Chapter 7
The car glides into the bowels of a sterile, concrete beast—the underground garage of a towering business complex.
It’s all grey pillars, humming fluorescent lights, and that oppressive smell of exhaust and expensive wax.
It’s the kind of place where people with too much money and not enough soul hide their dirty secrets behind glass walls and mahogany desks.
Rhys kills the engine, kills the Danse Macabre song on the stereo, the silence that follows feeling heavy, like a guillotine blade held up by a thin thread.
I step out of the car, and I feel like a fucking nightmare manifested in the middle of a corporate dream.
I’m wearing my Victorian gothic dress, the black lace trailing slightly, the fabric hugging my curves but giving me enough room to move, to kill.
My halo is perched perfectly, and the necklace feels like a cold promise against my skin.
Then there’s the mask—the eyes and the mouth glowing with a sinister, neon light.
I look like a doll from hell, and I fucking love it.
Rhys is a stark contrast, yet perfectly matched. He’s got his mask on, that porcelain masquerade face with the melting neon LEDs dripping down the cheeks. He’s got his gun tucked firmly under his belt, his movements fluid and predatory. He doesn't just walk; he stalks.
As he leads me toward the executive private elevator—a sleek, gold-trimmed cage that smells of ozone and arrogance—I lean closer to him.
"How the fuck did Luke Adam even become an executive?" I ask, my voice muffled and distorted by the mask.
Rhys lets out a low, dark chuckle. "Money, sweetheart.
Blood money. He didn't just help your father; he used the connections and the 'favours' from those circles to climb the corporate ladder.
He built his empire on the backs of people he broke.
Your father and the others didn't seem to have the same brain. "
I frown, looking at the biometric scanner on the elevator. "And how the hell do you have access to this? This is a private lift."
"I have my ways, Ophelia," he murmurs, his voice a smooth caress of danger.
"A few hacked servers, a couple of terrified IT boys, and a bit of leverage. I’ve spent weeks carving a path for us.
" He glances at me, his eyes glinting behind the mask.
"And I made sure Mr. Adam had a very urgent reason to work late tonight. A fake audit that required his personal attention. He’s practically waiting for us. "
I feel a surge of adrenaline, a hot prickle under my skin. I hoist the axe up, resting the heavy handle across my shoulders, my arms draped over it with a casual, deadly grace. I can feel the weight of the steel, the hunger of the blade.
The elevator dings—a cheerful, polite sound that feels obscene given what I’m about to do. The doors slide open to the executive floor.
Rhys steps out first, his presence instantly dominating the space.
I follow right behind him, the click of my heels echoing on the polished marble.
The first thing we see is the secretary.
She’s a blonde, her hair pulled back into a bun so tight it looks painful, wearing a charcoal pencil skirt and a white blouse that’s pressed to perfection.
The moment she sees us, she jumps, nearly knocking over a vase of lilies. She doesn't dare look Rhys in the eye; her gaze is fixed on the floor, her entire body shaking like a leaf in a storm.
"H-he's in!" she stammers, her voice thin and terrified. "Mr. Adam is just as you commanded, sir!"
Rhys stops in front of her, his masked face tilting slightly. "Good. You did good," he says, his tone almost playful, though it sends a chill down the spine of anyone who knows him. "No need to be so nervous, Lucy. You’re just a witness to a very necessary cleaning."
I watch her. She’s petrified, a little corporate puppet frozen in fear. She doesn't even look at me, probably terrified of the glowing X's on my face and the massive axe on my shoulders.
Rhys turns to me, stepping aside with a mock-gallant gesture. "After you, my doll."
I walk past him, my heart drumming a war beat against my ribs.
I head straight for the only door with the name Luke Adam etched in gold.
Through the heavy glass wall, I see him.
He’s sitting behind a massive obsidian desk, leaning over some papers, looking every bit the successful, untouchable prick.
I don't knock. I don't announce myself.
I grip the hammer in my hand and slam it into the glass with every ounce of hatred I’ve carried.
CRASH.
The glass shatters into a million glittering diamonds, the sound exploding through the quiet office like a bomb.
Adam screams, leaping back from his chair, his face twisting into a mask of pure, unadulterated shock.
He looks so old now compared to the tapes.
And, wealthier. He looks at the shards, then at me—this neon-masked creature in a black dress stepping through the wreckage.
"What the fuck?!" he shrieks, his voice cracking. "What is the meaning of this? Who the fuck are you? What is the meaning of this? How did you get in here?"
I step into the room, the axe now gripped firmly in my hand, the blade catching the office lights. "Hello, Luke," I say, my voice cold enough to freeze the blood in his veins.
"Get out! Get the fuck out right now!" he bellows, trying to regain some semblance of authority despite the fact that he's shaking. "I'll have you thrown out! I'll have you arrested! Do you have any idea who I am?"
I stop a few feet from his desk, tilting my head. "I know exactly who you are. I'm Marguerite Hansburg's daughter. The woman you raped nineteen years ago in Thomas Sorrell's basement."
The color drains from his face instantly. It’s like I’ve slapped him. The arrogance vanishes, replaced by a hollow, wide-eyed terror. He looks at me—really looks at me—and I can see him recognizing the ghost of his victim in my eyes.
"The crimes you committed against my mother are way overdue for a payback," I hiss.
Panic seizes him. In a desperate, clumsy move, he lunges for the desk phone, his fingers scrambling to press the security button. He starts to speak, his voice a frantic whisper—"Security! Get in here—"
BANG.
A single, precise shot rings out. Rhys hasn't even moved from the doorway.
Adam lets out a blood-curdling scream, clutching his hand. His fingers are shredded, the phone clattering to the desk as blood sprays across his expensive paperwork. He collapses back into his chair, sobbing, his breath coming in ragged, wet gasps.
"Please!" he wails, the cowardice finally surfacing. "I didn't—it wasn't me! I was just following orders! Thomas made us do it! I didn't want to! I don't even remember her face! Please, I'll give you money! Anything!"
Rhys leans against the doorframe, his voice dripping with disdain. "Excuses are for people who think they're going to survive the night, Adam. And you? You're already dead. You just haven't stopped breathing yet."
"I'm sorry! I'm so fucking sorry!" Adam begs, sliding off his chair and onto his knees, his ruined hand leaking blood onto the plush carpet.
"Sorry doesn't bring her back," I whisper. "And it doesn't stop the pain."
“No, no, no. Please. There are must be something I can do... I can write you a check... I can buy you anything you wish in the world… I can give you compensation money.”
I step forward, the axe raised. He tries to crawl away, his expensive suit dragging through the glass shards, but he's too slow. I bring the axe down with a brutal, sweeping motion.
The blade is fucking lethal. It doesn't just cut; it shears. In one clean, violent arc, the steel bites through the flesh and bone of his neck. There is no struggle, no second strike needed. The blade separates his head from his shoulders in one singular, sickening crunch.
His head bounces once on the carpet, his eyes still open, still reflecting the neon glow of my mask.
His body remains upright for a split second, a fountain of hot, crimson blood sputtering from the severed carotid, spraying across the obsidian desk and the white walls in a grotesque, abstract painting.
Then, the torso collapses with a heavy thud.
I stand there, breathing hard, watching the blood soak into the carpet. I feel a wave of euphoria so intense it almost makes me dizzy.
"Look at him," I mutter, staring at the headless corpse. "All that power, all that money... and he died like a fucking dog."
Rhys walks up behind me, wrapping a possessive arm around my waist and pulling me back against his chest. He looks down at the carnage with a look of pure satisfaction.
"Perfect," he whispers in my ear, his voice dark and proud. "A fitting end for a piece of shit. You did beautifully, my little monster.”
Rhys has to go and deal with some bollocks at The Midnight Menagerie.
He told me to stay put in the chambers, to wait for him like a good little doll, but he doesn't understand that my mind is a fucking cage when I'm bored. If I spend one more minute staring at these velvet curtains and gothic carvings, I’m going to lose my absolute shit.
I can't do it. I just can't.
I slip out of the castle quietly, my footsteps barely making a sound on the cold stone. The night air hits me, crisp and smelling of damp earth and something sweet and rotting. I make my way down toward the common area of the carnival, moving with a calm I don't actually feel.