his chocolates never made it into The Orchid.
My lungs strain in staccato breaths. The walls close in. I cling to the armrest for dear life.
I can’t think. I can’t process it all.
And most of all, I don’t understand why my heart thrums stronger, why a fire travels down the length of my body, igniting every single nerve.
Why the urge to find him—notto run away—is stronger than ever.
