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Guess We’re Fighting Princess

Hypothetical Question: If your life was a true crime documentary, who would you want to narrate it?

Carina

Daddy Death: Got a plan yet?

Queen Carina: Nothing. Nada.

Daddy Death: It needs to be spectacular. Mark the occasion properly.

Queen Carina: You're back to normal.

Daddy Death: Plotting a demise does that to me.

Queen Carina: You're weird.

Daddy Death: And yet… you like me.

Queen Carina: I more than like you…

Daddy Death: We are coming back to this new information!

It's been two weeks. Two weeks since we ended Edward. Two weeks since we planted enough evidence to make it look like he fled the country. A missing person's case, not a murder. Enzo's forged flight records have held up so far.

As much as I wanted the world to know how evil Edward was, Nate was reluctant to break his mum's heart even further, so we had Enzo delete any trace of his nefarious activities from his phone and laptop. So far, the police believe he left the country, based on flight data we hacked into. Nate stole Edward’s passport the day he went to see his mum, and Kai destroyed it after copying the information should we ever need it.

It feels as though we might actually be in the clear once again.

Pulling open my messages from Doctor Morgan I notice one I hadn’t seen from the night of the murder.

Doc M: I’m so proud of how mature you’ve become.

Well, if that’s not ironic.

If only she knew.

Carina: Thanks! I think I’m evolving.

No need for her to think any differently.

Maybe when all this is done, I’ll actually feel like I deserve her unwavering confidence in me.

One name left.

My father.

And I have nothing. No brilliant, poetic revenge plan. No cathartic fantasy. Just… a blank space.

It seemed so easy to come up with ideas for the others. Ways to get revenge. But this… feels different. I don’t know if it’s because it’s the last one, or because it’s my father this time. But every idea I have feels empty.

When Nate gets home from work, I know I can no longer keep the secret I’ve been hiding from him. The one I hide from myself.

“I need to tell you something,” I confess, taking his hands in mine as we sit together on the couch.

His eyebrows knit in confusion. “Okay…”

I exhale, readying myself for my words.

“You’re scaring me, Princess.”

“It’s time you learned who my father is.”

Nate looks at me with wide eyes. He knows what this means. The lengths I went to in order keep myself buried. To destroy the girl I used to be.

He nods for me to continue.

“Dominic Beckett.”

You could hear a pin drop.

I fidget with my hands, picking at my skin as I wait for his reaction.

“Your father is the richest man in the country? That Dominic Beckett?”

I nod solemnly. “That’s daddy.”

His face flashes with recognition.

“Naomi Beckett.” Nate’s eyes widen. “That case was all over the news. You’re assumed dead. Your father made it sound like you’d been kidnapped.”

He runs a hand over his face. “No wonder you went to such lengths to stay hidden, fuck.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

He shakes his head. “You’re telling me now.”

Lord, what did I do to deserve him?

“Oh!” I snap excitedly, suddenly reminded of his present, rushing upstairs to grab the bag I’ve got hidden up there.

I barrel back down the stairs and Nate’s amusement is clear on his face. “What’ve you got there, Princess?”

I thrust the bag towards him, shaking it at him.

“I wasn’t sure when to give this to you.”

He takes it, almost cautiously, and peers inside. I see the moment he realises what it is as his whole face lights up in a dazzling smile.

“I can’t believe you actually got me one.”

I nibble on my lip, suddenly worried he won’t like it.

Nate pulls out the bright pink jumper. The one that matches my own. The slogan the same as mine; ‘Not a Serial Killer’.

He immediately puts it on, then grabs me, pulling me into a hug. “I love it, baby.”

My smile cracks my face wide as happiness pours from me.

“Have you seen what else is in there?”

He snatches the bag back up.

“Oh my god.” He pulls out a kilo pack of gummy worms. “You’re fucking incredible.”

He tears open the bag, munching on them like they’ll wriggle away from him if he doesn’t devour them immediately.

But then, after we sit back onto the sofa, it’s time to focus once more.

We start brainstorming ideas, but my father is a powerful man, and a smart one. He won’t be easily fooled.

Eventually, we rope Kai into helping but he’s actually pretty useless. I don’t think he’s given a single suggestion.

“It needs to be bloody, something artistic,” Nate says, popping another gummy worm into his mouth with a thoughtful expression on his face as if he’s imagining exactly that.

Kai shudders, scrunching his face up in disgust. “Just once, it would be nice if you killed someone cleanly.”

Nate straightens. “Why would I do that?” he asks with genuine bewilderment.

Kai pinches the bridge of his nose. "Because I'm the one who cleans it, and I don't enjoy scrubbing intestines out of tile grout."

Nate looks sheepish for exactly half a second before grinning. "Fair point. But… I just can't help it."

Kai shoots me a look. "How do you deal with him?"

I smirk. "I more than like him."

Nate coughs, looking far too smug. "We are absolutely coming back to that."

I roll my eyes, shifting gears. "We could stage a gas leak in his office. One little spark, and poof—problem solved."

Nate snorts. "And what? Hope he's standing in just the right spot when it goes off? Too many variables."

"Fine, Mr. Practical. What's your big idea?"

"Okay, hear me out." Nate leans forward, excitement flickering in his eyes. "We hire a mime."

I stare at him. "A mime?"

"Yeah," he continues, gesturing animatedly. "A really good one. One who can, I don't know, pretend to stab him or suffocate him or something. He'll be so confused; his brain will just give up. Instant death."

Kai groans into his hands. "I work with psychopaths."

I stare at Nate for a long moment. "See, now I know you're joking, because you'd never let someone else take your kill. And never so cleanly."

Nate grins. "I let you."

Something in his voice makes my heart stutter.

He did, didn't he?

Not because he wanted to step back. But because he wanted it to be me.

Because he knows what this means to me.

I swallow.

The smugness in my chest betrays how much Nate's words warm me.

I roll my eyes. "Come on, Mr. Death. You're the expert." My voice is teasing, but inside, I'm itching to get this over with.

Nate leans forward, all playfulness vanishing. "We lure him somewhere isolated." His tone is smooth, certain. "It could be under the guise of reconciliation—you haven't spoken to him since he sold you, right?"

His gaze locks onto mine, searching.

I nod, jaw tight. I haven't spoken to him since I was thirteen. Since he threw me away.

Nate continues, "You contact him, say you want to talk. Then, once we have him alone… we have some fun."

The room holds its breath.

Kai mutters, "I still think the mime was a solid option."

I snort and hurl a cushion at his head, letting out a sharp laugh that feels too easy.

Because deep down, my stomach is a knot of barbed wire.

Over the next few days, we finalise every detail.

But no amount of planning prepares me for this.

My palms are clammy, and I wipe them on my jeans for the hundredth time.

Just call him.

It was easy enough to find his number. Men like him—monsters like him—don't hide. They flaunt their wealth and their influence. Their names are etched into every dirty deal in the city.

Nate's plan is logical. Practical. Brutally effective.

But the thought of pretending to forgive him? Of forcing warmth into my voice for the man who derailed my entire existence?

It makes me sick.

What do I even say?

Hi, Dad. Remember how you sold me when I was thirteen? No hard feelings—let’s grab dinner and catch up.

The idea tastes bitter even in my imagination.

“Just do it,” I mutter to myself.

Nate watches me from across the room, arms folded, expression unreadable. "You don't have to do this."

But I do.

For me.

For every year he took from me.

I click call and the dial tone kicks in. My heart races and my stomach flutters with butterflies as I wait.

Each second stretches, thick and suffocating.

“Hello, this is Dominic Beckett speaking.”

My throat clogs as no words come out as his voice cuts through me. It’s barely changed, perhaps a little more mature.

I can't breathe. My throat tightens, strangling my words.

Say something.

“Hello?” he repeats, irritation creeping in.

“Dad?” I force the word out, my voice small and nervy.

There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other side of the phone. “Naomi?”

The name slams into me, a fist to the ribs. I hate that name.

I swallow the bile rising in my throat. "It's me."

A pause.

Then, nothing. No warmth. No disbelief. Just cold detachment.

“What’s wrong?” His no-nonsense tone grates on my nerves, stoking the embers of my barely contained rage.

No ‘Hello, long-lost daughter I haven’t seen in fifteen years,’ or ‘Hey, how’s life after I auctioned off your childhood to a rapist paedophile?’ Nope. Just a gruff ‘What’s wrong?’ Like I'm an inconvenient problem he never expected to resurface.

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.

Then the sound of a car pulling into the driveway rips through the air.

Both of us snap to attention, our bodies tense, muscles coiled. A sleek black BMW rolls to a stop, tires crunching over the gravel with a finality that sends a chill down my spine.

The door swings open, and a tall man steps out. Black, full tactical gear, head to toe.

“That’s not my father,” Carina mutters, her voice barely a whisper.

I exchange a look with Carina—one shared second of understanding—before our eyes snap back to the driveway. Four more men spill out of the car.

“What the fuck?” I hiss under my breath.

“This is a trap,” I growl, the gravity of the situation settling into my gut like a lead weight. My heart races, adrenaline surging.

“What do we do?” Carina’s voice is steady, but her eyes betray her concern.

My mind goes into overdrive. Five against two? Not great odds.

“We need to get out of here.”

She nods, the same thought flashing across her face. Without a word, we both start backing away from the window, moving in sync. We turn on our heels and sprint for the back of the house.

“We need to get to my cabin. Kai’s there with his car,” I hiss, my voice low but urgent.

The house is a labyrinth—each hallway, each turn, feels like an eternity as we race through the mansion. The backdoor is almost in sight when it slams open, revealing more men—more than we anticipated.

This is bad. This is really bad.

Figures flood inside, cutting off our escape.

I hear the front door explode off its hinges.

We're trapped.

“Guess we’re fighting, Princess,” I remark, my voice laced with dark humour.

We share a look—a brief moment of resignation—before we charge.

I’m on the first guy in an instant, my knife already in my hand. I jab it into his gut with brutal efficiency, his eyes widening in shock before he collapses. I rip the blade out, spinning to face the next one, but he’s already coming at me with a fist aimed straight at my head. I duck just in time, the punch missing by mere inches.

Carina’s holding her own, fighting off two men. She’s wild, unpredictable, but she has the advantage, and she knows it. She’s a force of nature, using their own momentum against them.

I turn my attention back to the remaining men. Another one comes at me, and I drive my knife into his side, but before I can even process the strike, I hear the click of a gun behind me.

Shit.

I turn just in time to see the barrel pointed directly at me.

My heart slams into my chest, and every instinct screams at me to move, to dodge, but there’s nowhere to go.

Knives, I can handle. Fists, I can break. Guns? I’m outmatched.

“Nate!” Carina’s muffled scream has my head turning to see her with a bag being shoved roughly over her head.

I lunge forward, ready to tear through anyone who stands between us, but I freeze mid-step when I feel the cold press of metal against my temple.

“Take one more step, and I’ll put a bullet through both of you.” The voice is low, chilling, like a promise of death.

My heart thunders in my chest, each beat a countdown. My mind races, searching for a way out, a way to save her. But nothing comes.

I'm still searching for it when the world explodes.

The gun slams into my skull, a sickening crack splitting through my mind like a bolt of lightning. Pain detonates behind my eyes, white-hot and blinding.

The last thing I hear before the darkness swallows me whole—

Carina's muffled scream.