Page 90 of The Colour of Revenge

Queen Carina:No!

Queen Carina:I don’t want you to get sick.

Daddy Death:I don’t care about that. Let me take care of you.

Queen Carina:I want to be alone…

Queen Carina:Please, Nate?

Her words stop me in my tracks. Carina never asks for space—not like this. My chest tightens, but I know I can’t push her.

Daddy Death:Okay…

Daddy Death:Get better soon, Princess.

The three dots appear for a second like she’s about to reply, but then they vanish. No response.

Something feels… off.

I try to shake it off and lose myself in work, focusing on the merger with Sanctuary. My first task is cutting dead weight, starting with their director, Siena. But my concentration keeps slipping, her texts replaying in my head like a bad tune I can’t shake.

By seven, I’ve stopped pretending to concentrate. The unease is a living thing now, crawling under my skin.

She wanted space. She asked me not to come.

But I’m going anyway.

It’s a quick ride on the Circle Line, a short walk, and a stop to pick up some soup. If she’s sick, I’ll leave it on the doorstep and walk away. No harm in checking.

By the time I reach her street, it’s just after eight. The air is sharp and cold, my breath misting before me.

And then I see it.

She’s not alone.

There’s a man in her house.

He’s sitting far too close to my girlfriend for it to be innocent, his body angled toward her in a way that makes my blood boil.

She doesn’t look sick. There’s no pallor to her cheeks, no tissues scattered around, no sign of the flu she claimed to have.Why the hell did she lie to me?I squint, trying to make out what they’re both staring at on her laptop. I catch a glimpse of something—my last name.

What. The. Fuck.

My hands tighten around the soup container as fury burns through me. I set it down on her doorstep, my movements rigid, then melt into the shadows to watch.

Pulling out my phone, I type a message.

Daddy Death:I left some soup on your doorstep. Get well soon.

Through the window, I see her freeze. She snatches her phone, her expression shifting to something I can’t quite place—guilt? Panic? She scurries to the door, flinging it open and scanning the street like she knows I’m watching.

She grabs the container, brings it inside… and throws it straight into the bin.

The sight ignites something feral in me. A rage I haven’t felt in months surges to the surface, sharp and unforgiving.

She lied to me. About being sick. About needing space.

About everything.