Chapter 24 #2
If he only knew how much I’m enjoying this...
“Oh, poor thing,” I say, pouting with fake sympathy as I tap the screen to open a new message. “He’ll be worried. I really think you should be more considerate and let him know how you are. We should put his mind at ease.”
I pause, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. A thought strikes me, and I give her a look of genuine, cold curiosity.
“I admit, I don’t understand why you did it, Della. Why did you leave his side? But I’m so glad you did. It gives us this... privacy. Time to play.”
She just glares, her jaw tight.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, composing a masterpiece of guilt. Each word is a perfectly aimed twist of the knife, designed to shatter him. When I’m finished, I turn the glowing screen so she can read her final words.
"A final note," I say, my voice dripping with mock-pathos. I read it aloud:
The lake house was a perfect dream, Dorian. But I can't live in a world where the man who promised me a universe sold it for a handful of silver. I can’t take it anymore. Goodbye.
I look up, expecting tears. Instead, I get that fire again. Della doesn't thrash or scream. She simply lifts her chin and looks me straight in the eyes with something that feels like pure defiance. And then she smiles.
“Fine, Leah. Spit your venom one more time. But just tell me this. Did you really write that for Dorian? Or was that final scene always for you?”
The absence of the expected breakdown, the refusal to validate my power sends a spike of white-hot, visceral fury through me. She is supposed to be shattered. Instead, this little piece of nothing dares to psychoanalyze me.
I lean in, bringing my face close to her, forcing her to hold my gaze.
"The scene is for both of us, darling," I whisper, letting the words drip with condescending pity. "It's for Dorian so he understands that I am the woman he needs by his side. And it's for you so you understand your role."
I straighten up, the perfect picture of cold elegance. "You are the punctuation mark, Della. The beautifully tragic end to my story. That's all you've ever been."
“Oh, I will be the end of your story, Leah. You got this right.” She dares to reply.
But I am done talking, so I snap my fingers to the two men waiting in the dark for my signal.
I can see the startle on Della’s face as the men step out from the shadows but the defiance doesn't fade. She tenses in her chair and that makes me smile.
"Oh, darling, a grieving girl needs her liquid courage," I coo as the men approach with a bottle of vodka.
"You better kill me, Leah! Because there is no way you will live after this." She spits, lunging forward in the chair.
"We’ll get to that part, too my dear. Let’s have fun first.” I smile, then let it drop.
In a flat, cold voice, I command them “Hold her head!”. The theatrics are over.
The man behind her yanks her grabs a fistful of her hair, jerking her head back.
The other shoves the bottle against her mouth, pinching her nose shut. Vodka spills everywhere as she chokes and sputters. Her whole body is convulsing, but she doesn’t stop fighting. It’s an ugly, messy as hell, undignified sight.
I circle her, watching dispassionately. This is what she gets for struggling.
“You think you know Dorian, don't you?" My voice is soft, almost sweet, curling around the sound of her coughing.
I crouch right in front of her.
"When I married him, he was just a boy. A passionate, insecure boy with no ambition. So, I had to force him. I broke him. That's how you forge steel, Della. He’s mine. My creation. And I will not let you," I hiss, "a broken little charity case, be his queen."
She looks me dead in the eye, and before I can even blink, she spits. Right at me. A spray of vodka and saliva hits my cheek. I freeze. My hand shakes with how much I want to hurt her as I wipe it off. The bitch.
She lifts her head, booze and spit dripping from her chin, but her eyes are lethally clear.
"You didn't... create him," she chokes out, the words thick with alcohol and hate. "You just... broke him. That’s all."
The words sting more than the spit ever could. The air goes tight. My hand reflexively clenches into a fist. I look at the two men, who are watching me, waiting.
My voice is pure ice. "Again."
They don't hesitate. They grab her, yank her head back, force another flood of cheap vodka down her throat.
She jerks and thrashes, but it’s hopeless. The bottle empties, and she’s left sputtering, half-drowned in her own defiance. It’s just as ugly and raw as before. And it is exactly what she deserves.
When they stop, she slumps in the chair, choking. It takes a minute before she can breathe again. But when she lifts her head, and her eyes lock onto mine. Even now, tied up, drugged, and barely hanging on, she smiles.
A small, bloody smile, as if she knows a secret.
"You can kill me, Leah," she whispers, her voice a ragged promise. "But you'll never have him. And you'll never be me. He'll hunt you to the end of the earth for this. That's the man I love. Not the broken boy you left."
It feels like a slap. She thinks she's won, that she’s somehow above all this. She's wrong. She's just given me one last, delicious memory to savor.
"You're right," I say, suddenly calm, my anger razor-sharp. "He will hunt. And that's the tragedy. He will be hunting you... at the bottom of the cliffs."