Page 23 of Malicious Claim

She turned to the mirror with fire in her eyes. “I don’t care if he looks like sin in a suit and fucks like the devil incarnate, he’s a barbaric, soulless warlord, and I’m going to kill him.”

She planted her hands on her hips like she meant it.

“He’s going to die. I’ll slice him bit by bit, feed his sexy flesh to dogs...no, wolves. Something dramatic and majestic. Maybe even film it in slow motion.”

She nodded to herself, satisfied. “Revenge. Blood. Death.”

A pause.

“...But like, after another ride? Just one more? Swear that you didn’t enjoy the way he fucked you last time. Or should I say rape?”

“SHUT UP!!”

Leila paced like a woman possessed, muttering to herself and dragging her bandaged hand dramatically behind her like some tragic heroine in a mafia opera.

“I’ll have him on his knees,” she seethed. “No, not the fun kind, like bleeding, pathetic, groveling. First, I’ll bash his head against a wall. Crack his skull a little. Watch the blood drip. Then I’ll point his own gun at him, smile sweetly, and boom—a nice hole right between those arrogant brows.”

She paused.

“I’ll wear red stilettos that day. To match the blood. Very couture.”

She imagined the scene like a Tarantino movie with a designer twist: her dress slit high, blood on her thighs, him whispering “mercy” before she blew him a kiss and his brains out.

But as her monologue fizzled into silence, she realized she’d wandered straight to his closet. She stared at the doors like they had insulted her mother.

“Well, well, Makros Crete,” she said in her most villainous whisper, “if I can’t kill you yet, I’ll at least destroy your peace.”

She flung the closet open.

It was organized to near-psychotic perfection. Suits arranged by shade. Shoes aligned like soldiers. Shirts, oh, the shirts folded with terrifying symmetry.

“Oh, you like order?” she sneered, cracking her knuckles. “You turned my life into a chaotic circus of blood and bandages. Let’s see how you like my version of storm.”

She yanked all his crisp white shirts and flung them to the ground like she was exorcising demons. Then, with slow, deliberate rage, she stomped on them.

In circles. Twice.

“You haven’t seen anything crazy yet, Makros!” she declared with a wild glint in her eye. “Kidnapping a Crawford, that was your first mistake. Underestimating me? Your last.”

She turned to the drawers and yanked the first one open.

More order. Pens. Color-coded. Papers. Aligned like blueprints. Everything screamed ‘serial killer with a premium dry cleaner.’

“Pristine psychopath,” she whispered, jaw tightening.

And then, like a raccoon with a vendetta, she shoved her hands into the drawer and flung every document, pen, and item into the air like confetti. Pages flew. Pens scattered. Her laugh got a little unhinged.

“You think you’re the devil? Baby, I’ve been in hell. And I brought heels.”

She didn't stop at the drawers, but also proceeded to his dressing table and repeated the process of throwing everything to the floor. When she moved away from that spot and stood in the center of the room, she was euphoric. Her chest heaved with both excitement and an adrenaline rush. But she still wasn’t done.

His bed was her next target. As she placed her hand on the covers, a memory popped up in her head.

“Let’s see what we have here.” She crawled from the edge of the bed to its head. Raising his pillow, she found a gun.

Her lips curved into a sinister smile. “You fool. You do keep guns under every pillow.” Shaking her head, she placed the gun on the ground and dragged the sheets off the bed.

“Now we're done!” She nodded, fulfilled by the result.