Chapter 14
The scent of Negan still clung to Vanessa's skin.
She scrubbed her arms under cold water, hard enough to turn her flesh red, but it wouldn't come off—not the scent, not the memory of how he touched her, not the way her body betrayed her again and again.
It wasn't that he hurt her, not physically. Not tonight.
It was the way he made her want it.
The way he bent her mind, like her pleasure was his design.
Like she was some beautiful, breathing project.
But what he didn't realize—what none of them saw—was that Vanessa had stopped being the victim the moment he started caring.
And now, she was going to use that.
Elsewhere in the house, Camille watched the camera feeds.
The room Negan thought was sealed off—where she was supposedly locked away—was hacked open, rewired by Camille herself.
She had cut the wires the night he brought Vanessa in.
Because she knew what Negan would do.
He always needed a new muse. A fresh object to obsess over.
He made you feel like a queen while turning you into a ghost.
But Camille had survived the haunt.
She had the blueprints of the house memorized, two sharp razors hidden in her sleeves, and a tracker she'd ripped from the lining of Vanessa's purse when the girl wasn't looking.
She didn't need to be rescued anymore.
She needed a stage.
Negan stood behind Vanessa in the gallery room, watching her sketch.
His presence had become a shadow, always at her back—hot, possessive, still as a beast just before it bites.
"You've been quiet," he murmured.
Vanessa didn't turn. "I'm drawing."
"I like when you talk while you work."
She swallowed. "You like having control."
"I like having you."
She turned to face him now, charcoal smudged on her cheek, eyes cool. "Why me, Negan? Why not just find another Camille?"
His smile was slow. Lethal. "Because Camille wanted to be loved. You want to win."
And she realized—he saw her.
He knew she wasn't just surviving. She was maneuvering.
And instead of backing off, he liked it.
His lips grazed her jaw.
"This isn't a war, Vanessa."
"No," she whispered. "It's a game."
He kissed her—slow, cruel, deep—and walked away before she could catch her breath.
Camille ran.
She slipped through the east corridor while the night guard checked the cameras.
She had ten minutes.
Just ten.
The hallway stretched like a tunnel of ghosts.
She passed Vanessa's room—and paused.
Because inside, she saw something she never expected:
Vanessa, looking into the surveillance mirror.
And smiling.
Not in terror. Not in defeat.
In power.
Camille blinked.
No—Vanessa wasn't being brainwashed.
She was beating him at his own game.
Miles kicked in the back entrance to the mansion two hours later.
He had the flash drive.
He had the gun.
And he had backup waiting in the woods.
But when he entered the gallery and saw the canvases—each painting of Vanessa more unhinged than the last—he realized something else:
This wasn't a rescue.
This was a trap.
Negan wasn't chasing women. He was collecting them. Studying them. Tearing them open and painting the pieces.
And Vanessa… was halfway into the frame.
Vanessa woke to find a rose on her pillow.
A note beside it in Negan's slanted script.
Tonight, wear red. We feast.
And beneath it, a postscript.
Camille sends her regards.
Vanessa's blood turned to ice.
How did he know?
How long had he let Camille run?
She dressed slowly, lips painted like blood, eyes cold steel.
If this was war, then tonight would be the opening shot.
That night, Negan laid out a candlelit dinner.
He wore all black.
Vanessa came down in red, the silk clinging to her curves, the slit high, her back bare. She looked like temptation and treason stitched into one body.
He pulled out her chair.
"Shall we celebrate?"
Vanessa sat. "What are we celebrating?"
He poured the wine.
"You. Staying."
She tilted her head. "I never said I would."
"You haven't run," he said. "That's all the answer I need."
She clinked her glass to his, swallowed, and smiled.
But when he looked away, she palmed the tiny blade Camille had left her.
Tonight, she would begin to cut herself free.
Not with violence.
With victory.