Chapter Two: The Message
989 Words
John stares at the screen like it’s a loaded gun.
One message.
Nine words.
“I know what she did. I’m telling John.”
Sent exactly three minutes before the man’s body hit the floor.
And it was sent to Stacy.
The butler stammers, unsure if he should still be in the room. John waves him off without a word. The door shuts, leaving him alone with the girl who vanished like a crime scene and came back dressed for revenge.
Stacy doesn’t flinch. She leans against the edge of the liquor cabinet like she’s waiting for an encore.
“You gonna ask?” she says.
“Should I?”
“That depends,” she murmurs, “on whether or not you want to hear me lie.”
His fingers tighten around the phone. Her phone. The message glows in the dim light of the lounge. There’s no name just a number. Unlisted. International. The kind people use when they want to disappear after they talk.
John raises his gaze slowly. “What did you do?”
She tilts her head, lips curved in mock thought. “You’re gonna have to be more specific, baby.”
“Who was that man, Stacy?”
She walks toward him. “You mean, who was he before his skull got married to your marble floor?”
“This isn’t a joke.”
“No,” she says softly. “It’s not.”
And just like that her tone changes. Her face drops. The flirtation drains away, and what’s left is colder than anything he remembers.
“He used to work for my father,” she says. “Legal consultant. Specialized in hush money and threats. Nothing ever written down.”
John’s mouth sets into a line. “And?”
“And he blackmailed me,” she replies, simple and sharp. “Two years ago. Right before I left.”
A beat of silence. Even the walls seem to lean in.
“Why?” John asks.
She looks him dead in the eye. “Because he had a video of me.”
His jaw clenches. “What kind of video?”
She smiles. But it’s a bitter thing.
“The kind that would’ve ruined me. Destroyed my family. Got your name dragged into hell too.”
He stares at her. Rage simmering. But not at her.
Not yet.
“I paid him off,” she continues. “For a while. Then I stopped. And now he’s dead.”
⸻
John turns away, staring out the window. The city sparkles below, beautiful and indifferent.
“You should have told me.”
“I couldn’t.”
“You think I would’ve let him live?”
She walks behind him, slow. “No,” she whispers, “I think you would’ve done exactly what you’re doing now.”
He turns to her. “Which is?”
“Wondering if I killed him.”
Her eyes don’t blink.
He doesn’t ask.
Because he is wondering.
Because it wouldn’t be the craziest thing she’s ever done.
Because a part of him would still protect her.
Even now.
⸻
“I didn’t kill him,” she says, finally.
“But you’re glad he’s dead.”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
He says nothing.
Just watches her. Unmoving. Unreadable.
Until he asks, “Is the video still out there?”
She shrugs. “Depends on whether he was stupid enough to back it up.”
“Who else knows?”
“No one. Not even her.”
“Her?”
A pause.
Shit.
Stacy closes her eyes for a second.
And when she opens them, he’s watching her like a wolf sniffing blood.
“Her, Stacy?”
She walks past him, heads for the bar. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”
“Who is she?”
“She’s… mine,” she says, pouring herself a drink. “The only person who saw the real me and didn’t run.”
He’s silent.
Then: “Did you f**k her?”
She turns slowly.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she says, voice like warm smoke, “I made her beg.”
His breath hitches.
But he doesn’t look away.
⸻
“You know,” she says, stepping close again, “it wasn’t just the threats that made me leave.”
“No?”
“It was you.”
“You’re blaming me now?”
“I’m reminding you,” she says, mouth nearly at his. “You broke me. Then wondered why I disappeared.”
He stares down at her lips.
His voice drops. “So why are you back?”
She smiles.
“I missed being worshipped and hated in the same breath.”
⸻
He grabs her.
It’s not gentle.
It’s not violent either it’s desperate. His hands tangle in her hair, his mouth crashes to hers. They collide like two bombs set off in the same room.
He lifts her onto the velvet chaise. Her legs wrap around him. Their bodies still remember the choreography. Their pain has rhythm. Their love has claws.
She moans into his mouth, bites his lower lip.
Then whispers
“Tell me what you did to them.”
He stills.
“What?”
“You heard me,” she pants. “Tell me about the others. Their names. What they tasted like. What you said to them.”
“No,” he growls.
She grinds against him.
“Yes,” she whispers. “Tell me while you touch me.”
He curses under his breath. His control cracks. His hand slides between her thighs.
“You’re sick,” he breathes.
“And you love it.”
⸻
But just as his fingers slip under her dress
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Someone’s pounding on the door.
“Mr. Maddox! Sir!”
John growls, forehead pressing to Stacy’s.
“Not now.”
“Sir it’s the police. They want to speak to you. Now.”
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