Elise Hartman.
The penthouse feels like a gilded cage. Julian arranged everything to be just so. Silk pillows prop me up on the sprawling white sofa. A cashmere throw is draped over my legs. The city skyline glitters through the floor to ceiling windows, a kingdom I suddenly feel very far from.
“More water, darling?” Julian asks, his voice a perfect symphony of concern. He hovers near me, his hand constantly finding my shoulder, my arm, my hair. His touch makes my skin crawl.
Above his head, the crimson ‘9’ is a permanent stain on my vision.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, making my voice sound fragile. Broken. It’s a role I find surprisingly easy to play.
“You’re not fine, Elise. You were in a terrible accident. You need to let me take care of you.” He smooths my hair back from my forehead, his fingers brushing the edge of the bandage at my temple. “The board understands. They’ve all sent their best wishes.”
I look into his handsome, worried face. “It’s all just… a blur. The lights.”
“Don’t think about it,” he says quickly. A little too quickly. “The police said it was an open and shut case. Drunk driver. He’s already in custody.”
“Did you see him?” I ask, my voice small. “The other driver?”
Julian hesitates for a fraction of a second. “No. It all happened so fast. One moment we were talking, the next… well. The important thing is that you’re safe.”
His story is smooth. Practiced. But it doesn't align with the single news clip I managed to watch on my phone when he stepped out to take a call. The driver, a man with a long list of priors, had refused all sobriety tests. The investigation was ongoing. Not open and shut at all.
“You’re right,” I say, letting my eyelids flutter shut. “I’m just so tired.”
“Sleep, my love. I’ll be right here.”
I keep my breathing slow and even, listening to the soft sounds of him moving around the living room. I am a statue of helplessness. A broken doll for him to arrange. This weakness is my new armor. My greatest weapon.
He thinks I’m sleeping. I hear the soft slide of the balcony door. His footsteps are faint on the stone outside. He must think the thick glass will muffle his voice enough. He’s wrong.
His tone is different now. Lower, harder. Stripped of all the cloying affection.
“She’s completely broken, suspects nothing,” he says into his phone. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic bird in a cage.
“The doctors are calling it post traumatic stress. It’s perfect. She’s docile.” A pause. I can almost hear the smirk in his voice. “The final buyout of her shares can proceed after the next board meeting. Her signature will be a formality. She’ll think she’s signing medical releases.”
Ice floods my veins, chasing away any lingering shock, any remnants of grief for the man I thought I loved. There is only a cold, crystalline certainty.
My accident was no accident.
He was never trying to help me carry my empire. He was trying to bury me under it.
I hear the balcony door slide shut. I don’t move a muscle. He walks back over to the sofa, his footsteps soft. I feel the dip in the cushion as he sits beside me. He thinks I’m his pawn, his victim. He has no idea he just armed a killer.
He stays for another hour, watching me ‘sleep,’ occasionally checking his phone. The unwavering ‘9’ above his head is no longer a mystery. It’s an insult. It’s the precise numerical value of his contempt for me.
Finally, he leans down and kisses my forehead. “I’ll be back in the morning, darling,” he whispers. “Get some rest.”
I listen to the front door click shut. The lock engages. The silence that follows is absolute. It rings in my ears.
Slowly, I open my eyes.
I sit up, the cashmere throw pooling at my waist. The city lights don't look distant anymore. They look like a promise. A hunting ground.
I swing my legs off the sofa and walk, my steps steady and silent, to the great mirror in the foyer. The woman staring back at me looks pale, wounded. A bandage mars her perfect skin. There are faint shadows under her eyes.
She looks like a victim.
But her eyes. Her eyes are not a victim’s eyes.
They are cold. They are clear. They are hungry.
Julian thinks he broke Elise Hartman. He thinks he’s about to checkmate a fallen queen. He’s about to learn what happens when you corner a predator.
I let a slow smile spread across my face. It feels foreign and sharp. “Let the games begin, Julian,” I whisper to my reflection. A satisfying confrontation is not just imminent. It’s guaranteed.
