Page 40 of Veil of Obsession

I pad forward, my bare feet silent against the damp earth. The cold air bites at my skin, but I don’t feel it. Not really. The thrill, the anticipation, is too consuming and intoxicating, wrapping around me like a second skin.

She reaches the lake’s edge, sobbing softly now, hands shaking as she braces herself against the wooden railing that separates the land from the still, black water.

There are no cameras here. No witnesses. Only the wind rustling through the trees and the distant, eerie call of a fox somewhere in the brush.

She doesn’t hear me. Not until it’s too late.

I move behind her, swift and silent. My fingers brush the delicate chain around her throat—a fragile thing, gold and dainty, like her. But it’s thick enough to get the job done.

She gasps, jerking slightly, but I’m already moving. I grip the necklace and pull.

Her breath chokes off instantly, her hands flying to her throat, nails clawing desperately at the chain as it bites into her skin, cutting off her air.

She kicks and struggles, but I am unmoved. I tighten my grip, twisting the chain against her windpipe and pulling her back against me.

The smell of perfume and desperation clings to her, mixing with the cool night air.

Her struggles grow weaker. Her nails scrape against my sheer gloves, but she has nothing left. Her legs buckle, her body convulses, and her gasps turning into silent, strangled cries.

And then…

Nothing.

I hold on for a moment longer, just to be sure. Then I let go. She crumples to the ground, her lifeless body slumping against the damp earth, eyes wide and empty.

There’s a slight tremor that rakes over my body, but I steel my back. I should feel something. Regret. Guilt. A sliver of humanity. But all I feel is satisfaction.

I kneel beside her, working quickly, dragging her toward the bushy area by the water’s edge. The foxes will come. They should, anyway. This area is full of them.

When I retrieve the small flask from my purse, the scent of alcohol fills the air as I drench her body in it. A sloppy detail, meant to mislead, to confuse. A girl—humiliated, rejected, drunk and careless—stumbling toward the water.

A tragedy. A mistake. An accident. Not a murder.

I step back, adjusting my dress, The black silk remains pristine, the night hiding my sins. My gloves, however, are tainted—the sheer fabric now damning evidence of my crime. I peel them off, slow and methodical, stuffing them into my purse before turning on my heel.

And then I walk away. Back toward the ballroom. Back toward him.

I make sure to put my heels back on once the ground turns back to stone instead of grass. My heartbeat remains steady, my steps measured. The warmth of the estate embraces me as I slip through the grand doors, the whim of conversation and the clinking of glasses replacing the silence of the dark garden.

I glance at my reflection in the towering mirror by the entrance. Perfect. Untouched. Unbothered. Like I never left at all.

The ballroom is warm, alive with laughter, music, and the clinking of crystal glasses, but I remain untouched by the vibrancy of it all. I move effortlessly through the crowd, my pulse even, my expression one of bored indifference.

No one knows. No one suspects. I should feel safe, confident.

But then I see it.

A smear of mud against the silk of the gown. It’s faint, barely noticeable under the dim glow of the chandeliers, but I see it, and that’s enough.

A flaw. A mistake. Unacceptable.

My fingers tighten around my clutch, my mind working quickly, calculating, assessing my options.

I need to leave. I need to change. I need to burn the gloves before the fibers trap the memory of the pulse against my fingers.

I glance around, searching for an opening. And then I find it.

A waiter moves through the ballroom, balancing a tray of drinks—crimson wine glistening under the light, deep amber liquor reflecting gold. Perfect.