Chapter 5
A DEAL IN THE DARK
The most dangerous lies are the ones built from the pieces of a broken truth
Leah
Five years ago
The night I took back control.
A knock at the door made me flinch.
At first, I didn’t move. I just stood there in the dark, barefoot on cold tile, a silk robe clinging to my body.
He knocked again. Three fast strikes.
Then silence. Then once more—like he couldn’t help himself.
I knew it was him. I’d waited. And made him wait, too.
I opened the door slowly. And there he was.
Dorian.
Rain-soaked. Hollow. Eyes red-rimmed, jaw clenched tight like he had been chewing on regret for hours. His shirt stuck to his body, his hands trembled just enough to betray the drinks he’s already had.
He looked like hell. Beautiful, broken hell.
My favorite kind.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood in the doorway, dripping onto the tile like something spilled and restless.
“Della...”
He closed his eyes, voice cracking. “You said you would find out about her.”
“Come in, Dorian.”
He stepped inside, already drowning.
But I offered it anyway—knowing exactly what he needed.
“Whiskey?”
“Double,” he muttered, collapsing onto the couch, already half gone.
He didn’t speak for a while. Just stared at nothing, hands clenched, his breaths uneven. I poured the drink and watched him down it in one desperate gulp.
“It’s been six weeks, Leah,” he said, voice low, broken. “Nothing. No calls. No texts. She just... vanished.”
He ran a hand through his wet hair; frustration etched deep in every movement.
“At first, she didn’t answer. And now… it doesn’t even ring anymore. I have no way to reach her. No number for her family. No address. Nothing.”
A bitter laugh escaped me — hollow, sharp, and full of disbelief.
“Guess that tells you everything you need to know?”
I twisted the knife, slow and deliberate, watching him bleed beneath his own words.
Oh, poor boy. So, trusting. So easy to bend when he’s already broken.
He shook his head slightly, as if trying to make sense of a puzzle with missing pieces.
“I just don’t get it,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “It was only five months… but it felt like a lifetime. Nothing about it was casual. Not for me.”
His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.
“She was supposed to finish her studies and then…”
The rest caught in his throat. He looked away, eyes glassy, jaw clenched.
“I was going to go back for her,” he said finally. “Not right away, but after… after I figured things out.”
He paused, staring into the empty glass in his hands.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have let her go.”
His lips parted, like he wanted to say more—but no sound came.
These weeks, he had been unraveling. Alone. I knew it.
No word from her. No contact. No closure. Just a gaping wound that festered in silence. He must have replayed everything in his head—the promises they whispered. Wondering when it all turned into a lie. And every day that passed without a trace from her made him easier to crack.
I didn’t need to guess. I knew him.
Even after our marriage ended, I had made sure to never cut the thread. A text on his birthday. A construction lead when he’d been between jobs. A client contacts here. A well-timed compliment there. Just enough warmth to keep the door ajar.
Calculated. Strategic. Intentional.
He didn’t even see it. But I had never let him go.
Not fully. Not when he could still be useful.
I poured him another double and gently draped the blanket over his shoulders.
He didn’t protest. Just sat there, soaked in silence and whiskey.
I settled beside him—close, but not touching. And I let the quiet stretch between us, thick and slow. I knew how it would pull him in, the way silence always does when you're desperate for answers.
And then — I struck.
“She was always going to leave, Dorian.”
My voice was soft. Sympathetic. A trap lined with velvet.
He stiffened, his jaw twitching — but he didn’t look at me.
I leaned in just slightly.
“You really thought you were more than a study abroad fling?”
He flinched.
Perfect.
The seed of doubt cracked open, right on time.
“It was more than that,” he said, low and hoarse, like the words hurt to say.
His fingers curled into fists on his knees.
“We made plans. We talked about the future. I know what we had.”
A pause. Then quieter, like speaking to a version of himself still trying to believe it.
“She loved me.”
I almost smiled. Almost.
“She went back to her family, Dorian. Her real life. You think you could’ve replaced that?”
He didn’t answer.
Not out loud.
But I saw the fight flicker in his eyes—and then dim, just slightly.
He looked down at his glass, then past it. Somewhere far. Somewhere she was.
I shifted, my voice calm, measured—like a kindness.
“I had my father’s network look into her.”
Another sip of poison.
“They found her. Sent me photos.”
A beat. Then I added, almost tenderly: “But I’m not sure you’re ready to see them.”
His head snapped toward me.
“Is she okay?” he asked, the words rough, desperate. “Show me. Now.”
I let him beg for it. Just long enough.
Then, slowly, I slid the envelope across the table.
He tore it open like it was oxygen.
And then it happened.
His face.
Shock. Disbelief. Pain.
He stared, shaking his head, lips moving without sound.
“No. It can’t be.” He threw the photos aside—photos of Della smiling, laughing, leaning too close to another man. “This isn’t real. It can’t be!”
But his eyes stayed locked on the pictures.
I watched the devastation settle in.
Perfect.
Even if the photos weren’t entirely... untouched. That wasn’t the point. He didn’t need truth tonight. He needed an ending. And I gave it to him.
I poured him another drink as he kept staring, his heart breaking in silence.
“You were never temporary to me,” I murmured, soft and low, curling the knife deeper.
“I was your wife, Dorian. We didn’t have a perfect story, but it was real. You know that.”
He turned to me then, eyes like dark storms. “You left me, too.”
Ah. That old wound. I smiled gently. Tilted my head.
“That was the past.” I said sweetly. “I was young. Hurt. Running from things I didn’t understand.”
My hand drifted to his knee, light as silk.
“But I’m here now. And I don’t want to run anymore.”
I saw him hesitate, caught between anger and need.
And that’s where I struck again.
“Let me help you,” I said, my voice soft, coaxing. “Like I told you at the office… two days ago.”
I let the reminder linger, subtle but sharp, twisting the knife.
“I know what’s happening with the development loan,” I continued, my voice dipping to a near whisper, thick with honeyed poison. “The debts. The lawsuits. You’re drowning, Dorian.”
He stiffened at my words, but I didn’t give him the space to fight back. I cut him off before his pride could rise.
He shook his head—but it wasn’t a refusal. It was fear. Pride. That stubborn male ego clawing at its last defenses.
And I knew exactly how to disarm it.
I shifted closer, curling beside him—just close enough for my breath to brush his skin.
“You don’t owe me anything,” I murmured, soft as silk. “Nothing… except one thing.”
His eyes lifted to meet mine—clouded, lost, desperate.
“Let her go, Dorian,” I whispered, my voice low, seductive, every word a gentle snare. “Don’t go chasing ghosts. She made her choice.”
I let it hang there, soft and poisonous, giving just enough space for it to sink deep.
Then I leaned in a fraction more, my voice barely above a breath.
“Stop chasing ghosts,” I murmured. “I need you focused—on what really matters now. On the projects. On rebuilding what you’re about to lose.”
That’s all I asked.
And he didn’t say yes. But he didn’t say no either.
I poured him another drink. He emptied it.
And another. He kept drinking like he was trying to burn her out of his veins.
By the time he collapsed, I’ve already won.
I led him upstairs, half-conscious, and let him fall into my bed, lost in his misery.
And I watched him.
Control. Influence. Power. These were the currencies I understood.
Not love—not the messy, irrational emotion that people like Dorian chased through fire and ruin.
No, I didn’t need his heart. I just needed his need.
And he had come to me broken, begging for something—anything—to dull the ache she left behind. That made me the cure. The fix. The place he landed when he fell.
Wasn’t that what power really was?
He thought this was comfort. Redemption. But it was surrender. To me. Again.
And I savored it. The way a spider savors the quiver of a fly in her web.
I had waited. Planned. Played the long game.
She took his love.
I took his will.
* * *
That morning, when I brought him coffee, I knew. I had him again.
Not because he loved me. But because she was gone.
He sat at the edge of my bed, head in his hands, his face pale and drawn, the weight of too much whiskey—and too many shattered illusions—dragging him down.
He looked wrecked. Lost in a fog he couldn’t escape.
And when his eyes finally met mine, I saw it—the confusion, the horror creeping in. He glanced around the room, at the discarded clothes scattered on the floor. His jaw clenched.
“Did we…?”
His voice was rough, low, coated in dread. “I drank too much last night. I… I don’t remember.”
Oh, how I savored that moment.
I let my lips curve, soft and knowing, tilting my head just enough to let him drown in his own doubt.
“You were wonderful,” I purred, my voice velvety smooth, laced with just enough warmth to sting. “Like always.”
I let him sit there, stewing in the aftermath—the shame, the guilt, the cracks in his carefully built walls widening with every second.
But deep down, he knew.
He hadn’t touched me. He couldn’t.
Della was the only one he wanted. And I knew that.
Still, it didn’t matter. The damage was done. The doubts were planted. His pride was shattered.
And the best part?
He had no idea that everything had gone even better than I’d planned.
That the phone call I intercepted last night—had been the perfect finishing touch. The final twist of the knife.
He didn’t know a thing. And I intended to keep it that way.
When he finally stood, pulling on his clothes with stiff, mechanical movements, he didn’t look at me.
“I’ll work with you,” he said, voice cold, distant, bitter. “But nothing else.”
As he turned to leave, his hand paused just long enough to take the envelope from the console by the door.
Not a word. Not a glance.
But I saw it.
That was all I needed.
I smiled, slow and satisfied. Because love wasn’t what I wanted from him.
Power. And money. That was always the endgame.
And now I had both.
Tighter than ever.
* * *
Now, as I sit in my penthouse office, towering above the city I’ve tamed, the soft chime of my private alert shatters the quiet.
I barely finish reading the message before her name burns into my mind.
Della Toma. Back in Chicago.
My fingers curl slowly around the crystal glass in my hand, the ice clinking softly against the rim. My gaze sharpens, lips pressing into a thin, cold line.
So, she dared to return.
The same girl who had nearly shattered everything I’d built. Everything I’d fought for.
I lean back in my leather chair, crossing my legs with deliberate grace, the city lights flickering behind me.
My reflection in the window looks every bit the woman I’ve become—impeccably composed, clad in tailored silk, hair slicked back in a flawless knot.
Power, poised on every inch of my skin. Power, I inherited.
My father had been the one who taught me how the world really worked—how to pull strings, how to bend people to your will. When he died last year, I took everything. His contacts. His shadows.
And now, I’ll use every single one.
I press a button on my desk. My assistant’s voice answers, crisp and efficient.
“Yes, Ms. Kingsley?”
“Get me the old network. All of it,” I say, my voice like steel wrapped in silk. “We have a problem to solve.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As the line clicks off, I glance back at the window, catching my reflection again. That same cruel, knowing smile curls at my lips—sharp, deliberate, unapologetic.
And suddenly, it all clicks together.
So, that’s why he was so distracted at the office yesterday. So tense and cold.
I laugh softly to myself, amused by how blind Dorian still is to the storm about to hit him.
Time to finish what I started.
And this time, it will be forever.