Page 26 of Watch Me Burn

CATERINA

T he doorman smiles when I inform him I live here now. Aaron’s probably paid him enough to keep so many secrets.

The pause before his nod says it all.

“Mr. Jackson mentioned you’d be arriving today, Mrs. Jackson,” he says, handing me an access key. “My name is George. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to call.”

“Thank you.”

I watch George guide the movers to a separate elevator before I decide to head up.

The name doesn’t fit. It feels alien—foreign, suffocating; not mine.

I step into the over-the-top-elevator, which is covered in mirrors, avoiding my reflection fragmented across its mirrored surfaces as it ascends to the penthouse floor.

The way Aaron says my name drives me insane.

Caterina .

I hate how easily it slips from his lips, as if he has the right to own even that small part of me.

When the doors slide open, I find Aaron waiting, arms crossed, expression carved from stone.

“You’re late.”

“Like you care.” I brush past him, my shoulder deliberately grazing his as my small entourage of movers follows with boxes and suitcases. “Where do you want me?”

His jaw tightens. “Guest room. Second door on the left.”

He thinks surrendering the space gives him power. He has no idea I’ve already claimed more than his bed.

“Not going to give me your primary bedroom? Not a very good host, are you?”

“No cameras here. No audience to perform for.” He ignores my question.

“Just your doorman, the building staff, your sister, Dominik, Tristan, and anyone else who might drop by unannounced.” I maintain eye contact, refusing to cede ground. “Unless you want to explain separate bedrooms to curious visitors.”

A muscle works in his jaw. “Fine. Master bedroom. But don’t get too comfortable, we’re setting boundaries.”

Victory tastes sweet, if petty. I direct the movers toward the spacious bedroom I glimpsed during my watch. The same one I’ve seen him sleep in alone for months, before he knew I was keeping a close eye on him.

The movers finish quickly, leaving behind the modest collection of possessions that represent my life as Caterina Mortelle. Most of what I own belonged to Via, an identity I’ve been forced to abandon. I miss her. I miss the woman I was pretending to be.

Once we’re alone, Aaron stands in the doorway of his bedroom, our bedroom now, watching me unpack with barely concealed hostility.

“You’ve redecorated,” I remark casually, running my fingers along the new bedspread. “Different from the last time I saw it.”

His expression darkens. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Acknowledge our history?” I continue arranging my things, claiming space he clearly doesn’t want to give up. “Seems healthy for a marriage.”

“There’s nothing healthy about this.” He pushes away from the doorframe. “I’m going out. Try not to bug the place while I’m gone.”

“Too late,” I call after him, relishing his stiffened posture. “Did that months ago.”

Alone in Aaron’s house.

And even though I know every corner of his life, standing here now—in his space, surrounded by his things—I’ve never felt more like an unwanted stranger.

It was so much easier when I was watching him from afar.

Aaron didn’t want to move to a new house, and Father wanted me in Hudson Yards, so I could keep a closer eye on Aaron’s operation. But being here by choice feels different, as if his hatred has weight here.

I explore the penthouse, not as a ghost in the shadows this time, but as its reluctant mistress.

The space is quintessentially Aaron: minimalist, expensive, controlled.

No photographs except one of him and Zoe at her college graduation.

No mementos or sentimental objects. No evidence of interests beyond work and wealth.

It’s devoid of character, cold and sterile, just like him. Even his home feels like a mausoleum—immaculate, expensive, and lifeless.

My fingers trail across his things as I walk around the silent apartment. The sleek leather sofa, the rare first editions on his bookshelf, the expensive scotch on the bar cart. Each touch a small rebellion, marking territory that was never meant to be shared.

Part of me secretly hopes he’s set up hidden cameras and is watching me right now. Watching as I invade every corner of his carefully controlled life.

I bet it would drive him absolutely insane.

Especially the part of him that needs control more than oxygen.

Night comes, and Aaron still hasn’t returned.

Fine. Let him stay away.

Out of spite, I shower in his bathroom, deliberately using his expensive products, leaving traces of myself everywhere. I slip between sheets scented faintly of his cologne, irritation flaring when I realize how quickly I’ve come to recognize it.

I can’t fall asleep. Maybe it’s because I’m in a new place or maybe his absence is somehow louder and more intrusive than if he were here.

Days pass with surgical precision, each one carved from the same pattern of avoidance. Aaron leaves before sunrise, returns after midnight, our paths crossing so rarely it seems choreographed. When we do interact, it’s with the detached courtesy of distant acquaintances sharing an elevator.

“Good morning.”

“Evening.”

“I’m heading out.”

“Don’t wait up.”

The penthouse becomes a battlefield of silent warfare. I leave evidence of my existence in subtle ways—my coffee cup in the sink, my book on the counter, my scent lingering in rooms long after I’ve left them. Small incursions into his carefully maintained isolation.

Not like he notices. The staff are always there, making sure the house goes back to its original condition. It always looks like a staged home, ready for brand new buyers.

How does he actually enjoy this?

By the fifth day, the silence has teeth. It gnaws at me as I pace the empty rooms, trapped with nothing but my thoughts for company. I need to kill and I’ve been plotting for days but I’m worried the one night I decide to slip away will be the night Aaron finally takes interest in my whereabouts.

I don’t understand why I’m having such a hard time navigating all of this. For someone who has spent years perfecting the art of solitude, the loneliness is unexpectedly sharp.

I’ve killed men without hesitation, faced down the worst of my father’s associates, lived a double life that would break most people. Yet somehow, Aaron’s deliberate indifference is getting on my nerves.

I’m curled up on the sofa with a glass of his expensive scotch when the familiar ding of the penthouse doors open at 1 a.m.

He pauses when he sees me, clearly hoping I’d be asleep.

“You’re still up.” He shrugs off his suit jacket.

I raise my glass in mock salute. “The great Aaron Jackson, master of the obvious.”

He ignores the jab, pouring himself a drink. “Problem sleeping?”

“Nope. I’m a night owl.”

He arches a brow. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, you’d know that if you were actually here,” I mutter under my breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

He hums, sipping on his drink as he watches me.

“Does my absence bother you?” he finally asks.

“No, not exactly. But you are avoiding me.” I set my glass down with more force than necessary. “Which would be fine if we weren’t supposed to be maintaining appearances of a happy marriage.”

“We appear happy when appearances matter.” Aaron loosens his tie. “Here, we don’t have to pretend.”

“You never being here complicates our arrangement. People will notice if we’re never seen together.”

“I’m working. It’s not suspicious.”

“It is when my aunt invites us to dinner three times and you conveniently have conflicts.” I stand, moving closer to him. “Besides, your sister has been asking questions.”

“I’ll handle Zoe.”

“Like you’re handling this?” I gesture between us. “By pretending I don’t exist?”

“What do you want from me, Caterina? Happy dinners? Cozy evenings on the couch?”

“I want you to honor our agreement.” I step closer, smelling his cologne. I shouldn’t want to matter. But I do. “Partners, remember?”

The air between us pulses with electricity, anger, and something else I don’t want to analyze. For a second, his expression softens, and I wonder if he’s finally going to let me in. But just as quickly, his defenses snap back into place.

“I have an early meeting. Goodnight, Caterina.”

He brushes past me without another glance, leaving me alone in the living room, frustration and scotch scorching twin trails down my throat.

The sting feels strangely comforting. Anger, after all, is safer than whatever this is threatening to seep through.

On the tenth day, I break. The silence has become a living thing, coiling around me like a snake, squeezing tighter with each passing hour. I’ve gone from anger to frustration to boredom.

I need a distraction.

I leave the penthouse, desperate for air and a few hours free of Aaron’s presence lingering over me like a phantom.

The city welcomes me with cold indifference as I wander aimlessly, just another anonymous soul lost among millions.

Eventually, I find myself in a small café—the kind Via might have loved, with mismatched furniture and baristas who smile like they mean it.

For a few stolen hours, I slip into her skin again, ordering a latte and losing myself in the pages of a battered paperback someone left behind.

But the illusion is weak. Fragile. Pretending won’t erase the restless ache inside me. The ache that demands blood, vengeance, and anything to regain sanity. To gain some control over all of this.

I crave the clarity that comes from knowing I’ve removed another predator from the world, the certainty that comes from delivering justice by my own hand. It’s the only time I truly feel like myself. Like I’m doing something worthwhile, as fucked up as that may seem.

Pulling out my phone, I quickly fire off a text to Marco, instructing him to line up the next target from our ever-growing list. It’s past time I started my research, sharpened my blades, and picked a fresh hunting ground, somewhere far beyond Aaron’s prying eyes.

Not that he’ll find me but I can’t ever be too careful. Not since our last encounter.

My fingers drum impatiently against the chipped wooden table until Marco’s response finally arrives.

Marco

Consider it done. Check the secure folder in five.

A thrill of anticipation pulses through me, momentarily quieting the ache gnawing at my core.

I toss some cash onto the table and step outside, adrenaline already beginning to buzz beneath my skin.

But as I round the corner, disappearing into the anonymity of Manhattan’s streets, a sharp, creeping unease slips down my spine.

Like I’m being followed.

My pulse jumps, breath catching as my senses tighten around the moment. I slow my pace. My eyes flick to passing windows, scanning for movement in the glass. Every shadow beneath the streetlights becomes a potential threat, every rustle of sound a signal.

But nothing stands out.

No footsteps. No lingering figures. Just the low hum of late-night traffic and the muffled life of apartment buildings stacked like silent witnesses around me.

Still, I can’t shake it.

That cold, crawling sensation.

Someone’s watching.

I double back twice, choosing indirect paths, each one more convoluted than the last. By the time I finally hail a cab, I feel better about the whole thing.

It’s probably because of what’s currently sitting unopened in my inbox.

The anxiety that my father could catch me and kill me at any moment doesn’t ever ease. Especially when I’ve set my mind up for the next kill.

The ride back to Seventeen Hudson Yards is silent as I try to compartmentalize my thoughts. When the penthouse comes into view, its towering silhouette against the sky feels oddly menacing. I pause outside, gathering myself, preparing in case tonight is the night I find I’m no longer alone.

But as soon as I step inside the giant penthouse, stillness greets me.

“Home sweet home.”

There is no sign of Aaron. But the air feels different. I don’t know how else to explain it. It’s as if the space itself is holding its breath, waiting for something, or someone, to break the silence.

I move carefully, instincts prickling at every sound: the faint creak of floorboards beneath my feet, the hum of the refrigerator, the muffled distant horns from traffic far below.

Everything appears untouched, exactly as I left it.

Maybe it’s just my mind turning against me.

Or maybe the darkness is pressing in closer, shrinking the space around me until all that’s left is the paranoia I can’t outrun.