Chapter 124: Your Death Will Be Written By My Hands...
I remain propped against the mountain of cushions Nick arranged with quiet, practiced efficiency—each one placed with careful precision, as though he already knew I would need the extra support before I did.
The warmth from the soup still lingers low in my stomach, easing the dull ache that has settled deep within my body. Not enough to erase it, but enough to make it bearable.
For a few moments, I allow myself to exist in that fragile stillness. Pale morning light filters through the heavy curtains, washing the room in a muted glow while silence settles around me, undisturbed.
Then my phone rings.
The sharp, insistent sound slices through the quiet. My hand moves slowly across the rumpled duvet until my fingers find the phone resting on the bedside table, its screen glowing with my secretary’s name.
I lift it to my ear.
"Morning, sir."
His voice is crisp, professional, utterly unaware of the wreckage on the other end of the line.
"Morning."
My own voice is rough, still heavy with sleep and the remnants of a night I’d rather forget.
"Sir, Mr. Chairman has requested your presence at an important meeting this afternoon. Given Mr. Everic’s absence, your attendance has been marked as essential. I’ve already forwarded the details to your email."
A quiet sigh slips from my lips.
In this state, I can barely sit. How am I supposed to attend a meeting?
My fingers tighten around the phone.
"Iem."
"Yes, sir?"
"Tell my father my rut came unexpectedly. I won’t be available for the next few days."
There is a pause on the other end. Just long enough for the practiced professionalism in his voice to give way to a flicker of genuine concern.
"Sir... are you alright? If there’s anything you need—"
"No."
The word comes out sharper than I intend, cutting through the silence between us. I close my eyes for a moment before speaking again.
"Just do as I say."
"Understood, sir."
The line goes dead. The silence that follows is heavier than before.
I let the phone slip from my fingers. It lands on the bed with a dull thud, swallowed by the rumpled sheets, and I stare at it for a long moment as if it might offer me some kind of answer.
It doesn’t.
Then I push myself upright.
The movement sends a jolt through my lower back, a deep ache radiating down my thighs before settling heavily in my lower body. I clench my jaw, refusing to let even the smallest sound escape my lips.
My bare feet meet the cold marble floor. The chill bites at my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the relentless throbbing deep inside me.
I stand slowly, using the wall for support. My palm presses against the cool surface, anchoring me as I take one careful step, then another. Each movement is a negotiation with my own body—a fragile truce between what I want and what I can endure.
The walk to the bathroom feels like crossing an ocean.
I need to wash him off me.
The scent clings to me like a second skin—foreign, intrusive, suffocating. It’s so strong I can no longer smell my own pheromones beneath it.
I need to scrub until there’s nothing left.
Until I’m clean again.
I push the bathroom door open and step inside. Warm light spills softly across polished marble and brushed gold fixtures. I stop in front of the full-length mirror.
My reflection stares back at me.
For a long moment, I don’t move. I simply stand there, frozen, staring at the stranger in the glass.
Red marks scatter across my neck, blooming against my skin in shades of crimson and violet. Some have already begun to fade. Others remain dark and vivid, pressed into my flesh with deliberate intent. Kisses. Bites. Silent evidence of a night I never chose.
The marks disappear beneath the collar of my shirt.
A faint bruise stains my lower lip. Small. Unmistakable. A cruel reminder that refuses to be ignored.
My gaze lingers on my reflection.
How did I become this powerless?
My fingers move to the buttons of my shirt. One by one, I undo them, each movement slow and deliberate. The fabric slips from my shoulders and falls to the floor with a soft whisper against the marble. I step out of my trousers, letting them join the growing pile at my feet.
I lift my gaze to the mirror.
My body is a canvas of someone else’s hunger, marked with shades of red, pink, and deepening bruises. They trail across my chest, my shoulders, my hips, the curve of my waist—
Everywhere.
Then I feel it.
A slow, warm trickle slides down the inside of my thigh.
I blink, my gaze dropping instinctively. My fingers move before my mind can stop them, brushing against the slick warmth clinging to my skin.
Warm.
Slick.
Sticky.
My hand stills. For a heartbeat, I simply stare at my trembling fingers. My gaze slowly lifts to the mirror.
My eyes widen.
A cold realization crashes through me, followed by a surge of heat so fierce it feels as though my blood is boiling.
I turn sharply and step into the shower, sliding the glass door shut behind me. My fingers seize the control, twisting it until hot water pours from above, relentless against my skin. I brace both palms against the marble wall, my head bowed beneath the stream.
Water rushes over my shoulders and down my back, washing across skin still marked by someone else’s touch.
I close my eyes.
My fists clench against the marble.
The anger comes slowly at first—a quiet ember burning deep inside my chest. Then it spreads, hotter, sharper, consuming everything in its path. My jaw locks. My breathing grows uneven. The water continues to fall, but I barely feel it anymore.
Whoever you are...
I will make you regret the moment you touched me.
When I find you...
Your death will be written by my hands.
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