CHAPTER 6
THE DIPLOMAT
‘I’m too old for you,’ I say, watching her carefully, gauging her reaction.
She doesn’t flinch. Instead, her lips curve – something between amusement and defiance. ‘Sounds like an excuse. Or a challenge.’
I exhale. ‘It’s a fact.’
She leans forward, her big, doe eyes flickering as if electrified. ‘Then call it surrender.’
Silence stretches. I should pull away. Shut this down. But I don’t. I just stay quiet. I’m lost for words, and she’s already reading me so well. Her voice lowers as she continues. ‘You don’t want me to stop, do you?’
Damn it.
I’m standing on the edge of something dangerous – something exhilarating.
I know if I let myself go, I allow even the smallest crack in my restraint, there’s no coming back.
I won’t want to. It’s the kind of pull that tightens in my chest, that strains against my trousers, and if I let the fire spread, I don’t think at my age, I’ll be able to stop it.
I’m not afraid. Not really. If I unchain this part of me, there’s no stuffing it back in the box, because this is more than just indulgence, it’s what she called it: Surrender.
Surrendering my control, peeling back all the careful layers I’ve spent decades constructing.
I’ve always found my power in restraint.
Now, I feel more empowered than ever – tempted by the thought of losing control.
And that’s the part that keeps circling the edge.
The longer I talk to Stella, the longer I walk a tightrope, teetering between my usual, unwavering discipline, and the parts of me I’ve kept locked away.
I lick my lips. ‘Why do I get the feeling that if I reach out to touch you, you’ll dissolve into thin air like a mist under morning light? Like a dream I was never meant to hold?’
‘You’ll never know unless you try…but while you’re hesitating, what if I fade away before you do?’
I reach forward, extending my hand towards her knee, but she pulls back.
The movement is small, fleeting, yet deliberate.
Her eyes flicker in the dim light, so my hand retracts, slipping instinctively to my pocket, but she notices.
She tilts her head, daring me with that smirk of hers, to cross that line neither of us is ready to acknowledge.
I glare at her. ‘Don’t start games you aren’t ready to play.’ She’s not taking me seriously. Not once since our first encounter has she taken me seriously.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asks, leaning back. I watch her, my eyes tracing every deliberate move she makes.
Every layer of armour is a contradiction – an invitation and a warning, both a weapon and her shield.
She sits upright, her black corset pulled so tight it flirts with cruelty, carving her waist into something almost unnatural.
Lace sleeves whisper against alabaster skin, framing the sharp angles of her wrists.
She moves, reaching her skull handbag, fingers curling beneath the latches as she withdraws a cigarette. It’s almost ritualistic.
‘Would you like one?’ she asks.
‘You smoke?’
‘I am a villain…hello!’
‘No, thank you. I’m giving up.’
She knows what she’s doing, how she’s moving, and I know that’s the cruelest part. She shifts in her seat, spine rigid. I can see her corset, once a symbol of control, now feels suffocating as her fingers work at the laces, urgency battling against restraint, until finally the fabric gives way.
‘That’s better!’ She exhales slowly.
‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ my voice comes out rougher catching my frustration.
She moves the cigarette to her lips, considering my words with amusement.
‘Maybe.’ Her cigarette rolls idly between her fingers like she’s enjoying me unravel, and before I can stop myself, my hand finds her wrist. Not rough, but firm enough that she knows the power has shifted.
I warned her, but I could tell she didn’t believe me, but now she’s about to discover I’m not a man to be trifled with.
I push up from my seat, the air cracking between us with something volatile. ‘Where’s your whiskey? This bottle is empty.’ My voice is tight, clipped, barely restrained. She leans back, crossing her legs over the other, watching me like a cat would her prey.
‘Cooler,’ she says, lazily and unconcerned.
The kitchen wasn’t far – just down the hallway.
I can see it from here. As I edge near, a scent hangs in the air – it’s wax and something sharper, something faintly organic.
It sticks in my throat, but I swallow down as I step forward.
Glass shelves line the walls of the hallway.
At first glance, they look delicate, elegant even.
But as I focus, details sharpen – and my stomach clenches.
Rows of grins.
They’re mouths frozen in time, preserved in careful moulds; Stella’s own personal museum of final expressions. Her trophies.
Some aren’t afraid. Some wear amusement, lips parted in quiet mockery. Others smirk, teeth barely touching, arrogance still clinging to them like perfume. But every mould captures the same inevitable moment – the instant before realisation hits. Before the bravado fades. Before their downfall.
There’s a shift in the air behind me. I stiffen.
‘Like what you see?’ Stella’s voice slides through the silence, quiet and heavy. I turn, finding her standing in the doorway. She doesn’t step forward nor tell me to leave. And I don’t. Instead, I swallow hard. ‘Are these your trophies?’
A slow tilt of her head tells me that’s exactly what they are.
‘Call them whatever helps you sleep at night.’
I glance at the rows of grins once more. Mouthpieces frozen in time, suspended in their final moments.
‘Why?’ I ask, the word barely scraping past my lips.
Stella casually moves towards me. Her fingers brush the glass like a sculptor admiring her work.
‘You ever see someone smile when they think they’re invincible?
The moment right before they show you exactly who they are?
’ Her fingers stop in front of a particular mould – a wide, toothy, cocky grin.
The kind plastered across someone who thought they were untouchable. I’ve seen that look before.
‘They all smiled at me,’ she says, like she’s sharing a secret, ‘right before I took their lives.’ She turns towards me. ‘Some people deserve to be remembered for the way they laughed at me, thinking about their own invincibility. They’re not just trophies, Sal. They’re proof.’
I step back, moving towards the kitchen. On the counter, something catches my eyes – a black lipstick. I stare at it, unmoving. I don’t reach for it. Not yet. Instead, I stand there, breathing her in – the lingering scent of perfume and cigarettes.
I breathe you in like a scripture. You’re so infuriating, really. You’re colonising every space in my mind even when you’re not here. I’m shackled to the smell of smoke and sin and you. I should hate it, but like cigarettes it’s addictive. You’re addictive.
I open the window, pretending I’m purging the memory, but I linger just a moment longer.
My jaw tightens, I flex my fingers, and I wonder what the hell I’m doing.
Then – I pick it up – the lipstick. The cap is still warm, like she only just touched it, as if the heat of her lips still lingers against its surface.
I turn it over in my palm, my thumb pressing against the casing.
It shouldn’t mean anything. If I steal it, she wouldn’t notice. It’s just a stupid little…trophy.
Yes that’s exactly what it is.
I tuck it into my pocket – not because I need it. But because I need her. Even if she doesn’t know it yet.
I yank open the fridge door with a force that rattles its contents.
This girl is giving me bluer balls than ice cubes.
The whiskey bottle is ice-cold against my palm, the condensation clinging as I twist the cap free. The burn comes fast, but I ignore it, letting the fire slide down my throat with a long, hard swig.
I return, planting the bottle down hard, the thud jolting her off the chair as the glass meets wood.
A declaration. A warning. The cigarette smoulders between her fingers, its embers glowing as she inhales.
I snatch it, bringing it to my lips, pulling a long drag.
Smoke curls deep in my lungs, it’s sharp and biting, but I hold it there, letting the burn settle before me.
I stare into her eyes, and without hesitation, I crush the embers into my palm.
The heat sears, and the sting is immediate but I don’t flinch.
She holds my gaze, jaw tight, chest rising and falling. Now she’s not laughing.
I never realised just how much fun I’d have removing that smirk off her face.