Chloe pov:
My eyes were squeezed shut, my face pressed into the pillow that smelled of him—of Daniel's sickly-sweet cologne and the sharp, metallic scent of his sweat. The weight on top of me, the crushing, suffocating weight of him, was suddenly heavier.
I didn't move. I didn't breathe. If I was very, very still, maybe I could pretend I was already dead, too.
Then I heard a sound that was worse than the crunch. It was a sob. A raw, gut-wrenching sob that tore through the silence of the room. It wasn't my sob. It was Elara's.
My eyes fluttered open. The room was a blur of color and light. The white linen was now a violent, chaotic painting of red. The lamp was on the floor, its base dark and slick. And standing over the bed, her chest heaving, her face a mask of horror and rage, was my sister.
She had done it. She had killed him.
The thought wasn't a relief. It was a new kind of terror. My sister, the woman who cried at sad movies and rescued stray cats, was a murderer. And I was the reason.
"Chloe," she whispered, her voice a ragged, broken thing. "Oh god, Chloe."
She reached for me, her hands trembling, her fingers stained with his blood. I flinched away, scrambling back on the bed, my back hitting the headboard. I couldn't let her touch me. I couldn't let anyone touch me. I was raw, and her touch would be like salt.
She stopped, her hand hovering in the air between us. Her face crumpled, the rage giving way to a devastating grief. "I'm so sorry," she sobbed. "I'm so, so sorry."
I just stared at her. I couldn't speak. My throat was closed, a tight knot of fear and shame. I looked past her, at the body. At Daniel. His face was turned away, but I could see the back of his head, a dark, matted mess of blood and bone. My stomach churned, and I thought I was going to be sick.
"We have to think," Elara said, her voice suddenly sharp, a desperate attempt to regain control. "We have to think. We can't call the police. They'll never believe us. They'll say you were a part of it. They'll say you helped me."
She was right. I knew she was right. I was the other woman. The mistress. The slut who seduced her brother-in-law. That's what they would say. That's what he would have said.
I pulled my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. I was naked, exposed, the air in the room cold on my skin. I could feel him on me, inside me, a phantom presence that made my skin crawl. I wanted to scrub myself raw, to peel off my skin and crawl out of it.
Elara started pacing, her movements frantic, like a trapped animal. "We need to get rid of the body. We need to clean up. We need an alibi." She was talking to herself, her voice a frantic, high-pitched stream of consciousness. "We can say he went out. We can say he never came back. We can say..."
She was spiraling. I could see it in her eyes. The shock was setting in, the reality of what she had done crashing down on her. And I was useless. A broken doll on the bed, unable to help, unable to speak.
Then a new sound cut through the chaos.
A sharp, insistent chime from downstairs. The doorbell.
My heart, which had been beating a slow, sluggish rhythm, kicked into a frantic, panicked gallop. I looked at Elara, my eyes wide with terror.
"Don't move," she whispered, her voice a strained, terrified thing. She grabbed the heavy poker from the fireplace set, her knuckles white around the metal handle. "Don't make a sound."
The bell rang again, followed by three sharp, deliberate knocks.
Then we heard it. The click of the lock turning. The front door was opening.
My blood ran cold. He had friends. He had partners. They were here. They were coming for us.
Elara backed up until she was in front of the bed, a human shield with a poker. "Get away from her," she screamed, her voice cracking with fear and fury.
A man stepped into the bedroom doorway. He wasn't what I expected. He wasn't a thug or a cop. He was…immaculate. A dark suit that seemed to absorb the light, a crisp white shirt, a tie knotted perfectly at his throat. His hair was a dark, precise cut, his jaw sharp. But it was his eyes that held me. They were grey, the color of a stormy sea just before it turns violent, and they were fixed on me. Not on the body. Not on Elara with the poker,it was on me.
He took in the scene with a single, sweeping glance. The blood. The body. The two of us, one huddled on the bed, the other standing over her with a weapon. He didn't look surprised. He didn't look horrified. He looked… satisfied. Like a man who had just been shown a masterpiece he had commissioned.
"Elara Vance," he said. His voice was a low, calm baritone, a sound that was both soothing and terrifying. "Your father always said you were impulsive. I see he wasn't wrong."
"Who the fuck are you?" Elara spat, her grip tightening on the poker.
"I am the man who is going to clean up your mess," he said, his gaze still locked on me. It was a physical touch, a weight that pinned me to the bed more effectively than Daniel's dead body ever could. "My name is Damien. And you," he said, his voice dropping slightly, "must be Chloe. I've heard so much about you."
I wanted to disappear. I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. I felt exposed, violated in a way that was different from what Daniel had done. He was looking at me like he was peeling back my skin, looking at all the raw, broken parts underneath.
"Get out," Elara said, her voice shaking but defiant.
Damien finally looked at her, a flicker of annoyance in his grey eyes. "Elara, you called my organization an hour ago. You used a code that hasn't been used in twenty years. You asked for a 'cleaner.' You don't get to ask me to leave."
He took a step into the room, his expensive leather shoes making no sound on the blood-soaked rug. "You have two options. Option one: I walk out that door. You call the police. You try to explain this. A wealthy, prominent man is dead. His wife stands over him with a poker. His sister-in-law is covered in his blood, her DNA… everywhere. How do you think that story ends for you, Chloe? Do you think they'll see you as a victim? Or as the other woman? The scorned lover who helped her sister commit murder?"
His words were poison, seeping into the cracks of my shock. He was painting a picture of my future, and it was a prison cell.
"Option two," he continued, his voice a low, hypnotic murmur. "I make this all go away. The body. The blood. The memories. Daniel Vance simply… disappears. No one will ever find him. You two get to walk away."
"What's the catch?" Elara asked, her voice barely a whisper.
A slow, cold smile touched Damien's lips. "The Vance family debt is, of course, forfeit. Consider it paid." He took another step closer, his gaze returning to me. "But there is the matter of collateral."
He crouched down at the foot of the bed, his eyes level with mine. Up close, his eyes were even more intense, swirling with a darkness that was both terrifying and strangely compelling. He reached out, not to touch me, but to brush a speck of blood from the white linen with his fingertip.
"Collateral," he said, his voice a low, intimate rumble that seemed to vibrate through my entire body. "Her."
"No," Elara screamed. "No! You can't have her. She's my sister. She's been through enough."
"She's been through nothing yet," Damien corrected, his eyes never leaving mine. Daniel was… preparing her for something. ." He stood up, his tall frame casting a long shadow over the bed. "She is now my responsibility. My property."
The word "property" sent a jolt of pure, undiluted fear through me. This wasn't a rescue. This was a transfer of ownership.
"I'll kill you first," Elara snarled, raising the poker.
Damien didn't even flinch. He just looked at her, his expression turning cold, hard. "You can try. But while you're failing, my men will be taking her. And when they're done with you, they'll bring her back to me anyway. Is that what you want? To die for nothing? To leave her completely alone with me?"
It was a checkmate, horrifying checkmate. Elara looked at me, her eyes filled with a pain so deep. She was choosing between a quick, violent death and a slow, living one for me. And there was no choice at all.
Her shoulders slumped. The poker fell from her hand, clattering onto the floor with a sound that was both loud and pathetic. "Okay," she whispered, the word tearing her soul apart. "Okay."
Damien stood up, his focus already shifting. He took out his phone. "The package is secure," he said into the receiver. "Send in the team. And prepare the car."
He looked down at me, still huddled on the bed. "Get up," he said. It wasn't a request.
I couldn't. My limbs were lead. I was naked, covered in blood and shame, and I couldn't move.
He sighed, a sound of mild impatience. He walked to the closet, pulled out a silk robe, and threw it at me. "Cover yourself," he said, his voice devoid of any emotion.
I fumbled with the robe, my hands shaking so badly I couldn't tie the belt. He watched me, his grey eyes unreadable. He wasn't looking at me with lust or pity. He was looking at me like I was a puzzle he needed to solve.
When I was finally covered, he held out a hand. "Come."
I didn't want to take it. But I didn't have a choice. I placed my hand in his, his fingers cold and strong. He pulled me to my feet, his grip firm, unyielding. He led me out of the room, past the men in black coveralls who were already setting up their equipment. I didn't look back. I couldn't. I just stared at the wall, at the family photos hanging there. Photos of Daniel and Elara, smiling. Photos of me and Elara, at my college graduation. A life that was already a million years ago.
He led me down the stairs and out the front door, into the cool night air. A black sedan was idling at the curb, a ghost in the darkness. He opened the back door and I slid onto the leather seat, pulling the robe tight around me.
He got in beside me, the door closing with a solid, final thud. The car pulled away from the curb, gliding silently into the night. I watched the house, the only home I had left, disappear into the darkness.
And in the quiet, sterile space of the car, a single thought surfaced
I am not saved. I am just a different kind of prisoner.