Chapter Three: His Blood Wasn’t the First
734 Words
The room smells like power and panic.
The velvet lounge is silent, except for the echo of the cop’s knuckles still vibrating in the air. John’s hand is still under her dress. His jaw’s still tight. And Stacy?
She’s smiling.
Because this this chaos, this interruption, this fear is what the Maddox family has tried to bury for years.
And she just ripped off the velvet drapes.
⸻
John steps back like her body burned him.
He straightens his shirt, runs a hand through his hair, composes himself like he’s putting a mask back on.
Then: “Don’t move.”
Stacy licks her lips slowly. “Or what? You’ll punish me?”
He doesn’t answer.
He walks to the door, opens it, and the voice that greets him is sharp and familiar.
Detective Carter.
Not just any cop. The one assigned to his father’s death three years ago. The one who never quite bought the “heart attack” story.
The one who’s still watching the family like a bloodhound with unfinished business.
⸻
“Evening, Mr. Maddox,” Carter says. His suit’s wrinkled. His smile’s tired and fake. “I assume you’ve seen the body?”
John’s expression is smooth. “Unfortunate accident.”
“Oh, is that what we’re calling it?” Carter holds up his phone. “Because this message here” he turns the screen around, “makes it look a lot like premeditated blackmail.”
John doesn’t flinch. “And?”
Carter glances inside the room. Sees Stacy. Doesn’t hide the surprise.
“Well, well. You’re back.”
Stacy raises a brow. “Miss me?”
“You’re the one he texted,” Carter says. “Mind if we talk?”
“Depends,” Stacy says, uncrossing her legs slowly. “You gonna arrest me, detective? Or just fantasize about it?”
John closes the door behind him before Carter can answer. His voice is low. Controlled.
“Don’t talk to her like that.”
Carter’s eyes flick. “You protecting her now?”
John doesn’t respond.
And that says everything.
⸻
Inside the room, Stacy stands. Her phone buzzes quietly in her purse. One buzz.
A new message.
Unknown number.
She opens it.
“He’s not the only one who knew. You’re next.”
Her heart skips.
The air thins.
She doesn’t show it on her face.
But her fingers curl around the phone like a trigger.
⸻
When John walks back in, she’s already at the bar, pouring herself another drink.
“What did they want?” she asks, not turning around.
“They want your phone.”
She sips. “Of course they do.”
“They’ll come with a warrant if you don’t hand it over.”
She turns, leans back against the bar, one hand behind her, the other holding the glass to her lips. Her dress clings to her like it was poured over her bones.
“And will you let them take it?”
He watches her carefully. “Depends.”
“On?”
“On whether you’re still lying to me.”
A beat.
She walks to him slowly, deliberately. Her hand trails across his chest.
“You want the truth?”
He nods once.
She leans in. Her lips barely graze his ear.
“I’m going to burn your world down, John. But first, I’m going to make you beg for it.”
⸻
He grabs her wrist.
His voice is low, ragged. “You think this is a game?”
She smiles. Finally, he’s unraveling.
“I know it is.”
“You’re playing with fire.”
“I am fire.”
He slams her against the wall—not hard, but enough to make her gasp. His face is inches from hers.
“You think I won’t destroy you?”
Her hand snakes between them. She grabs his belt.
“Destroy me, then,” she whispers. “But do it right.”
⸻
Before he can move, there’s another knock at the door.
But it’s not the detective.
It’s the butler again. Pale. Sweating.
“Sir… Miss Caldwell… the police have found something else.”
“What now?” John growls.
The butler swallows hard.
“It’s the security footage. From the ballroom. Just before the man collapsed.”
“And?”
He looks directly at Stacy.
“You were the last one to speak to him.”
- Writer
