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Worth It

Hypothetical Question: If you had to choose, would you use feet for hands or hands for feet?

Carina

Daddy Death: Hypothetical Question: If you had to pick one season to have all your round, would you pick summer or winter, and why?

Queen Carina: Summer. I hate the cold.

Queen Carina: Same question.

Daddy Death: Winter. I'm unbearable in the summer.

Queen Carina: Do tell…

Daddy Death: The heat makes me snappy.

Queen Carina: Why?

Daddy Death: Because I sweat like a sinner in church. It's not a good look.

Queen Carina: That explains a lot. I'll check in with you during winter to see if you're any more tolerable then.

Nate and I have been trading absurd hypotheticals for the past two weeks, answering each other's ridiculous questions like it's a ritual. And maybe, in some strange way, it is.

Every morning, I wake up to his messages. I look at my phone every night, waiting for that next reply. It's ridiculous how I catch myself smiling at my screen, and his words take up space in my mind when I should focus on other things.

Like revenge.

I stare at his last message, picturing him scowling under the summer sun, sweating, miserable, cursing the heat with every fibre of his being. The image is oddly… endearing.

And then, just as easily, my thoughts drift somewhere else. Somewhere darker.

The memory of our last FaceTime call flickers through my mind, and heat blooms across my skin. I don't know what came over me that night. Maybe it was the tension of plotting my next move. Maybe it was just Nate—his voice, presence, how he looked at me like he saw everything .

All I knew was that I wanted him.

I groan, tipping my head back against the sofa, feeling restless in a way I can't quite place. He gets under my skin too easily and occupies too much space in my mind. When I'm not responding to his texts, I'm thinking about him. When I'm not thinking about him, I'm plotting.

And maybe that's the problem.

Because the two things—the blood, the retribution, the delicious thrill of making them pay —they're getting tangled. Twisted together in a way that shouldn't make sense but does .

It's almost funny how quickly this shift has happened. I started down this path seeking justice, but now? Now, it's more than that. Now, I want to see them unravel. To watch their world collapse, brick by crumbling brick.

And Robert is next.

I pull open my chat with Doctor Morgan. She was so excited when I told her about my call with Nate. Maybe to other people it would seem inappropriate to message your old therapist about phone sex, and perhaps it is, but she’s my voice of reason. She stops my thoughts from worrying.

Doc M: I’m noticing significant growth here, Carina. This must have required tremendous courage after what you’ve experienced. You’re clearly building trust with him.

A smile tugs at my lips as I read our messages from last week.

Carina: I do

Carina: I trust him. Is that silly?

Doc M: Not if he hasn’t given you a reason not to. Trust is earned, but so is distrust. Consider this: What evidence supports your trust in him? What evidence contradicts it? Your instincts deserve respect.

She always knows what to say to stop me spiralling.

Carina: So, you don’t think it was crazy?

Doc M: Who cares if it was? You’re being brave and that’s what’s important.

Carina: I miss you.

Doc M: I miss our conversations too. Sending strength your way. I’m incredibly proud of how far you’ve come.

A shiver runs through me, unbidden. I feel that sensation of being watched for a fleeting moment. My breath hitches, and my gaze flicks toward the window.

Nothing.

No one.

I shake it off. No one knows where I am. I'm safe here.

But safety doesn't make my heart race, and it doesn't send that electric thrill through my veins. Revenge does.

And I want to savour every second of it.

I don't just want Robert dead. I want him to know, to feel the inevitability of his destruction. I want to see the moment realisation dawn in his eyes—that split-second of panic when he understands that there's no escape, bargaining, or mercy.

And when the end comes, when the last breath leaves his body, and his gaze turns vacant?

I'll smile.

Smug. Satisfied.

Certain that every second of this was worth it.