First-Person POV (Crystal)
If there's one thing I've learned in eighteen years, it's that the world breaks easily when you touch the right fault line.
This morning, that fault line was my aunt.
The first message arrived at her house before sunrise — a plain white envelope dropped into her locked gate by someone who didn't care about the cameras.
Correction: someone Liam paid not to care about the cameras.
Inside was a single printed sheet. No handwriting. No fingerprints. No watermark.
Just one sentence:
"THE STOLEN WILL WON'T REST FOREVER."
I know my aunt well enough to imagine her reaction. She probably jolted awake in her silk robe, clutching the paper as if it had fangs. My uncle would read it next, pretending to be calm while silently calculating every possible enemy they'd ever made.
And neither of them would suspect an eighteen-year-old girl living three cities away.
Exactly the way I wanted it.
This was my first anonymous strike — subtle, untraceable, but loaded enough to rattle the foundation of their marriage. A marriage built on murder, lies, property, and greed.
A marriage I planned to set on fire.
I sat by my bedroom window in Maple Hill, sipping warm cinnamon tea, watching the fog crawl over the neighborhood roofs. Beside me, my burner phone buzzed once.
A message from Liam.
Liam: It's done. The delivery was made. They're panicking.
A small smile tugged at my lips.
He was getting fast.
Too fast.
Too willing.
The kind of devotion that could burn a city down if I asked it.
And I will ask. Eventually.
I typed back one word:
Me: Good.
He responded immediately.
Liam: Tell me the next step. I'm ready.
He always said that — I'm ready.
He didn't even know what he was ready for.
My aunt's household would crumble slowly, deliciously. But today?
Today was for step two.
Targeting my uncle.
The man who laughed while my mother's body was dumped into a river.
The man who locked cabinets and doors, and opportunities behind my back when I was only ten.
He deserved worse. He deserved fear.
And fear is something I've learned to deliver with precision.
---
Liam, of course, insisted on helping.
He cornered me after school, eyes bright with obsession, voice low with urgency.
"Crystal, whatever you need me to do next, I'll do it. Anyone you want watched. Followed. Investigated. Say the word."
I tilted my head at him. "You're too eager."
He swallowed. "For you? I'd do anything."
That was true. And that was dangerous.
Not for me — for him.
I handed him a folded notecard. "This is what's next."
He took it carefully, like it was some sacred text instead of simple instructions. I watched him walk away, steps quick, shoulders tense, as if carrying my plan made him feel chosen.
Which, in a twisted way, he was.
He just didn't understand the cost.
---
Later that night, I executed my step.
Every weakness has a door.
My uncle's was money.
He had been illegally investing my mother's stolen inheritance into shady, off-the-book ventures with businessmen who didn't tolerate incompetence. All I needed was to pull the right thread.
A leaked rumor here.
A fabricated bank alert there.
A message implying his partners were turning on him.
Anonymous delivery.
Anonymous numbers.
Anonymous consequences.
By dawn, my uncle would be calling every accountant he trusted, panicking over accounts that weren't actually missing money—yet.
I didn't need to steal anything.
I just needed him to believe someone else was about to.
Fear destroys a person better than fire ever could.
And I intended to watch him crumble from afar until I was ready to end him properly.
---
That night, the universe decided to irritate me.
I left the research wing of the local library later than usual — I'd been digging through archived property records, hunting for loopholes my aunt wouldn't expect.
The street lamps flickered above me.
The night air smelled like rain.
And then someone stepped into my path.
Tall.
Too tall.
Black hoodie.
Dark jeans.
Hands in pockets.
Posture relaxed — which means dangerous.
I stopped walking.
He lifted his head slowly.
Messy raven hair.
Cold eyes that looked like they'd memorized violence.
A face sculpted unfairly well, the kind girls drooled over in hallways and Instagram feeds.
But he wasn't a boy.
He had the energy of a man who wasn't afraid of consequences. A man who was obviously more than ten years older than me or probably just ten years.
Or maybe a predator who just learned a new scent.
He looked at me for a full three seconds before speaking, voice low, smooth, naturally arrogant.
"You dropped this," he said.
I didn't drop anything.
I stared at him. "I don't take things from strangers."
He smirked — slow, infuriating, like he expected that exact answer.
"Good," he murmured, stepping closer. "You shouldn't."
I moved past him without another word.
"Rude," he commented behind me.
I didn't bother turning. "You were in my way."
He laughed softly — not offended, but intrigued.
Interested.
Amused.
Men irritated me when they reacted like that.
Especially the handsome, dangerous ones.
"Hey," he called after me, "you didn't even look at what I picked up for you."
"I didn't drop anything," I said sharply.
"Not according to me."
I kept walking.
His footsteps followed for two paces, then stopped.
And then he spoke — the first sentence I ever heard that made my spine stiffen without knowing why.
"I'll see you again, Crystal."
I froze.
I never told him my name.
Slowly, I turned back — but he was already gone, swallowed by the dim street like he'd never been there.
My heartbeat stayed loud in my ears.
Not fear.
Not attraction.
Just… irritation mixed with something unfamiliar. Something unwelcome.
Who the hell was he?
And why did he sound so certain?
---
Little did I know…
That was someone I shouldn't dare to offend
The last man I should ever cross.
The last man who would ever let me walk away.
The man who would one day become my obsession…
…because he had decided, in that single moment,
that he wanted me.
And He wasn't the type to want something without taking it.