Dawn arrived not as an invasion, but as a slow, golden possession. It claimed the sky outside the bedroom window, and it claimed me, Haven Hartwell, as I stood vigil in the kitchen. The silence of the sleeping house was a palpable thing, thick and sweet, a stark contrast to the echoing screams and gunshots that often populated the silent films of my memory. But this morning, the only ghosts were pleasant ones.
My hands moved with a ritualistic precision born of countless repetitions. The kettle hissed, steam curling like an offering to some domestic god. Before me, the two porcelain cups: one for bitter fuel, one for sweet oblivion. The vial in my palm was cool, a familiar, hateful comfort. But as I measured the fine, white powder a little less today, a calculated risk after last night's peaceful sleep my mind wasn't on the chemistry of control. It was awash in the vivid, technicolor memory of the day and night before.
The restaurant. The spotlight. The look in her eyes as she sang for me, her voice weaving a spell of devotion around a thousand strangers, but meant only for my ears. The raw, unvarnished love in the lyrics she'd chosen. "Only you, the only one that stole my heart away." She had no idea how true that was, or how violently that theft had been executed.
Then, the carnival. The chaos. Her radiant, goofy joy as she hurled herself into each scam, each ride, with the abandon of a creature who had never known true fear. The feel of her body pressed against mine in the spinning Scrambler, her laughter a melody that drowned out the rusty creak of the machinery. The taste of artificial cheese and cotton candy on her lips. The weight of the ridiculous lime-green dinosaur, Rex, over my shoulder a symbol of a victory secured not by money, but by the silent, lethal promise of my hidden pistol. Her whispered 'rawr' in the dark, our secret, savage love language.
And then, the Ferris wheel. The fireworks painting the sky in bursts of ephemeral beauty. Her face, lit by those explosions, her eyes not on the spectacle but locked on mine. "For our forever," she'd whispered. The kiss that followed wasn't just a kiss; it was a covenant, a promise she made to the fiction I had built, a promise I would kill to make real. It had been deep, hungry, a claiming that left us both breathless and disoriented as we stumbled from the gondola.
The memory grew warmer, more intimate. The drive home, her head on my shoulder, her hand in mine. We hadn't made it to the bedroom. Parked in the subterranean silence of our garage, still buzzing from sugar and adrenaline and the seismic shift of that kiss, she had turned to me. Her eyes in the dim dashboard glow were dark, mischievous, and pliant all at once.
"Haven," she'd murmured, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. "I'm still all… fizzy."
I hadn't needed more invitation than that. The car, a vault of polished leather and steel, became our world. It was frantic, messy, constrained by the console and steering wheel. Her laughter was breathless against my neck as we fumbled with clothes, her whispered encouragements a siren song. She was so pliant, so eager, so mine in that tangled, sugar-scented darkness. It was a different kind of possession than the chemical leash in my hand. It was mutual, feverish, a celebration of the new world order where she desired me as desperately as I obsessed over her. I couldn't wait to see what other delicious, mischievous plans she had cooked up in that beautiful, rewired brain of hers.
Speaking of the devil.
The soft pad of bare feet on marble. I slipped the empty vial into its hidden pocket, my face smoothing into its morning mask of serene devotion as she shuffled into the kitchen. She was a vision of sleepy disarray, hair a glorious, tangled halo, wearing one of my old band t-shirts that swallowed her frame. She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her palm, a gesture so childlike it sent a painful spear of possessiveness through me.
"Mornin'," she mumbled, her voice husky with sleep. She padded over, ignoring her chair for a moment, and came straight to me. Rising on her toes, she planted a soft, lingering peck on my lips. She tasted of sleep and faint, fading strawberries. Then she pulled back, pouting adorably. "Why did you make me sleep in my room? Did you not sleep with me? Hmpt."
The question, so innocently accusing, was a landmine. The truth was a tangle of surveillance, sedative vials, and the need to maintain the stage set of her 'personal space.' I served her the lie with a spoonful of manufactured chagrin. "Well, I wanted you to be surrounded by your new winnings. Our winnings." I gestured vaguely towards the upstairs where her plush court resided. "I'm sorry, my love. I just never thought you wanted to be sleeping next to me all the time. My bad. Will you forgive me?"
Her pout deepened, then melted into a soft smile. "Well, since you put it that way… fine. But next time, you'll sleep with me, or I'll sleep with you, okay? I love cuddling with you, after all!!"
The sheer, uncomplicated need in her voice was a drug. "Alright, alright, my tyrant," I conceded, the old nickname for her former self slipping out, now repurposed as an endearment. It was a private joke with the ghost in the room. "Let's eat."
We ate in comfortable silence, knees touching under the table. I watched her drown a croissant in jam, her movements animated as she recounted, with dramatic flair, Sushi's alleged jealousy of Rex. The domesticity was a painting, and I was both the artist and a desperate figure trying to crawl inside the frame.
Then, the vibration. My corporate phone, face-down on the table, buzzed against the marble like a trapped insect. A scheduled alert. The outside world, with its mundane cruelties and necessary evils, was calling its monster back to duty.
I sighed, the sound full of a genuine regret that surprised even me. "I have to go, my songbird."
Her face fell, the morning light dimming in her eyes. She stood up as I did, but instead of letting me pass, she moved behind me as I collected my briefcase. Then, her arms slipped around my waist, her cheek pressing between my shoulder blades. A full-body hug from behind.
"Why not call in sick, my love?" she murmured into my blazer, her voice a wheedling, hopeful whisper. She was pouting again; I could hear it in her tone.
Fuck. I wanna stay too, Althea. The thought was a scream in the quiet of my mind. But I have a lot of things to do today. With your kidnappers, specifically. Silas Thorne's mother needs a disturbing visitor. Leo Finch's pregnant wife should receive some unsettling prenatal literature. And then there's the literal, tedious work for the Vale hotels and resorts. And I have something… special… to do with your cousin today. Since it's Friday.
"I can't, my love," I said aloud, turning in her arms to face her. I cupped her sleep-warm face. "As much as I want to."
"Hmm, fine," she grumbled, but her arms tightened. "But five more minutes? I wanna hug you. I missed you since you didn't sleep with me!! Hmpt!"
How could I resist? "Alright."
We stood there in the sun-drenched kitchen, locked in a silent embrace. I buried my face in her hair, inhaling the Vanilla Strawberry, trying to sear the feeling of her, soft and warm and whole against me, into my permanent memory. This was the sanctuary. This was what all the bloodshed was for. For five minutes, the vault was sealed, the monster slept, and I was just a woman holding her wife.
When the time was up, I pulled back with infinite reluctance. "I really have to go now."
She nodded, her eyes suspiciously bright. Then, before I could react, she rose on her toes again, her hands framing my face, and kissed me. Not a peck. A deep, searching, possessive kiss that stole the breath from my lungs and the resolve from my bones. Her tongue swept into my mouth, a claiming of her own. When she broke away, I was utterly bewildered, my carefully composed CEO facade in tatters.
"Bye," she whispered, a smug, knowing little smile playing on her swollen lips.
I stumbled out of the house, the taste of her and the peach-apricot tea still on my tongue. The drive to Vale Headquarters was a blur. My mind replayed that final kiss on a loop, a甜蜜的折磨 (tiánmì de zhémó - sweet torment). It was a brand. A reminder of what I was fighting for, and what I was about to temporarily betray.
And what greeted me in the lobby, holding a stupidly expensive looking pastry box from that French patisserie she loved, was of course the one and only Emara Vale Sinclair.
"Haven," she purred, slinking forward. She was a vision of calculated allure in a crimson dress that hugged every curve, her scent a cloying wave of tuberose and ambition. "I thought you might need some fuel. You look… flustered. Long night?"
The irony was so thick I could choke on it. You have no idea, you viper. My long night involved a carnival, a dinosaur, and my wife's tongue in my mouth. The only thing long about your night will be the regret.
I forced a smile, one that felt like cracking ice. "Emara. You're too kind." I accepted the box, my fingers brushing hers, a necessary contact that made my skin crawl. I'm sorry, Althea. I'm so sorry.
"Just looking out for a… colleague," she said, leaning in, her voice dropping. "And a future partner, I hope. In all things." Her gaze was a physical touch, slithering over my neck where Althea's love bites had finally faded.
I'm sorry, my songbird. This is for us. To gut them. To protect you. "Your optimism is contagious," I replied, letting my own gaze linger on her for a beat too long, layering it with a hint of the hunger she wanted to see. It was like performing surgery on my own soul. Forgive me.
We walked to the elevators together, her shoulder brushing mine. She chattered about the pastry, about the weather, about how my "absence" at certain meetings had been noted. Every word was a double entendre, a probe. I played my part, responding with non-committal but suggestive murmurs, all while a silent litany ran in my head: Sorry, Althea. Sorry. Sorry. This is for you. For our forever. I'll bleach my soul after.
The elevator ride to the top floor was an eternity. She stood too close, her perfume suffocating. When the doors opened, she turned, placing a hand on my arm. "So. Will our… discussion… continue tonight? Le Ciel holds our reservation." Her eyes were bright with predatory hope.
This was the moment. The hook had to be set deep. I let a slow, deliberate smile spread across my face, one that didn't reach my deadened eyes. "Actually," I said, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "I was thinking. Why share you with a crowded restaurant?" I leaned in infinitesimally closer. "I'll cook for you. At my condo. Would that be… acceptable to you, Emara?"
Her breath hitched. This was beyond her expectations. Privacy. Intimacy. A vulnerability she thought she was exploiting.
"And," I added, letting my gaze sweep over her once more, finishing with a wink that felt like a betrayal of every genuine feeling I had. "I would like to do something with you tonight."
She blushed, an actual, genuine flush of victory. "Yes," she breathed. "That would be… perfect."
Perfect for my plans, you fool.
I finally escaped to the sanctum of my office. The door closed, and I leaned against it, closing my eyes, trying to purge the scent of tuberose with the memory of Vanilla Strawberry. Then, with grim efficiency, I pulled out the Blackwood phone.
Miss Chen. Prepare the downtown condo. Full sanitization. Install discreet cameras in the main living area and bedroom—audio and visual. I need a doppelganger on standby for tonight. Female, similar height and build, able to mimic my posture and voice cadence. Provide her with a dossier on my mannerisms. Most importantly, have the lab synthesize a vial of my concentrated Grape Old Wine pheromone blend. She is to apply it liberally. The mark must believe it's me.
I paused, a dark, humorless thought striking me. The absurdity of it. The sheer, theatrical length I had to go to for this farce. I added:
Tell the operative her codename for the evening is 'Tyrant's Stand-In.' Payment will be triple the usual hazard rate. She is to expect physical intimacy with the target and must sell the performance completely. Her silence afterwards is, as always, non-negotiable.
I sent it. The machinery was in motion. A part of me, the obsessive, melodramatic part, wished I could watch Althea's face if she ever found out about this. Not the betrayal, but the sheer, ridiculous effort of the deception. The hiring of a body double, the pheromone perfume, all to avoid soiling myself with the touch of another while I orchestrated their ruin. She'd probably call it extra, and then kiss me for being so deranged. The thought almost made me smile.
Pushing the insanity aside, I settled at my desk. The mountain of legitimate Vale Corp work was a welcome distraction. I signed off on construction permits for a new resort in Bali, approved a marketing campaign, fired off a terse email about quarterly losses in the European division. All the while, a small, discreet screen on my desk was lit. It showed a quad-split view of our home: the kitchen, the living room, the greenhouse, the main hallway. The audio from Sushi's collar fed softly through a concealed earpiece.
My true work began.
On screen, Althea entered the living room, a bundle of cheerful energy. She had gathered her carnival plush court. With Sushi wagging his tail at her feet, she began a formal introduction.
"Okay, Sushi, listen up!" she announced, kneeling on the rug. She held up the monstrous Rex. "This is His Grace, Rex Hartwell-Vale! Duke of the Eastern Carpet and Protector of the Realm. You will show him respect." She made Rex's tiny arms wiggle. Sushi sniffed the dinosaur cautiously, then gave it a tentative lick.
She then brought forward the bag with Justice the goldfish, now in a proper bowl on the coffee table. "And this is Justice, the Duke's wise and silent confidant. He sees all in his watery domain. No barking at the bowl, Sushi. It's undignified."
Next, the rainbow unicorn. "Sir Bartholomew of the Sparkling Horn! The Duke's noble steed, charged with carrying him into glorious battle… against dust bunnies!" She made the unicorn gallop in a circle.
Finally, the neon flamingo. "And this is Baron Steve, Minister of Gossip and Avian Affairs. He knows all the best spots for sunbathing and which delivery guy gives extra treats." She made the flamingo pose dramatically.
I watched, utterly enchanted, my heart a tangled knot of adoration and vicious protection. She was building a kingdom of whimsy in the sunlit living room, a kingdom I had made safe for her. Every silly voice she used for the stuffed animals, every earnest explanation to a bewildered golden retriever, was a testament to my success. The Tyrant would have set the plush toys on fire in a fit of nihilistic rage. The Songbird was giving them titles and backstories. I loved her so much it was a physical ache behind my ribs.
I listened to her all day. She talked to Sushi about what to make for dinner ("Something that says 'I'm sorry my wife is a workaholic but I love her anyway'"). She sang snippets of new melodies to herself, her voice floating through the earpiece like a private concert. She facetimed Mrs. Byrne about plant food. It was mundane. It was perfect. It was the soundtrack to my dual existence—the ruthless CEO by day, the obsessive guardian angel by remote control.
As the workday bled into evening, the time for my performance arrived. I shut down the feeds with a pang of separation anxiety. The real theatre was about to begin.
In the parking garage, Emara was waiting, leaning against a pillar. She'd changed into something even more predatory—a black dress that left little to the imagination. I had driven a different car today, a sleek, black sedan that was untraceable to my main fleet and would be disposed of tomorrow.
I walked up to her, slipping effortlessly back into the role. "Are you ready, Emara?" I asked, my voice a low purr.
She smiled, a viper's smile. "For you? Always."
I closed the distance, placing a hand on her waist, guiding her to the passenger side. The touch was clinical, my mind cataloguing the texture of the fabric, the calculation behind her scent. As I rounded the car, I caught a flicker of movement in the shadow of a support column. A lens glint. Of course. Emara was having us photographed. A future insurance policy. Blackmail material. How quaint. But I have mine too, cousin. And mine is way too discreet for your amateur games. I've had cameras on you since you first smirked at my wife's misfortune. I'm way too smart for my own good. I knew this would happen.
During the drive, I kept my left hand resting on her thigh, a possessive, intimate gesture that made her preen. She tried to flirt, steering conversation towards "mergers" and "partnerships" with heavy, suggestive emphasis. I played along, talking about "leveraging assets" and "deep penetration into new markets," my voice layered with a double meaning that made her laugh, a throaty, confident sound. Inside, I was a recording on loop: Sorry, Althea. I'm so sorry. This is for you. For our future.
We arrived at the condo—a sleek, minimalist space in a high-security building. It was a place from another life, a stage for a different kind of pain. The ghosts of the old Althea lingered here, in the very walls. It was the perfect venue for this new betrayal.
The door closed, sealing us in the muted, air-conditioned silence. And then Emara moved. She'd apparently decided to skip the pretense. She spun, grabbed the lapels of my blazer, and crushed her mouth to mine.
It was an assault. Her lips were aggressive, her tongue demanding. The taste of her was wrong—sharp champagne and expensive lipstick, devoid of the sweetness I craved. My body froze for a split second, every instinct revolting. No choice. For the plan. For Althea.
I made myself respond. I kissed her back, my movements skilled but hollow. I poured all my acting prowess into it, mimicking hunger, while inside my skull, a voice screamed in pure, unadulterated agony: SORRY ALTHEA I'M SO SORRY I HAD TO DO THIS DON'T WORRY I'LL BLEACH MY MOUTH LATER IF I HAVE TO I'LL SCRUB MY SKIN RAW I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I'M SORRY—
After a minute that felt like an hour, I gently broke the kiss, pulling back slightly. "Relax, Emara," I said, my voice husky from the performance, not desire. "We have a long night ahead. Let me treat you." I forced a smoldering look. "Let me cook for you. Stay here."
I led her to the dining area, where Ms. Chen's team had set a perfect, romantic scene: low lighting, candles already flickering, roses in a crystal vase. The stage was set.
I moved to the open kitchen, my back to her as I began to prepare an elaborate meal. Every slice of the knife was a release of tension. As I cooked, I carefully doctored her plate and her wine glass with a potent, fast-acting hallucinogen mixed with a mild muscle relaxant. It would make her suggestible, pliant, and blur her senses just enough.
We ate. She flirted relentlessly, talking about how powerful we'd be together, how she'd always been drawn to my "strength," how Althea was "dead weight" holding me back. Each word was a needle in my heart. I responded in kind, feeding her ego, talking about the "legacy we could build," all while imagining the different ways I could make her disappear. The food was ash in my mouth. The wine was poison.
As the drugs began to take effect, her pupils dilated. Her movements became slower, her giggles more languid. The sharp edge of her ambition softened into a hazy, predatory desire.
"Done," she slurred slightly, pushing her plate away. "Now for… dessert?"
I stood, offering my hand. "This way."
I led her to the bedroom. It was stark, dominated by a large platform bed. And then, I walked to a closet and slid the door open.
Inside was not a normal closet. It was a curated collection. Leather restraints, silk ropes, blindfolds, an array of gags, paddles, floggers—all of the highest quality, all terrifyingly familiar. This was the old Althea's arsenal. This condo had been her private dungeon in the later, more bitter years of our marriage, the place she'd bring casual partners to torment, a way to inflict a version of the control she felt she'd lost. These were the toys she'd used to humiliate the version of me that couldn't perform. Seeing them now sent a cold wave of nausea and fury through me. Using them on her cousin was a poetic perversion I knew the Tyrant would have appreciated.
Emara's eyes widened, then gleamed with avaricious delight. "I never thought you'd be into this, Haven," she breathed, stepping closer to run a finger along a leather cuff. "I mean, I had a hunch, but… damn. That makes it even sexier."
My Althea is much sexier than you could ever be, I thought, my smile a rigid mask. "Yes," I said aloud, my voice flat. "Now, I'll blindfold you. Is that okay, Emara?"
She nodded eagerly, already under the drug's spell. "You can do anything to me, Haven. This is my dream, after all."
We kissed again, a tangle of tongues and wrongness. Then, with clinical efficiency, I began to undress her. I noted the curves, the paleness of her skin, the way her body was similar to Althea's in basic shape but utterly lacking her vibrant, electric life. It was like comparing a store mannequin to a Renaissance masterpiece. Each piece of clothing that fell felt like a layer of contamination.
I secured the blindfold—a sleek, black satin affair—tightly over her eyes. Then, using the silk ropes, I tied her wrists to the bedposts with intricate, inescapable knots I'd learned from a Shibari master long ago, for very different reasons. She was spread-eagled, vulnerable, and sighing with anticipation.
I checked my watch. The hallucinogens and relaxants would be peaking. Her perception would be warped, her sense of touch amplified but distorted. She wouldn't be able to tell subtle differences in touch, in weight, in the precise cadence of a voice.
I gave a subtle nod towards the ensuite bathroom.
The door, which had been slightly ajar, opened silently. The doppelganger emerged.
Ms. Chen had outdone herself. The woman was my height, my build, her hair styled and colored identically. She wore a replica of my clothes from tonight. And the scent the concentrated, bottled essence of my Grape Old Wine pheromone hung around her like a cloud. It was unnerving to see a ghost of myself walk into the room.
The doppelganger moved to the bedside, a silent wraith in the dim light. She looked at me, her eyes holding a flat, professional readiness that was so different from my own burning intensity. She was a tool, honed for this exact, dirty purpose. I gave a single, sharp, imperious nod from the shadows. Proceed.
I stepped back, deeper into the velvet darkness near the walk-in closet, merging with the gloom. A silent, vengeful spectator to the staged defilement of my own body, my own touch. My nostrils flared as the scent of the room—Emara's cloying jasmine perfume, the sterile condo air, the faint metallic tang of anticipation—filled my lungs. It was the smell of the trap I'd laid. I was both hunter and bait, watching from a distance.
The doppelganger, "The Tyrant's Stand-In" as Chen's files coldly dubbed her, began. She was detached, a technician. She leaned over Emara's prone form, her hands—meticulously manicured to match mine, the same square-cut nails, the same slender fingers—began a cold exploration. They traced the line of Emara's jaw, down the column of her throat. She kissed Emara's neck, her collarbone, her movements fluid and practiced, a perfect mimicry of the passion Emara craved. But it was empty. A hollow shell of intimacy. Her mouth moved down, but her eyes were dead. She was silent, as I had strictly instructed. Her role was to provide the physical sensation, the illusion of my surrender. The conversation, the confession, that was mine to orchestrate.
From my vantage point in the shadows, I became a voice in the dark, a puppeteer. My tone was cool, a low, controlled purr that cut through the heavy air. "You like that, Emara?"
Emara, blindfolded and swimming in the aphrodisiac-laced champagne, moaned, a raw, hungry sound. Her hips lifted off the silk sheets, seeking more. "Yes, Haven… god, your hands… you're so good, so much better than I ever imagined…"
The lie was a barb in my heart. Those aren't my hands. Those isn't my mouth. My hands are for Althea alone. My mouth speaks only to her, sings only to her, lies only to build her a perfect world. The doppelganger's hands cupped Emara's breasts, her mouth finding a nipple, teasing with a precision born of clinical study, not desire. Emara arched, a gasp tearing from her lips.
"Tell me what you want," I prompted from the darkness, my voice a disembodied command, weaving the net tighter. I needed her vulnerable, pliant, and boastful.
"I want you inside me," Emara gasped, her words slurring slightly from the drug, her voice thick with a lust that made my skin crawl. "Please, Haven… fuck me… claim me. Show me I'm better than her. Show me I'm your real Omega."
Every word was a desecration of the sacred space Althea occupied in my soul. My real Omega. The arrogance was staggering. There was no Omega for me but the one I had chosen, the one I had made. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. The architect had to be flawless. The monster had to be patient.
The doppelganger positioned herself between Emara's spread thighs. I saw her reach for the bottle of lubricant on the nightstand—a detail we'd planned, to mask any difference in texture, in scent. Then, with a slow, deliberate thrust that was all mechanical efficiency, she entered her.
Emara cried out, a sound of profound, victorious pleasure. "Yes! Oh, god, you're so big… you're so deep inside me… I can feel you everywhere." Her head thrashed against the pillows. "This is where you belong, Haven. Not with that broken, empty thing in your mansion. With me. In power. In this."
My hands, clenched at my sides in the dark, trembled with the effort to remain still. I wanted to cross the room, to wrap my fingers around her throat and squeeze until the life left her eyes for daring to speak of Althea in that tone. But I needed the words more than I needed her silence. Yet.
I fed her the next line, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial, intimate murmur from the shadows. "Who do you belong to, Emara?"
"You!" she gasped immediately, her body moving in time with the doppelganger's relentless, rhythmic thrusts. "I belong to you! Your name, your company, your bed… it should all be mine. Ours."
"And what happens to those who get in our way?" I asked, the question hanging in the air like a guillotine blade.
"We crush them," she moaned, the words tumbling out in a breathless, ecstatic rush. "We dismantle them piece by piece… ah! Just like this… until there's nothing left but us."
The doppelganger maintained her steady, punishing pace. The room was now a symphony of ugly sounds: the slick, wet rhythm of sex, the slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bed, and Emara's increasingly incoherent, drugged litany of lust and ambition. It was a grotesque parody of intimacy. The doppelganger was brutally efficient, her movements calculated to bring Emara to the edge, hold her there, and then push her over. She elicited a shuddering, screaming climax from Emara, whose back arched off the bed like a bow. But it wasn't over. As per my explicit orders, the doppelganger continued, a relentless engine, to spend the night establishing "multiple conquests." She was to be unforgettable, overwhelming. A claiming.
Leaning down, the doppelganger left a series of dark, possessive bite marks on Emara's shoulder a mimicry of the marks my Althea had left on me. She kissed and sucked bruises onto Emara's inner thighs, a brutal, performative branding. Each mark was a lie. A flag planted on worthless soil.
I watched it all, my arms crossed over my chest, a statue of ice in the corner. A critic observing a deeply distasteful but necessary play. There was no arousal, only a cold, analytical disgust that settled in my bones and a screaming, silent litany of apology that echoed in the vault of my mind. I'm sorry, my love. I'm sorry for this filth. This is the sewer I swim in to keep your waters clear. This is the blood I wash from my hands so I can touch you with clean fingers. This was the cost of the gilded cage. This was the price of her oblivion.
As the doppelganger worked, a lull fell in Emara's babbling. She was spent, drifting on the drug and exhaustion. Seizing the moment of post-coital vulnerability, I let my voice soften, become almost contemplative from the shadows. "It's a shame, really."
"Hmm?" Emara murmured, her voice thick and slow.
"The accident," I said, the word tasting like rotten metal. "It was… sloppy work. If you're going to remove an obstacle, you do it cleanly. You make sure it stays removed." I let a hint of cold, professional criticism color my tone. The criticism of a fellow predator.
Emara let out a weak, breathy laugh. "Tell me about it. My father… he can be so old-fashioned. Thinks car crashes and 'unfortunate tragedies' are less traceable. But he doesn't understand modern forensics. Or modern determination." She shifted, wincing slightly as the doppelganger continued her silent, methodical movements. "He hired a crew. Nasty pieces of work. Supposed to grab her at the gala, make it look like a kidnapping-gone-wrong after she'd 'run off' upset. But the stupid bitch fought back. Drew blood. One of the team, some Alpha enforcer, came away worse for wear. Then she ran. They gave chase in the rain. It was supposed to be simple. A nudge off the viaduct. A tragic accident for a grieving, unstable heiress."
My blood, already cold, turned to glacial slurry in my veins. Hearing it laid out so casually, this plot against Althea's life… The urge to kill vibrated in my very teeth.
"But she survived," I stated flatly.
"Unfortunately," Emara sighed, a sound of genuine irritation. "The crash was… messier than intended. She should have been killed on impact. But she's stubborn. A cockroach. And now she's back, with her little songs and her doe eyes, clinging to you. A constant reminder of failure. A dead weight on the Vale legacy." Her voice sharpened with a sudden, vicious clarity. "Too bad the accident didn't end her life. A clean end would have been a mercy for everyone. For the company. For you."
My ears twitched in the darkness. Every muscle in my body locked. The world narrowed to the sound of her voice, those words. End her life. They hung in the perfumed air, a verbal knife aimed at the center of my universe. I forced my own voice to remain neutral, probing. "End her what, Emara?"
She laughed again, a low, ugly sound. "You know, your wife. So this thing that we are doing," she gestured vaguely between her own body and the doppelganger atop her, "will not be a heavy weight. No guilt. Just… destiny. I'm glad you're finally seeing sense. Cheating with me while your wife somewhere is being ignorant or asleep. It's poetic."
That made my blood boil. A red haze threatened the edges of my vision. Ignorant. Asleep. She spoke of my Althea, my vibrant, brilliant, struggling songbird, as if she were furniture. A nuisance to be cleared away. I had to physically bite the inside of my cheek, the coppery taste of my own blood a grounding shock. I needed more. I needed the final thread.
I forced a sound from my throat—a low, considering hum. I signaled to the doppelganger with a subtle hand gesture to intensify her pace, to overwhelm Emara's senses once more. The doppelganger obeyed, her movements becoming sharper, more demanding.
"Hmm, well," I said, layering my voice with a dispassionate, almost bored agreement that felt like swallowing shards of glass. "She still has her… uses, I suppose. For now. The public image. The Vale name. But yes, I agree. A cleaner resolution at the viaduct would have been… more efficient." The lie tasted like hot ash and blood in my mouth. No. No, I would never be thankful for her death. I would have thrown myself into the grave after her. I would have burned the world to cinders. The amnesia was a twisted gift, but her death would have been my eternal damnation.
Emara, lost in the renewed physical sensation and her own triumph, missed the deadly stillness in my shadowed corner. "See? You agree with me. If only my father's men had finished the job… Marcus and his crew bungled it. They were so close. A little more force, a different angle… then we could have ruled the Vale empire together. Just you and me. No pathetic, broken Omega clinging to your coat-tails." She gasped as the doppelganger shifted position. "Ughh, Haven… you're so deep inside me right now… I feel like I'm about to cum again… can you… can you do it faster?"
I gave the doppelganger another sharp, unseen nod. End it.
"As you wish… my Vale," I murmured from the darkness, the title a vile endearment, a key turned in the final lock of her confession.
The doppelganger, "Tyrant's Stand-In," complied, her final movements a brutal, focused cadence that wrenched a last, shuddering cry from Emara before she finally, completely succumbed to the cocktail of drugs, exhaustion, and fabricated ecstasy. Her body went limp, her breathing deepening into the stupor of unconsciousness.
Silence descended, broken only by Emara's ragged breaths and the soft sound of the doppelganger cleaning herself. She stood, collected her things, and looked at me for final dismissal, her expression still eerily blank.
I stared at the woman on the bed the woman who had just confessed to conspiring in the attempted murder of my wife, who spoke of Althea with such venomous contempt. The information was mine. The confession was recorded by the tiny device in the clock radio. Emara Sinclair was now a chess piece I owned completely.
But in that moment, she wasn't a piece. She was a target. The monster in the vault strained against its chains, howling for release. It took every ounce of my will, every thought of Althea sleeping safely under her ridiculous dinosaur's guard, to keep from crossing the room and finishing what her father's men had failed to do.
Instead, I looked at the doppelganger and gave one last, imperious nod. Leave.
She slipped out, a ghost.
I was alone with the sleeping viper. I stood over her for a long minute, my Grape Old Wine scent, usually a marker of power, now smelling of cold fury and deadly intent. I leaned down, my lips almost touching her ear, and whispered into the silence, my voice so low it was barely a vibration in the air.
"You will never rule anything, Emara. You will never touch what is mine. And soon, you and your father will understand the price of touching a Hartwell-Blackwood treasure. Sleep well. It will be your last peaceful night."
Then I turned and left the room, closing the door softly on the scene of the defilement, my soul feeling filthier than ever, but my purpose hardened into diamond-edged resolve. The architect had the final blueprint for destruction. The monster had its list. And my songbird, in her lavender-scented room, remained gloriously, safely ignorant of the bloody foundations upon which her paradise was built.
I couldn't get out of there fast enough. I went directly to the condo's pristine bathroom, the one untouched by the night's events. I brushed my teeth. Then I brushed them again. I used mouthwash, scrubbing my tongue until it burned. I did it again, the taste of tuberose and betrayal seeming to cling to the roof of my mouth. I brushed so hard my gums bled, the coppery taste a welcome punishment. I scrubbed my hands, my face, anywhere Emara's scent or touch might have lingered.
I needed to be clean. I needed to go home.
Before leaving, I accessed the condo's secure server on a tablet. I reviewed the footage from the hidden cameras. It was all there: Emara's aggressive kiss, the dining conversation, the walk to the bedroom, the entire explicit, degrading scene with the doppelganger. High-definition, crystal-clear audio. Emara's voice, begging "Haven" to fuck her, to claim her, talking about crushing Althea. It was a masterpiece of blackmail.
I encrypted the files and sent them to Miss Chen with a note: "The Vale-Sinclair Insurance Policy. Keep it safe. Ready for deployment when we move on Eman."
Then, I fled.
The drive home was a blur of desperate speed. The night air whipping through the open windows couldn't cleanse me. I needed her. I needed Althea. I needed to bury my face in her Vanilla Strawberry hair, feel her arms around me, hear her whisper 'rawr' in the dark. I needed her reality to overwrite the grotesque pantomime I had just authored.
I pulled into the garage, the silence of our home a soothing balm. I took the stairs two at a time, discarding my contaminated clothes in a heap outside my bedroom. I showered again, scalding hot, in my own bathroom. Then, wearing only clean sleep pants, I hesitated.
I went to her door. I opened it slowly. The nightlight cast a soft glow. There she was, curled around Rex the dinosaur, Bartholomew and Steve piled nearby. Justice the goldfish bubbled quietly in his bowl.
My beautiful, oblivious songbird. My reason for everything.
I slid into bed behind her, carefully. She stirred, murmuring. "Haven…?"
"Shhh," I whispered, wrapping my arms around her, pulling her back against my chest, displacing a confused Rex. I buried my face in the nape of her neck, inhaling deeply, letting her pure, untainted scent flood my senses, trying to drown the phantom smell of tuberose and my own bottled pheromones. "I'm home. Go back to sleep."
She made a soft, contented sound and settled back into my embrace. "Mmm… rawr…"
A single, hot tear traced a path from my eye into her hair. It was a tear of exhaustion, of self-loathing, of relief.
I had danced with the viper in its nest. I had let a ghost of myself defile it. I had come home covered in the psychic filth of the encounter.
But here, with her in my arms, in the kingdom of plush toys she had built, I was clean. I was the architect. The protector. The obsessed.
And tomorrow, I would continue to burn their world down, so this one, this perfect, fraudulent heaven in my arms, could remain forever untouched.