Chapter 5
Phoenix
My new house has been under construction for what feels like forever.
I get it's out in the middle of nowhere, and I have crafted a very unique design, and it's like nothing anybody else in the world has. But for fuck’s sake. It’s two years and counting, and I probably have one more to go before it’s done.
In the meantime, I’m staying in a penthouse suite in the middle of town.
Another perk, I guess. This one coming for the data collection I performed for a major real estate developer, who, to my good fortune, is a big fan of The Sect’s services.
But I don’t really want to think about it right now.
The house will be done when it’s done, and I could be staying in worse places. Hell, I have stayed in worse places.
All I want to think about is Roni. I can’t get her out of my head.
What’s crazier is it’s not only her looks.
Don’t get me wrong, she looks fantastic.
Major spank bank material for sure. But something about her…
vibes. The way she smiles. The grace she moves with.
The way she talks. The way she gets nervous when she’s looking at me.
It's all too much. I’m not used to feeling this swelling in my heart, and I can’t help it.
I have to know everything about this girl.
I decide to do what I do best. Dig. I already knew my fair share, but The Sect helped me sharpen my skills, and now I know how to find information on anyone, anywhere, anytime. It’s usually for work. Tracking down marks or gathering intel on targets. But this time it's personal.
I’m a creature of comfort, so I don’t wait long once inside the door before stripping down to my boxers and undershirt.
I slip my shirt and suit onto some hangers and set them for someone to pick up tomorrow.
I pour myself a stiff glass of whiskey and grab both it and the bottle, and make my way to the end of my dining room table where I fire up my laptop and start with the basics.
I don’t know her last name, but I don’t need to.
The first time she made my coffee, the only other two vehicles parked near the hut when I left had to belong to her and Mercy.
I snapped some grainy photos of the license plates.
It’s all I need to find her social media profiles, employment records, address history, and whatever else may interest me.
Veronica (Roni) Wentworth, twenty-four, works at a little coffee shop outside of town where I first saw her. Lives in a small apartment on the east side. No criminal record. Clean credit. Went to a fancy college and graduated with the highest honors. Nothing too exciting on the surface.
But then I start digging deeper. Cross-referencing databases, pulling phone records, tracking digital footprints. It's amazing what people leave behind without even knowing it. Every swipe of a credit card. Every login to an app. Every photo tagged with location data. It all tells a story.
Take this guy, Brad. He’s all over her profile.
There isn’t a single picture, quote, lyric or thought she’s posted where he hasn’t given a “like,” and he leaves little missives to her nearly every time.
“Miss you girl.” “Can't wait to see you again.” “Lookin’ good mama.” The usual desperate shit that makes my skin crawl.
But what's interesting is she never responds.
Not once. Either she's playing hard to get, or this guy is barking up the wrong tree entirely.
I take another sip of whiskey and click through more photos.
There he is at what looks like a college party, arm slung around her shoulders while she leans away from him slightly.
Her smile looks forced, uncomfortable. Then another one from six months ago, him kissing her cheek while she stares off into the distance.
The body language tells me everything I need to know.
Poor bastard's in love with a woman who's already checked out.
I click on his profile and run a search on his name to see what comes up. He graduated, technically. He works for his dad. Lives with his mom. They got divorced when he was a kid. He’s also squeaky clean. He just happens to have the most punchable face I’ve seen in a long while.
Back to Roni’s profile, and the only other notable replies are from random strangers who seem to have no connection to either her or Brad.
Most of the time they’re picking on Brad for being a simp.
The more I scroll through comments, the more it’s clear Brad is something of a local joke.
Other guys calling him “pathetic” and “desperate.” A few women chiming in with eye-roll emojis.
But what strikes me most is Roni never defends him.
Never tells people to back off or leave him alone. She just... ignores it all.
Smart girl.
I dig deeper into her college records. Full scholarship to an ivy league school. Studied literature and philosophy. Graduated summa cum laude.
What the hell is someone with her brains doing making lattes in a coffee shack? She should be working somewhere sophisticated. Or better yet, relaxing at home while I provide for her.
Then there’s all the other comments. And when I read them, I can feel the skin on my face turning red, because all these fucking assholes are bullying her for the way she looks. “Fat bitch.” “Cow.” “Whale.” “Put the fork down fatty.” “Can’t spell diet without d-i-e.”
I down the rest of my whiskey and pour another.
My hand tightens around the glass until my knuckles turn white.
I scroll through more posts, and it's the same shit over and over.
These losers attacking her while Brad plays the white knight, rushing to her defense with his pathetic, “Leave her alone, she's beautiful,” comments only making it worse.
And I don’t fucking get it. What do they see that I don’t? Because the Roni I saw, the Roni I’m looking at on this screen, she makes my heart skip beats and speed up and then nearly stop.
I pull up a recent photo of her from last week.
She's standing outside the coffee shop during what looks like a break, sunlight catching her hair, her same genuine smile I saw when she handed me my coffee. The curve of her hips, the way her shirt hugs her chest, the softness in her eyes. These keyboard warriors are either blind or so fucking insecure they have to tear down anything threatening their pathetic existence with their bullshit comments from faceless profiles. They’re cowards hiding behind screens.
The kind of people I'd enjoy meeting in a dark alley. The kind of people I’d like to donate to The Sect.
The kind of people who I’d love to make regret every word they ever typed.
I click on one of the profiles which sent a particularly vicious comment. Some scrawny kid named Tyler who looks like he hasn't seen the inside of a gym in his life. He’s a fucking nobody, too. A bug waiting to be crushed beneath my boot.
As I continue scrolling through some of these pictures, one catches me off guard.
It’s a basic picture of Roni in a kitchen.
It looks like she’s getting ready for work, maybe, or to go out.
I can’t really tell what time of day it is.
She has one leg up on a chair, tying her shoe.
It isn’t so much what she’s doing that grabs me, but the way it portrays the lines of her body.
The way her thick thighs stretch in the moment, supporting her.
I want to reach into my screen and take a bite.
Shit, I can feel my mouth watering just imagining it.
I save the photo to my private folder. This isn't just about gathering information anymore. It's about protecting what's mine. Or at least, what I want.
The whiskey is making me bold. Making my fingers move faster across the keyboard. I dive into her financial records. Student loans. Credit card statements. Rental history. The picture becomes clear. She’s perfect in every verifiable way.
The alcohol loosens something in me. Makes the thoughts I usually keep locked away start to slip through the cracks. If these pathetic assholes knew who was looking at their profiles right now, they'd shit themselves. I've done things that would make their nightmares seem like bedtime stories.
I click back to Brad's profile. Something about him bugs me more than the others. Maybe it's the fake sincerity. The way he positions himself as her defender when all he really wants is to get in her pants. I can smell his desperation through the screen.
His latest post is from yesterday. Some philosophical quote about patience and love that's clearly—
My attention is drawn away by all too familiar buzzing over on the counter. My phone is going off with an incoming text message. I get up from my table and down the last drops in my glass before heading to pick it up. It’s from him, the boss.
The Boss: Where is she?
I know who he means. I’ve been waiting for the right time. When she’s alone.
Phoenix: Soon.
I send back, knowing he’s running out of patience.