Emily Beaumont had always loved the night. The darkness was her confidant, her cloak, her playground. Tonight, the penthouse suite that overlooked the city shimmered with glass and chrome, but Emily ignored the skyline. She sat at her grand piano, fingers dancing idly across the keys in a melody that was sweet, haunting, and entirely deceptive.
Her reflection in the polished black surface smiled back at her — sharp, perfect, controlled. People thought obsession was madness, a weakness. But Emily had learned long ago that obsession was power. It drove her to wait when others grew impatient, to plan when others panicked, to strike when others least expected it.
And Olivia — poor, naïve Olivia — was the perfect prey.
“You’re not supposed to survive,” Emily whispered into the empty room. He
