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SEVENTY

XERO

While Amethyst cleans up the crime scene, I explore her home.

Next to the kitchen is a windowless space painted in green. It’s exactly how she described it in her letter about the room where she would shoot for my official fan club. I glance over my shoulder, where she’s in the kitchen on her hands and knees, soaking up the blood with sanitary pads.

Her living room fits the image I pieced together from the few photos she shot downstairs. It’s tasteful, with black walls, black furniture, and gilded accessories.

I can’t help but wonder how much of this was financed by men she’s duped. Clearly, she’s a skilled little honey trap, capable of drawing anyone into her trust. Was the man she killed another of her victims or was his attack on her a coincidence?

Doesn’t matter.

Amethyst will soon spill her secrets.

At the top of the stairs is a charcoal portrait that makes me grip the bannister. It’s my mugshot, except whoever created it has depicted me as godlike, with my pale hair forming a halo of light. What could this possibly mean?

Ignoring it, I continue to the bedroom I once foolishly wished I could teleport into. I’ve already committed all its corners to memory as Amethyst shot many videos for me from all angles, except from the back wall which overlooks the cemetery.

I open a door that leads to a large walk-in closet lined with ornate wardrobes crammed with beautiful clothes. There’s even a floor-to-ceiling rack of designer shoes she must have bought with all that cash she made from monetizing our relationship.

She’s heartless, just like Father and his worthless family. A woman like Amethyst would step over a man’s heart and crush it underfoot for profit.

There’s a phone charging on her nightstand, which I recognize as the one I bought her specifically for our communication. I guess its security passcode and scroll through its contents.

All the pictures I sent are in her photos app, along with the images and clips she shot of herself. I continue scrolling forward to find a reason why she left me at the altar and stop at a picture of a manilla envelope. It’s addressed to ‘Bitch.’

The next one contains its contents: an image and a note, shot too far away for me to make out any details. I swipe left to find a close-up.

It’s a prepubescent girl restrained on a gurney with a bit in her mouth. Bulky electrodes push into her temples, secured by a headpiece. Each one is covered in moist, white cloth, reminding me of an execution.

Flat electrodes cover multiple points over her body, like a bizarre form of ECG. She’s naked, and even more disturbingly, covered in large scars.

“What the hell is this?” I mutter and scroll to the next image.

It’s a threatening note, signed by someone who identifies themself as ‘Me.’

I scroll back to the image of the child and expand the face. Her hair is dark and cropped so close to her head that it almost looks tied back. Her features are so twisted with anguish that it’s impossible to tell if this is Amethyst, but I can’t fathom why she would keep records of something so terrible.

The metadata says the photo was taken earlier today by another camera, three hours before the wedding.

Intriguing.

Has Amethyst gotten herself involved with some unsavory characters, or is she part of a larger conspiracy that could be connected to Father? Either way, she has aroused my curiosity.

Footsteps creak up the stairs, accompanied by trembling sobs. I slip beneath the bed and watch her enter the bedroom in bare feet.

A normal man would confront her and demand answers, but that’s not how to interrogate an incorrigible grifter. I will break her down, shatter her mind until it’s no longer capable of deception. And when she’s lying beneath me, broken and trembling, I will extract the truth.

She showers, applies makeup, and styles her curls until she’s no longer the woman who emerged from the open grave. The dying fibers of my heart twitch to life at the proximity of the woman who taught me the meaning of true love and then shattered the illusion.

While she livestreams about my execution in her green room, I walk downstairs and check the cupboard under her stairs. The floorboards are loose enough to show glimpses of a darkened crawl space. Based on the renovations we made to several houses around the cemetery, there’ll be ample room for me to hide out while I slowly drive her insane.

I move into the now spotless kitchen, which only proves to me that she’s a seasoned killer and not the innocent girl driven to push her abuser off a rooftop. Inside her refrigerator is a red velvet cake large enough for six.

Without thinking about it, I extract the cake from where it rests on the shelf and place it on the kitchen table. It’s decorated with images of us in profile, about to share a kiss. She probably ordered it to make content for her channel.

“Fuck this woman and fuck her cake.”

After yanking off the cover, I pull down my fly, stroke my cock, and imagine her kneeling before me with tears streaming down her face. She would beg for my forgiveness, and I would tell her to open wide. Her eyes would widen, and she’d splutter a protest, but one yank of her pretty curls would have her obeying.

I stick my cock into the buttercream icing, enjoying how it separates. With gentle strokes, I shove in and out of her cake, imagining it to be her mouth. It’s a stretch, and the only things keeping me hard are the sound of her voice drifting in from the other room and the prospect of her walking in on me fucking her cake.

My balls draw up as I hear her sob to the camera. Imagining she’s truly crying for me, I quicken my thrusts. I used to enjoy the sound of her sleepy voice, but now I’m coming to the cadence of her cries.

Her wails reach a crescendo, and heat rushes to my core. I pull out, shooting my release over the icing. Her beautiful face and mine, depicted in food coloring and sugar, are now besmirched by ropes of cum.

I finish with heavy gasps, feeling both satisfied and hollow. Her ruined cake is a petty vengeance, but only the first of many inconveniences designed to make her think she’s losing her mind.

Afterward, I place the cake back in its box and return it to the refrigerator, wondering what she’ll think. I wipe the junk off my cock with kitchen towels, zip up, and step out into the night.

Like all houses on Parisii Drive, hers is built on an incline that slopes downward toward the cemetery. I walk the width of the property and shine my phone light on the foundations in search of a hatch that leads to the crawl space.

“Hey,” says a voice from the trees.

I whirl around to find Jynxson emerging from the foliage with a smaller figure with hair cropped close to his skull. Squinting in the dark, I try to make out the new silhouette. As they approach, I recognize Tyler, an operative we poached from the firm’s tech department.

Tyler is the one who’s been hacking into the prison system, altering records to make sure no one notices that John was executed instead of me. He’s grown a short beard since my incarceration, which makes him look less young.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

Jynxson hands me a manilla envelope. “A courier tossed this on her welcome mat an hour ago and left in an unmarked car. Thought you might want to read it first.”

Tyler raises a hand. “And I heard you wanted someone investigated. ”

I flick my head toward the house. “Look up everything you can find on Amethyst Crowley of number 13 Parisii Drive.”

“Anything in particular?”

“She probably has a juvenile record for a deadly altercation with a teacher that happened ten to twelve years ago.”

Tyler nods. “Cool.”

“And shut down all accounts attached to the OfficialXerofan club.”

“Consider it done.”

I turn to Jynxson. “Where’s the corpse?”

“Still being embalmed,” he replies.

“Bring it as soon as it’s ready. I need someone from maintenance to install cameras in every corner of this house and to make an opening into the crawlspace.”

As both men return toward the trees, I tear open the envelope and glance at its contents. It contains cryptic notes signed by some nameless asshole.

My jaw clenches. Who the fuck is this psychopath?

“One more thing,” I say to their retreating backs. “Intercept her mail. Nothing reaches her unless it goes through me.”

I turn to the kitchen, my brows furrowing. That first letter could have been the work of the man she killed, but the second?

Someone wants a taste of my prey, but they’ll have to get in line. Amethyst Crowley is mine.

And I’m moving in.