Rich people always cried pretty.
At least that’s what years of watching them crumble or losing a loved one has taught me.
Soft tears, controlled breaths, one hand delicately covering their faces so they could be “picture ready” even in tragedy.
But Raina didn’t exactly fit the usual narrative. The moment her father hit the floor, she was already scrambling to him, kneeling on the floor beside him
The sound of her cries was raw, broken, stripped of every ounce of that icy composure she wore like armor.
There was nothing graceful about it. No pretty tears. No poise.
Just a daughter begging her father to breathe.
I reached into my pocket and felt my chap stick. The thumb pressed the base, feeling the weight of the poison still intact— the poison I intended to use on Raina’s father
