Groans. Hard and screeching — that's how the metallic bars of the gate sound as they graze along the gravel.
My beat-up car waits outside as impatience slithers beneath my skin.
The security guard finally finishes pushing the massive gates apart after informing me that I'm permitted to enter the estate — I've been confirmed as a visitor.
"Thank you." It comes out breathy as I instantly step on the gas pedal, flooring it almost at full speed.
Navigating towards the familiar lane that doesn't appear quite familiar anymore, I scan the vicinity.
It's been months since I've been here — a long story. One I don't want to recall.
A chill pebbles my skin.
Building 69.
I drive my vehicle into the parking lot and slide it into a free slot demarcated by thin white lines on either side.
Alighting, the door bounces shut behind me. I don't bother locking it properly — the lock is bad. Haven't had enough to fix it either.
My feet carry me forward in wary strides. I enter, taking the elevator to my destination — room 69.
Well, Marco is fucked up like that.
My pulse skitters as I wait for the slow, steady ascension. When the doors finally glide open with a ding, my breath pours out of me. I don't hesitate — I throw myself out and rush down the lobby.
There. My only key out of this mess.
I lift my fist, tapping against the door in soft thuds.
I hear shuffling and movement from the other side.
My heart flips. He's home.
It's what I expected, but I don't know why I feel what I feel — like backing out.
But it's already too late now. I've come this far, and I'm not leaving like a coward.
The door swings open, and a familiar face I haven't seen in a while looms before me.
"Look what the cat dragged in." A drawl slips from his throat, and I can literally feel the heat of his lingering stare.
It sends a warning crawling through my skin. My stomach knots, and I want to recoil.
"Hello, Marco," I say instead, with a façade of calm I don't come close to feeling.
"Well, come in." His smile reflects whatever sick thought is running through his mind.
His tall figure steps aside, indicating I pass through.
His guileful gaze is still assessing me — heavy and indulgent. I gulp.
The veins beneath my skin pulse. My heart trembles as the sound of mahogany shuts closed.
My fate is sealed.
"You know I've missed you, Evie."
My knotted guts tangle even more. The sound of my name rolling from his tongue incites goosebumps on my skin, making me shudder.
"Tell me," he sits. "Don't you feel the same?"
I swallow, heart pounding, but I level my gaze with the deceptive one of his.
"Marco, I know this is inappropriate, but I—I need your help." My voice betrays me, exuding deep desperation as it falters.
He's still smiling, but the glint in his dark eyes suggests anything but.
It's pointed — sharp and cunning.
Marco stays that way for a while, almost inanimate.
And the movement of the second hand on the clock reminds me of a hundred reasons I should regret this.
"Please." The word escapes as a whisper, so soft he shouldn't have caught it.
But I know he did. That lopsided twitch in his lips says it all.
The hairs on my neck prickle.
"We're friends, Evie. There's nothing inappropriate for you to ask."
My heartbeat thunders in my ears, drowning out everything else except the sound of his feet against the floor as he lifts himself from the expensive-looking sofa, approaching me.
Saliva dries in my mouth. Every instinct screams run.
But I know what I'm in this for.
"What is it you need?" he croons.
See? Deceptive. I'd almost believe the sincerity in his tone if I weren't looking him straight in the face.
Pure, unadulterated madness shines in his eyes.
Buried pieces of what happened here months ago flare behind my eyes, panic sinking its claws into me.
I shove it down.
"Marco, it's my father," I tell him. "He—he needs surgery as soon as possible." My throat burns. My eyes sting, but I don't let the glistening liquid fall.
"And I don't have the money yet—I promise, I'll repay once I get enough. Please."
So much for holding back the tears. I fail, and they trickle down in slim rivulets.
Blood swooshes in my ears, breath baited as I watch him. Watch his reaction.
But Marco is unmoving before me — only the sick thrill swirling in his gaze ignites my nerves to swim with uneasiness.
He tilts his head to the side, messy dark hair falling into his face. "How much?" Marco deadpans.
My heart quivers, almost leaping for joy — but I tamp it down. It's too early.
I open my mouth to answer, but the words cling foolishly to my tongue. The guilt of the amount weighs on me.
"O-one million dollars," I stammer quietly, the faint whisper filling the large living room.
Silence.
His eyebrows jerk. That smile tilts his lips.
Marco takes a deliberately slow step forward. I mirror it, stepping back.
He doesn't stop until he has me cornered. The wicked memory surges from its buried depths.
My heart picks up pace, pounding so hard I suspect he hears it.
My feet falter to a stop once my back hits the wall.
Marco's slim limbs plant on the wall beside me, palm first.
Coffee and cedar waft into my nose, my breathing engulfed in his scent.
"What… what are you doing, Marco?" Adrenaline simmers in my veins.
His other hand comes to my face, tracing a slender finger along my cheek to my neck.
His finger hooks around my neckline, prodding.
"Marco." I mumble his name, fear potent in my voice, terror skittering through my blood.
"We didn't finish what we started last time." His face dips to the crook of my neck.
His chest heaves as he drags in a whiff of me. "And you know I don't keep unfinished business."
I should have known—no, I did know.
But I was stupid to let desperation and torment drive me into this… doom.
Still, I refuse to do something so despicable.
"Let me go, Marco," I beg, having no other choice.
He doesn't listen.
"Please, don't do this." But he does.
His hands encircle my waist, the other slipping under my linen top, reaching for my mounds.
My fingers snap to his, halting their movement.
The images from last time overlap with the present, and I'm not sure what's happening anymore—what timeline I'm in.
"You don't have to pay me back," he breathes, voice riddled with lust. "Just let me have a taste of you, sweet Evie."
My stomach rolls in disgust. It takes everything in me not to hunch over and pour my innards onto his designer flats.
That has always been on his to-do list.
Hence the reason I've stayed far away from him. Marco is the type of man who thinks with his balls, not his brain — who wants to see every girl's underwear in Pennsylvania.
But I need his help. He's the only one who can give it — being a rich heir and all.
But I can't do this. No.
So when his lips trail from my chin, inching toward mine, I give in to the feral rush inside me.
My fingers clasp around the expensive Chinese vase sitting on the cupboard beside me — and I swing.
"Arghhh!" His guttural growl echoes in the room. His hands free me as he grabs the back of his head.
I take that chance, sprinting to the door.
But he's on me in seconds.
My heart lurches, despair holding me in a tight vice.
My guts plummet with terror as adrenaline floods my veins.
I don't want to, but I swing again — harder this time.
This hit splatters blood everywhere.
I watch in horror as his eyes widen with shock — disbelief that I'd actually done this to him.
It's my turn for my pupils to dilate in horror as his dark eyes glaze, rolling back as he collapses to the ground.
The metallic tang clings to the air, red thick liquid pooling beneath his body.
His form — lifeless.
My hands tremble, lips parted as I gape like a struggling fish.
My breathing ceases — like the body at my feet.
I know. Before it even registers, I know.
I—I've killed him.
Without hesitation, I whirl toward the door, fling it open, and race out — running down the empty lobby toward the elevator.
My chest tightens, heart slamming against my ribs, wild and uneven.
I feel invisible hands on my throat, squeezing, twisting.
A drip alerts me to the sweat pooling at my temples, my fingers clammy and cold — like Marco's body upstairs.
Once I get to my car, I slam the door shut, uncaring of its weak hinges.
Why. Why. Why. Why me?!
I haven't even pulled myself from the last mess, and I've gone spiraling into another.
My phone beeps on the passenger seat. My eyes flash to the screen.
I've run out of time. It's over.
I pick it up and scroll through the call log, my fingers tapping Aunt Maya's number.
Three beats, and she picks up.
I don't wait for her soft voice to pierce through — I announce immediately:
"I'm going to marry Mr. Miller."