I find a few photos. Press conference stills. Courtroom candids. None of them does her justice. The camera never captures that smirk or that venom-sweet glint in her eye.
Judge Henri Devereux is her father. Revered. And from what I can piece together, dirty. Whispers of case tampering, backdoor deals, suppressed evidence. Nothing's been proven, but a stain clings to his name.
I don’t press for more. Not yet. But I file it away because I never look away when something dark stares back. And I sense something foul beneath the surface.
Jon David Bellamy comes next. Criminal defense attorney. Smug. Stylish. Polished to a shine.
They’ve gone head to head in court many times.
I suspect he is the one Laurette was talking about at the bar. The one who drugged her. Her recent ex. Which tells me two things: she doesn't mind fucking the enemy, and she sure as hell doesn't mind fighting the one she is fucking.
A remarkable woman.
But Jon David isn’t only an asshole. He’s a man with a reckless nerve that makes your skin crawl. A man who drugs his own girlfriend so he can indulge in his secret appetite while she’s out cold in the next room. That takes audacity. That takes a dangerous blindness.
But here’s the truth about men built that way—they believe taking risks makes them untouchable, boldness empowers them, and cruelty gives them control.
What they never account for is this: someone out there can be darker, smarter, and more relentless.
He assumes he got away with it.
He hasn’t met me yet.
My fingers hover over the keyboard as I stare at her name on the screen. Laurette Devereux. Each letter, a pulse. Each syllable a promise.
I’ve studied the basics—case files, court transcripts,articles, tagged photos. I’ve learned her career moves, her legal style, her press quotes. But that is only on the surface. I want the details no database can give me.
What scent lingers on her sheets? At what hour does her bedroom go dark? Does she hum when she brushes her teeth? Does her lock click softly or loudly when she turns it? I want to see how she moves through her space, the pattern of her days, and the silence that settles over her nights.
I’m dying to know what keeps her awake at night and what drives her hand between her legs. I want to see the image that flickers behind her eyes when she rubs herself to get off. Whose name she bites back when she comes.
And I want to know exactly what it'll take for that name to be mine.
I'll know it all. Every nuance, every secret.
She is my study now.
I wonder if she’s found my message yet. I envision her at the mailbox this morning. The napkin would stop her cold. I imagine the pause before she touches it, the moment where suspicion gives way to curiosity. That subtle shift when she realizes my words are meant for her.
I want her thinking about me as she moves through her house, wondering who watched, who listened. Locking doors she never bothered with before. And later, when she’s alone, I want the thought of me to linger longer than it should. Not fear, but anticipation. Because if she’s imagining me, even for a second, then I’m already exactly where I want to be.
But before I can get lost in whatever madness I feel toward her, there’s business to be done. I swipe the screen and reopen the app on the burner phone, my gateway into Silas Rourke’s twisted little world. I tap open the profile: “brittanygrace_2009.” A joke of a username, but Rourke took the bait. Hook, line, and thirsty DM.
hey omg i’m so sorry for bailing last night my dad caught me tryna sneak out can we maybe try again tonight?
My fingers hover before sending. The message is immature but necessary.
Rourke’s response is nearly immediate. He’s hungry for the next young girl.
It’s ok. Something came up on my end too. I can meet tonight. Leviathan at 12:00?
I type out another reply, still in character, channeling a sixteen-year-old girl, all nerves and emojis.
yayyy perfect!! i’ll be there can’t waaaait eeee
omg I’ll be thinking about it all day don’t be late!! lol
I’ll keep him breathing long enough for the lesson to sink into his bones. It should sting and scorch. He’ll learn how to beg for mercy, and I’ll make sure every word comes out thick with regret.
