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It’s in that moment I physically feel the grief shift into something less sad and more powerful… anger, maybe. Something stronger than that, even. I refuse to allow yet another man fuck up my life; I promised myself that I wouldn’t.

I’m not going to lie down for this. I’m going to find out everything there is to know about Preston Grant, and then I’m going to take apart every single thing he loves.

I’m going to burn that motherfucker to the ground.

* * *

Preston Warren Grant.

I could have picked those eyes out of a lineup of a hundred men. They are branded into my memory now—not as the kind eyes I’d once known them as, but now as the eyes of a killer. All I can see in them is betrayal, deception, and the manipulation of a psychopath who played me like a fucking violin.

Once it’s dark, I use my key to get into the library after hours, knowing it’s the best place for me to do my research. And the research comes surprisingly easily.

His father had owned Grant Guard Money Security; it’s a company that moves money to banks and businesses in armored trucks. When his father died five years ago, Preston inherited it all. The company, the reputation, the wealth—it was all his now.

From the way he’d spoken about it, he didn’t give a shit about what he inherited. He’d painted himself as a reluctant successor, burdened by this responsibility he never wanted.

What a load of shit.

He made me believe he was restless. He said he was still attending classes, working towards his MBA as if he were an eternal student. Lie. Records show that he graduated over a year ago with High Distinction.

Every trip to the library wasn’t about school; it was about me. He’s studying me.

I dig deeper, my fingers flying across the keyboard as information pours across the screen. He mentioned his sister in passing during our date, barely a hint of her existence. What he didn’t mention was that Ellie Grant is the family’s prized possession.

The articles about the Grant family are fawning in their praise. Ellie was her father’s pride and joy, a living reminder of his late wife, who had passed when she was only a baby. The resemblance is just striking from what they describe. She isn’t just a daughter or a sister; she’s all that’s left of his mother. All the weight of their father’s love and grief and hope for the future had clung to her.

Like a target.

Fucking perfect.

Thank God for social media and its endless ocean of overshared details. Ellie’s life unfolds under my fingertips. It’s almost funny how easily I find out where she goes to college and what she studies. That she drives a custom blush pink convertible with a stupid rhinestone license plate. I know her sorority, her favorite restaurant, her class schedule, and her weekend habits.

Man, this girl is a party animal. From the looks of it, she can’t refuse an invite if it includes alcohol and men. Pictures flood her feed of drinks, cigarettes, and her surrounded by people. Parties every weekend, and some weeknights too. She is the kind of girl who is living her life, performing for an audience, documenting every moment as if it were precious and worth preserving.

Poor Ellie has no clue that being an open book and a creature of habit has put her in danger. She’s predictable, but most importantly, vulnerable.

I sit there, staring at the chaos I have assembled, notes and printed papers scattered around me. There’s so much information about a girl I’ve never met; it looks like a madwoman’s altar. Everything I need to destroy her life is right here in front of me.

For a fleeting second, I snap out of it. A tiny voice whispers in the back of my mind, sounding suspiciously like Blaire again.

What are you doing, Wynnie? This isn’t you.

It’s right. Is this really who I’m becoming? Am I really going to hurt someone so thoroughly that there is no coming back from it? Would I be able to do something that would stain my hands permanently and shove me headfirst into prison if I get caught?

Ellie Grant is innocent. As far as I know, she’s never killed anyone. She’s definitely never stalked or terrorized me.

The doubt settles in me for a second; it’s cold and sobering.

But just as quickly, it dissolves. It’s easily burned away by the all-consuming fire within me as the answer rises back to the surface—oil on water.

Abso-fucking-lutely.

Preston’s played with fire, and now he’s going to watch everything he loves go up in smoke, just as I have. He’s taken my best friend, my sense of safety, my sanity. Most of all, life as I knew it. If he wants to play a game, I’ll give him a fucking war.

I can almost see it already: the look in Preston’s pretty eyes when he realizes that nothing he cares about is safe anymore. Not his cushy empire that fell into his lap, not his golden sister or his hardworking brother. I’m going to take it all away, piece by piece.

And when he stands on the ashes of the life he thought was untouchable, when he’s begging for compassion and forgiveness, with tears streaming down his face, I won’t give him any. Not even when he finds himself as broken and hollow as I am now.