Nothing.
He’s vanished, dissolving into the city like a whisper I might’ve imagined. Maybe I’m just paranoid. I climb into my car, the engine purring to life. The street lights flicker, but my thoughts wander. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel as the road unfurls before me. It’s dark, and the streetlights flicker like faulty neurons.
My bats are waiting – my little winged beasts - their hunger a far more reliable constant than the erratic whims of men. Speaking of men. He’s lingering in my mind like a persistent itch. Sharp suit. Sharper words. A man who doesn’t just wander in to admire grotesque medical oddities, no. I signal to turn down a road, though here, there’s no one around to appreciate my adherence to traffic laws. Once I leave the city, the roads turn quiet, so I speed up. After all, my bats have no regard for legality, only for food, for blood.
There’s a peculiar thrill of having something – someone – to dissect. A fresh point of intrigue, a distraction from the routine monotony of feeding my bats. It’s exhilarating – really. My thoughts coil around the possibility like a predator scenting fresh prey. Not that he’s prey – not yet, anyway.
I’d have to find him first.
But he’s something, something that doesn’t belong in the life of Marguerite Dubois. He walked into my carefully, curated world and left behind a ripple. It’s rare for something or someone to pique my interest beyond skin and flesh. Rarer still that someone might invite themselves into my space where my mind likes to linger.
How careless of him.
How fun for me.
I have a new toy.
CHAPTER 4
THE DIPLOMAT
Stella Anderson stole the air from my lungs the moment I laid eyes on her. My reality tilted, worlds vanished, and for a breath – one aching breath – I forgot how to think. She’s devastating in ways that should be illegal and she’s far too young for me. But her eyes sent a hot current down my spine, my knees betrayed me, and now my pulse riots. I’m not in control.
I don’t like this. Not one bit.
I sit in my rental car waiting for the museum to close. In the meantime, I’m looking up everything I can find on a Stella Anderson. I don’t just research her, I dismantle her whole persona piece by piece, and stripping away layers until there’s nothing left but raw data and the cold, hard truth. If I was going to kill her, then I want to know who she is. With my tablet, my fingers glide over the screen, tapping into the vast network of public records – birth certificate, employment history, property deeds. Each fragmented detail weaves together like bones of a ghost, assembling the skeleton of her existence. Piece by piece, I trace her past, mapping out the places she’s been, the choices she’s made, the shadows she’s left behind. It’s cold, clinical, but thorough. I leave no stone unturned, and no secret is safe.
Shit. She’s on the move.
The engine hums beneath my grip as I shadow her movements. Not too close – never close enough to give myself away, but close enough to keep her in my sights. The streets twist and curve, pulling me deeper into the chase. I keep my distance like a silent predator, eyes locked on her silhouette. She doesn’t waver. Doesn’t look back, instead, the night wraps around me like an accomplice to the hunt.
The low growl of the engine barely registers as I stay back, far enough to blend into the shadows but close enough that she never slips away from view. Red tail lights flicker like a pulse in the dark, guiding me through the silent backroads.
Where is she going?
The city’s chaos vanishes behind us, swallowed by the emptiness of rural isolation. Out here, there’s nothing but quiet. Nothing but the hunt. She turns onto a dirt path, and I ease off the accelerator. The cottage materialises, a secret unveiled, hidden within the landscape’s folds. It’s quiet here – too quiet. It’s the kind of place where solitude isn’t just a choice, but a warning. People come here when they want to disappear.
When they don’t want to be found.
I don’t stop – not yet. Instead, I ease past her turn, letting the road stretch ahead before finding a spot to pull over. I cut the engine, and take a deep breath, letting the silence settle around me. Is God up there, watching, judging me? Or is there another version of me somewhere in a parallel universe making different decisions, living a different life? I don’t know. But what I do know is I find myself looking into the dark void, waiting for an answer. People spend so much time looking up, searching the stars for answers, but the sky never speaks back, and tonight is no different. I know that this version of me and what I feel down to the very marrow of my bones is that the meaning of life is not a cosmic answer. It’s waiting for me in that cottage, covered head-to-toe in gothic attire, eyes lined in black, radiating an intensity that has rewired something inside me.
I step out, closing the door with careful precision. Then, I slip into the darkness, the damp earth muffling each step as I edge closer to the cottage. It’s quaint, yet unsettling, tucked away like a secret too fragile to touch. Outside, I linger. Watching. Waiting. The thrill pulsing through me is sharp and electric. She’s here alone, unaware. And for now, that’s enough.
I shouldn’t be here. Not behind this window, not watching as the mask of Marguerite Dubois dissolves with each sweep of makeup remover. And yet, here I am, caught in the quiet intimacy of a moment never meant for me. She’s unaware of my gaze, unaware how my eyes are tracing the raven-dark fall of her hair, the curve of her bare shoulders, and the sharp, unpainted beauty of a woman who doesn’t need to camouflage her face with cosmetics to captivate.
Who are you hiding from ... Stella? Why are you surrounding yourself among the anatomical ghosts, telling stories of skin and bone, but never your own? That lace clutched against your throat, the corset beneath your lab coat, your jet-black lipstick – that’s not fashion. It’s armour. You’re draping yourself in mystery, curating pain while hiding your own. No one else sees it. You make sure of that. But I do. Are you hiding, Stella? Or is this the most honest version of you? Either way, I’m not afraid. I’m a patient man. I’ll peel back the layers gently – lovingly.
I should turn away. I should leave. But then I see it, her crossbow hanging on the wall. I swallow hard. I need to decide what I’m going to do before I become something worth aiming at. However, I’m frozen, held captive by the unravelling of Marguerite Dubois – no, not Marguerite Dubois. Just Stella.
My Stella.
The woman beneath the performance stripped of pretence and the charm she wears in public. As she pulls her top up and over her head, my breath catches. I’m enthralled, consumed, drowning in the sight of her. There’s something dark clawing up from the depths of my chest, a dark shadow that twists and writhes. It’s black, cruel and hungry. Dangerous. It’s not just desire – it’s destruction. I want to break her, like a mirror. Shatter her into tiny fragments so small they could never be whole again. Then I want to take those sharp and jagged pieces and force them to fit my puzzle. I’ll bend them, twist them, and reshape them until they’re mine. Until she’s mine.
The thought is intoxicating, a storm brewing behind my ribs, and a need so surreal it feels like it could tear me apart if I don’t act on it.
Mr Lewis’ instructions weigh heavy on me, a command given without hesitation. Eliminate her. Simple words, yet they coil in my mind, twisting, constricting. The conflict gnaws at me. Loyalty to Mr Lewis, to the Sanchez family has shaped me for years. It’s my foundation, my purpose. But this? This is personal.
The last time I felt this way was over a decade ago - when a woman named Elina shattered me. She was everything I thought I wanted. But she broke me, left me hollow. Her death cut deeper than any blade, carving out something I never recovered. I swore then to never again let anyone close. No vulnerability. I buried my heart, sealed it beneath my duty, and devoted myself entirely to the family. To the work.
