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.
But now Stella, for the first time in years stirs something inside me, something I thought I’d buried a long time ago, but seemingly not deep enough. Something dangerous. Something that’s making me question whether I’m still the man Mr Lewis trusts to follow orders without hesitation.
At that moment, Stella walks towards me and gazes out of the window, her eyes lost in the dark void that surrounds me. I’m inches from her, separated only by the fragile barrier of glass.
‘Oh, Stella,’ I whisper. My mind is made up.
She’s a killer. That much is certain.
It doesn’t matter. I have my sights on her, and there’s no turning back. She’s become my little plaything. And playthings don’t get to choose their fate.
I wonder how many men have moaned over the name Stella? I ask myself, as I watch her eyes cautiously gaze out into the night.
How many?
My heart pounds, and I’m not even sure why.
Do I want to fuck her or kill her? There’s a pulse beneath my skin, and in my trousers – a rhythm that doesn’t belong to anything human.
It’s raw, untamed, a wild fire that consumes the moment it sparks.
It took me years to control it, a beast that refuses to be caged.
It’s not something I can explain, not even to myself.
It’s primal, feral – a hunger that doesn’t just simmer but roars to life.
Like an addict with trembling hands, I take that first sip, knowing full well it will undo me. And yet, I can’t stop myself. I don’t want to stop. It’s taken me years to master. Seconds to set free.
Too much for most. Too wild. Too...un-tethered.
‘You’re a freak, Sal,’ they’d say. I’ve seen it in their eyes – the fear, the hesitation, the way they step back as if they can sense a storm brewing beneath the surface.
They were right to run. The memories bring a smile to my face – the person I once was – am.
I smile at this dormant thing that’s been living inside me for years.
What harm could come of it? She’s going to die anyway. I might as well have a little fun. I’ve caged the darkness before, I can do it again.
My hand snakes into my trousers. It’s not like I haven’t masturbated for ten years, I simply didn’t let my darker urges accompany it, which would have led me down the rabbit hole I’d spent so many years escaping.
Turn away, Stella...you little slut.
Her pupils dilate. Turn away.
I wrap my hands around the base of my cock.
If you make me cum while I’m just inches away looking into your eyes, I’m going to destroy you.
She doesn’t move. Good! Stay there. Destroying you is what I should be doing.
Fuck, she’s beautiful. And this is torturous.
I close my eyes to regain control. She doesn’t know I’m here, outside her window, trousers ‘round my ankles whacking off. If she found out, I’d probably have one of her arrows shoved up where the sun doesn’t shine.
She’s lingering too long, her eyes lost in the dark abyss beyond the glass, and the space between us tinges with something electric. If she stays here much longer, I can’t say I’d be responsible for what happens next.
Then, as if she heard the unspoken urgency in my thoughts, she moves.
Slowly, unhurried, she slips away from the window like the moment never happened.
She crawls into her bed, pulling back the bed covers, and the bed swallows her whole.
I watch, stroking my cock back and forth, watching her as her head lolls to the side.
I tilt my head back, the stillness of the night taut and unbearable.
The glass feels thinner, as if it might shatter under the weight of my thoughts alone.
She’s oblivious, wrapped in a fragile cocoon of sleep, and yet every fibre of my being is alive, thrumming with a need to possess her.
I bite my lip, the sharp sting grounding me as the beast stirs, relentless and hungry.
And I know – know it borders on madness, but I can’t walk away.
She’s mine. She just doesn’t know it yet.
Cum spills into the palm of my hand as my eyes bore into her closed lids, and a low growl slips from my lips.
That will take the edge off, for now. Rubbing the cum between my thumb and forefinger I smear it thick against the glass.
Dragged by my fingertips in slow, deliberate strokes, it clings heavy and uneven.
My message takes shape – it’s ugly, raw, yet undeniable.
I want her to know I’ve been here, and if rain should come, it won’t disappear completely, if at all. The faint impression will remain, ghostly remnants of my declaration. My fingers carve into the dirty window, letters emerging in reverse; a message for her alone:
I retreat slipping into the hush of the night, the cold grass clawing at my legs as I weave my way back to the car. Cum still clings to my fingers, drying, cracking, a tangible reminder of what I’d just done. I smile knowing that when she wakes – when she sees it, it’ll already be too late.