Chapter 140
There’s a specific stillness that cos after rage.
It’s not peace. It’s not even exhaustion. It’s like... anesthesia.
Numb. Cold. Clear.
I stood in front of the mirror and didn’t flinch at the cracks running across my reflection. I looked like a woman who’d just clawed her way out of hell and was ready to redecorate it. My eyes were sharp, my shoulders tensed.
My Mouthaas set in a line that promised retribution.
They thought I’d crumble. They thought they’d made small.
Idiots.
I was never small. I was simply dormant.
I dried my hair chanically. Every drag of the towel over my scalp was thodical like removing evidence. It wasn’t about vanity anymore. It was about transformation.
Pipe Wellesley, the unstable roommate with a mysterious past? She was irrelevant. Pipe, the broken little muse in Antonio’s bed? Gone.
No. What the world had just done was give birth to sothing worse. Sothing untraceable.
Sothing necessary.
Grant wanted to humiliate ? He should’ve aid to kill.
The irony made smile. It was just a twitch of the mouth, but it felt good. Because now, he was going to die.
But he couldn’t just die. No. That would be barbaric. Sloppy. This had to be clean. Surgical. Elegant.
This had to be suicide.
The Art of the Artful Mistake—I could teach a masterclass.
The thing about murder. I an, real, cold, practical murder—is that it’s not like the movies. It’s not heat-of-the-mont. It’s not red rage blurring your vision as you swing a bat or stab a knife.
It’s cold and planned. Choreographed, like ballet. And I’ve always been a decent dancer.
I stared at the phone long after Grant’s voice died in the ether, and the photos burned my vision. My mind was already building a blueprint. A tiline. He wanted there at ten. I checked the clock. 8:12 p.m. Two hours to assemble a masterpiece.
Two hours to turn a hotel room into a cri scene that sang the lullaby of suicide.
I stood slowly, the grin stretching my face like a second skin. This was no longer just anger. This was clarity. A focus I hadn’t felt in years. Not since two years ago when I made my last art.
I hadn’t killed since then. But God, it ca back easy.
First: disguise. I couldn’t show up as . Not Pipe, the sharp-tongued girl with a trail of sarcasm and blood under her nails. No. I needed to be invisible. Forgettable.
I snuck to Fiore’s room and went straight to her wardrobe. Luckily for , she and Raul were still in the living area, busy groveling about my downfall.
Maybe... who knew if maybe they’d beco my next artful mistakes? We just might see.
Anyway, Fiore had this oversized cal trench coat she wore when she wanted to look harmless and sad. I threw it on over a black turtleneck and jeans. Flat-soled shoes—no heels.
I tied my hair up in a ssy bun and put on glasses I hadn’t worn in months. I perchedit low on my nose. Add a cheap tote bag full of murder supplies and I looked like a grad student about to drop out and join a cult.
"You’re not an art," I whispered to a blade, sliding it into my belt. "Just a stain."
Perfect.
I packed gloves. Two pairs. One for the cri, one for the escape. A travel-size bottle of cleaning alcohol. A rag. A silk scarf. Zip ties. A bottle of sedatives I’d swiped from Fiore’s d drawer three weeks ago "just in case."
I tossed in a used tissue—Grant’s DNA, from the last ti he’d made the mistake of trying to kiss and I’d subtly wiped his drool with it. I’d kept it because my instincts had scread he’d beco a problem. And now, here we were.
Lastly, the pièce de résistance—a forged suicide note. I sat down at the desk and typed it on my laptop, carefully mimicking the typeface from Grant’s company emails. It was easy since I used to work for him for years.
I knew how he wrote. Arrogant. Dramatic. Like the world owed him punctuation.
"To whom it may concern...
If you’re reading this, I’ve lost everything. My consciences . My na. Myself. I manipulated too many people and burned too many bridges. I was drunk on power and thought I could win. But I lost. I hurt people I shouldn’t have, and I can’t live with the weight anymore. I’m sorry. Truly. But this is the only way I can find peace."
I read it aloud twice, making sure it sounded just the right amount of unhinged but plausible. Then I printed it, folded it gently, and slid it into a plain white envelope marked with his na. I sprayed it lightly with his cologne—the one he stupidly gave for my birthday, thinking I’d find it romantic.
"Lucifer Morningstar," I muttered under my breath. "You have an appointnt with Hell."
I left the apartnt at 9:06. A cab took to a few blocks from the Azul Royale. I got out early because I didn’t want security footage catching a cab number tied to my na. I walked the rest of the way, heart steady and breath calm. Not because I wasn’t nervous. I was. But it was the good kind. Like walking a tightrope with razors for ropes. It sharpened .
The hotel glead like a gold tooth in a mouth full of poverty. Luxury dripped from the front desk, from the perfud air, from the bored concierge who looked like he’d seen too many rich n with too many secrets.
"Room for Lucifer Morningstar," I said, adjusting my glasses.
He barely blinked. "Eleventh floor. Keycard?"
"He’s expecting ."
The man smiled blandly and handed the keycard. "Enjoy your evening."
Oh, I planned to.
The elevator ride was silent. I an, way too silent. My breath ca out in foggy little puffs I tried to swallow back down. I gripped the tote tighter.
Ding.
I stepped out. Thick carpet. Quiet hall. Room 1113.
I knocked twice.
"Co in, my angel of death," Grant’s voice drawled from inside.
Damn right, I am.
I opened the door.
He was in a robe. A fucking silk robe. Champagne in one hand, a smirk on his face. There was music playing softly... so pretentious jazz. And on the bed, a red dress was laid out like an invitation to sin.
"You ca," he said, grinning. "And you even wore your serious glasses. I’m honored."
I smiled. "Figured I’d give you the last gift you’d ever get."
He laughed. "You always had a sense of humor."
"Yeah," I murmured, shutting the door behind and sliding the lock into place. "I kill with it."
He didn’t hear . He was too busy walking toward like a man expecting a night of indulgent sex. I waited until he was close—close enough to sll his cologne, then I held up the bottle of champagne he’d clearly been sipping.
"Want to pour?"
He nodded with bright eyes. "God, yes. You’re glowing. What is it? Rage? Betrayal? Lust?"
"Sothing like that."
I took the bottle, turned my back to him, and swiftly dropped a crushed sedative pill inside his glass. Stirred it with a swizzle stick like a bartender in Vegas. My hands didn’t even shake.
"Here," I said, handing it to him. "To betrayal."
He clinked it against my untouched glass. "To victory," he corrected, and downed half of it.
He eyed up and down, a smirk appearing on his lips. "I’m surprised you’re not dressed for seduction tonight, Pipe. The Pipe I know is always dressed to kill."
If only he knew the pun he’d just casually made.
Well, that’s because I don’t need a killer outfit to kill you, Grant. You’d already been a sucker for . All I had to do was prey on that.
But then again, I still ca prepared. Pipe Wellesley was always dressed to kill.
I raised an eyebrow, letting the trench coat fall open slightly to reveal the black turtleneck underneath. "Seduction? I thought we were here to talk business."
He chuckled, taking a sip of his champagne. "With you, business and pleasure always intertwined."
I stepped closer, the soft carpet muffling my footsteps. "Is that so?"
He leaned in, his breath warm against my cheek. "Tell , what was it like with Antonio?"
I tilted my head, feigning curiosity. "Why do you ask?"
He shrugged and I watched his fingers brush a stray strand of hair from my face. "Because however it was, I want us to have an even better one. I miss the old days, Pipe. When you seduced n and brought unending contracts. Co back."
I laughed softly, the sound echoing in the spacious room. "You always did know how to flatter a girl."
However, he didn’t grinned from ear to ear, already expecting...
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