Page 116 of The Colour of Revenge

Absolutely. Fucking. Typical.

“I wanted to meet.”

“Why?” His tone is measured, cautious—like he’s circling a predator but isn’t sure if he’s the hunter or the prey.

“To put the past behind us,” I say, the lie sticking to my tongue like tar. “It’s time to move on, don’t you think?” My voice stays calm, but inside, everything twists.

There’s a pause, heavy and sharp. For a moment, all I can hear is the uneven rhythm of our breaths. Then:

“Yes. I think you’re right.”

I exhale, relief mingling with the nausea churning in my gut.

He’s taken the bait.

“Let’s meet at Blackwell Manor. It’s—”

“I know where that is,” he interrupts, curt and clipped. “Tomorrow at three.”

And just like that, the line goes dead.

I lower the phone, staring at the blank screen.

No goodbye. No hesitation.

No remorse.

Nate is watching me, sharp and unreadable. "You okay?"

I slide the phone onto the table, flexing my fingers.

“I will be.”

Nate

Blackwell Manor, my family’s country estate, looms like a fortress on the outskirts of London, nestled near Epping Forest. But it's not just the estate that’s important—it’s the cabin a mere fifteen-minute walk away. My murder chamber. A secluded spot, hidden from prying eyes, and the perfect place to bring Dominic Beckett—Carina’s father—to his end.

With Edward gone, the manor feels like a ghost town. My mother hasn’t stepped foot here in years, and the staff have been given extended leave. Meanwhile, Edward’s business hums along like a well-oiled machine. His directors have seamlessly slid into the CEO roles, playing their parts while the police hunt for their “missing” boss. Convenient for me. It keeps my guilt from gnawing at me—not about killing him, but about not stepping up to take control.

But my guilt isn’t about Edward anymore. It’s for the people still working in his company, unaware of the monster they once served. I’ve already started selling my apartment; there’s no way I’m tying myself to his blood-soaked money.

Then there's my mother. She’s a wreck, and I can’t comfort her. We’ve never been close, but now there’s a wedge between us—a chasm I can’t cross.

Carina paces in front of the bay window, arms folded tight across her chest. Every flick of her gaze toward the driveway drags tension deeper into the room.

"This better work," she mutters.

"You've taken down six men without breaking a sweat, and now you're nervous?" I lean against the wall, watching her with an easy smirk.

She spins, eyes flashing. "The irony isn't lost on me, thank you very much. This just… feels different."

I shrug, keeping it light. "Well, it's your father. After Edward, it's hardly surprising."

Her jaw tightens, but something in her gaze flickers. "I hate that you're right."

"You'll feel better once it's done." I flash a grin, but there's something behind it. A weight I don't name. "Besides, we've got a plan. We'll be fine."

Carina doesn't answer. Instead, she turns back to the window, her reflection stiff with unease.