Chapter 19: MISTAKE

Vincent

The cloying sweetness of her perfume hung in the air, thick and suffocating, like cheap roses dipped in saccharine. It clawed at my nostrils, battling with the rich aroma of the steak I hadn’t ordered and the faintest metallic tang of my own simmering rage.

Across the polished mahogany table, Sara Brooks laughed. It was a high-pitched, brittle sound, like glass shattering in slow motion, each shard grating on my already frayed nerves. Each giggle was a tiny hammer blow against my skull. I wanted to silence it. Permanently.

She was my new boss, a viper in designer clothing, and this mandatory ‘team-building’ dinner was a thinly veiled attempt to worm her way into whatever she thought I was hiding. And she was right, I was hiding plenty.

The agency, once comfortably predictable, had shifted on its axis when she’d slithered in to fill old Peterson’s shoes. Peterson, bless his oblivious heart, had let me operate in the shadows, a phantom whisper in the wind. Sara, however, was digging, scratching at the surface of things best left buried. My things.

Years of cultivating an innocent facade, of blending into the background noise of everyday life, were now threatened. Vincent De la Roche – the charming, efficient investigator, the man with a knack for solving cold cases, the one everyone underestimated.

That was the mask. Beneath it, the beast paced, hungry and restless, and Sara’s presence was stirring it awake. The recent spate of disappearances, the neatly orchestrated ends to lives that had begun to bore me or piss me off – those needed to remain unsolved, mysteries swirling in the city’s underbelly, not neatly packaged and attributed to Vincent De La Roche. Not yet.

Sara. Just the syllables of her name tasted like ash in my mouth. She thought she could charm her way into my good graces, thought a forced smile and a cascade of meaningless small talk would grant her access to… what? My loyalty? My secrets?

Perhaps she believed she could leverage my reputation, use me as a pawn in her own ambition-driven game. The thought made my teeth clench. Loyalty was a commodity I traded sparingly, and certainly not to a woman whose very existence grated on my soul.

The urge was a visceral thrumming in my veins. To reach across the table, to wrap my hands around that powdered neck, to squeeze until the brittle laughter choked in her throat, replaced by a desperate, gurgling silence.

I never touched women, not like that. Children were off-limits, too. A code, twisted as it was, that I adhered to. But Sara… Sara was testing the boundaries of my control. She was a persistent itch under my skin, a constant, grating reminder that my carefully constructed world was fragile, vulnerable to her prying eyes. The desire to silence her, to extinguish the irritating spark of her existence, was a dark, seductive whisper in my mind. To drain the life from her, to watch the light fade from those beady, calculating eyes… the image flickered, tantalizingly vivid.

But control was paramount. Discipline, the cage I had built around the beast, had to hold. To indulge her for an hour, to play the part of the attentive colleague, was a small price to pay for maintaining the illusion. These charades, these forced courtesies, were the shackles of civilized society, especially when navigating the treacherous waters of workplace hierarchy. It was tiresome, a tedious dance of false smiles and manufactured pleasantries.

Arianna. The mere thought of her name was a balm, a cool hand on a fevered brow. Her image bloomed in my mind – the soft curve of her neck, the vulnerability in her eyes when she looked at me, the way her breath hitched when I touched her. The thought of her skin, the taste of her… a primal ache clenched in my gut. Desire, raw and visceral, momentarily eclipsed the simmering rage directed at Sara. Arianna. My Arianna.

A smile stretched across my lips, a genuine sliver of pleasure cutting through the darkness. Sara, oblivious to the storm raging beneath my composed facade, probably mistook it for burgeoning camaraderie, for a softening of my professional reserve. Foolish woman. Her lack of perception was almost comical, a testament to her self-absorbed world. My carefully curated non-hostility, the practiced neutrality of my responses, sailed right over her head, lost in the fog of her own vanity.

I swirled the amber liquid in my glass, the ice clinking softly, a stark contrast to the internal cacophony. Her voice, laced with a faux-friendly saccharine tone, slithered over my skin, leaving a trail of prickling irritation. Like fire ants, yes, that was it. Crawling beneath the fabric of my tailored suit, each word a tiny, venomous bite. The tailored cotton suddenly felt constricting, suffocating, an inadequate barrier against the wave of revulsion that Sara’s presence evoked.

“So Vincent,” she began, her voice dripping with familiarity, a presumptuous intimacy I hadn’t granted her, hadn’t even hinted at. I cut her off before the saccharine could fully coat my name.

“Mr. De La Roche,” I corrected, the words clipped, precise, a subtle but firm assertion of boundaries.

Sara’s laughter, that brittle, shattering sound, echoed again. “Okay, Mr. De La Roche.” She leaned forward slightly, her surgically enhanced features attempting a playful expression. “You don’t have to be so formal with me. I know we haven’t worked together that long, but since you’re on my team, we should be on a first-name basis. It makes me feel old,” she finished with a practiced pout, batting those absurdly long, fake eyelashes in my direction.

‘You are old,’ the thought screamed in my head, but I swallowed it down, a bitter pill of restraint. Suppressing the urge to snort with derision was a minor victory in this agonizing charade. I had no inherent aversion to older women. Some possessed a certain… seasoned allure. But Sara was not one of them.

Fifty-two, she was, plastered in enough cosmetic enhancements to rival a mannequin. Some might argue she looked ‘young’ for her age. But the rot was internal. Her personality, that toxic cocktail of entitlement and manipulative charm, aged her far more than any wrinkle or grey hair ever could. The ugliness radiated from within, poisoning the air around her.

“Ms. Brooks,” I replied, my voice calm, measured, betraying none of the turmoil churning within. “I appreciate the…pleasantries, but I believe it’s best to maintain a professional distance. This is a work dinner, after all, a professional engagement.” The words felt like shards of glass on my tongue, sharp and cold. A deliberate low blow, aimed precisely to wound that fragile ego.

I needed to establish dominance, to make it unequivocally clear that my boundaries were not negotiable. Her fleeting expression of annoyance, quickly masked by a tight smile, was a small, satisfying victory. She didn’t like being denied. Probably wasn’t accustomed to it.

“Fine. Whatever suits you,” she conceded, the words clipped, edged with thinly veiled irritation. “So, about the case of the last missing person. Charles Parker. You still don’t have a clue where he might be?” Her eyes, narrowed and probing, fixed on mine, searching for… what? Deception? Guilt?

Charles Parker. He was indeed missing. Missing skin, missing an eye, missing from the land of the living. Deep underground, buried beneath the cold earth in my private, ever-expanding cemetery. A faint smile tugged at the corner of my lips. If only she knew.

“No,” I said smoothly, maintaining eye contact, letting nothing flicker in my gaze. Innocence was my best weapon. “But I’m still actively working the case, pursuing all leads. There were some victims of his still alive after the assaults – sexual assaults, as you know. Two are hospitalized with severe head trauma. I intend to speak with their families, gather any information that might shed light on his current whereabouts, and his potential associates.” Lies flowed effortlessly from my tongue, a practiced performance honed over years of deception.

She had no idea. The irony was almost delicious. She sat across from me, engaging in polite conversation, while her quarry, the very man she was forced to work with, was smiling back at her, feigning cooperation. Knowing my reputation, my supposed skill, she was simply trying to grease the wheels, to extract any information, any ‘secrets’ I might be privy to, hoping to bask in reflected glory. Another pathetic attempt at manipulation.

My watch vibrated discreetly against my wrist. Arianna’s tracker. The tiny red dot on the digital map was moving, her location pinging in real time. I couldn’t access the audio feed in this public setting, but the trajectory of the dot was concerning. It was getting closer. Alarmingly close. To this restaurant.

If she saw me here, with Sara… Misunderstanding was a wildfire in the dry tinder of Arianna’s emotions. She was exquisitely sensitive, a delicate flower prone to wilting at the slightest perceived slight. Even the smallest perceived betrayal, the faintest scent of infidelity, could trigger a tempest of tears and accusations. And tonight, of all nights, was not the time to ignite that storm. I was so close. So agonizingly close to breaking her, to molding her completely to my will. To stumble now, to jeopardize everything because of a chance encounter… unacceptable.

The case, this tedious game of cat and mouse, was dragging on far longer than anticipated. And the deadline for my latest book, the meticulously crafted masterpiece… it was looming. A month overdue already. The pressure was mounting.

A dangerous thought, insidious and seductive, slithered into my consciousness: Quit. Just walk away. Sever all ties, abandon this charade of normalcy. Focus solely on Arianna. Dedicate myself entirely to her, to possessing her completely, irrevocably. No more distractions, no more pretenses, no more Sara Brooks. Just Arianna. And me. It would be so easy.

The waiter arrived, bearing Sara’s plate - a mountain of lobster thermidor, reeking of garlic and excess. I barely registered his presence, my focus laser-sharp on the pulsating red dot on my watch face. Arianna’s location. Just blocks away. Then, across the street. Then… right outside.

Her daily routine was etched in my mind, every movement, every habit meticulously cataloged. Lately, however, her predictable patterns had become… erratic. Unpredictable deviations from her norm. And she never frequented this part of the town alone.

Why? Why was she here? A knot of anxiety tightened in my chest. What if it wasn’t just a casual outing? What if… another client? The thought was a physical blow. Another man vying for her attention, her time, her… everything. My fists clenched beneath the table. I hoped, with a chilling sincerity, that I wouldn’t have to add another name to my list tonight. Another inconvenient obstacle removed. Another necessary casualty in the pursuit of my desire.

“Are you listening, Mr. De la Roche?” Sara’s voice, sharp and demanding, sliced through my turbulent thoughts. Her mouth, smeared with lobster bisque, moved as she spoke, a grotesque parody of sensuality.

Yuck. Even in this sterile, pretentious setting, she ate like an animal, devoid of grace, of refinement. Disgust coiled in my stomach.

“Yes,” I replied, forcing my attention back to the abhorrent creature across the table. “Go on.” But my eyes remained fixed, covertly, on the tiny red dot, now stationary, impossibly close. Then, the sound. Faint at first, but unmistakable. Laughter. Light, airy, undeniably feminine laughter. And then… her voice.

My Arianna.

She walked into the restaurant, a burst of vibrant color in the muted tones of the upscale establishment. My gaze locked onto her instantly, magnetically drawn. And then I saw her companion. Nicole. Her obnoxiously cheerful, ever-present best friend. Relief washed over me, a momentary reprieve from the suffocating tension. Not a man. Just Nicole. For now.

The waiter, gesturing towards available tables, was speaking to Arianna, but my focus remained solely on her. Her eyes flicked briefly, unconsciously, in our direction, a fleeting, almost imperceptible glance behind the waiter. For a heartbeat, our gazes met, a fleeting connection across the crowded room. Pretending not to see her, to ignore the magnetic pull of her presence, was an exercise in excruciating self-control. Especially when she looked… like that.

Edible. That was the only word for it. Her outfit was a blatant invitation, a deliberate provocation – a ridiculously short cheerleader skirt, all pleated innocence and suggestive bounce, paired with a cropped top emblazoned with the words ‘Good Girl’ in bold, childish lettering.

Good girl. Yes. So fitting. So very, very fitting.

Hiding a smirk, I take another sip of my drink, the amber liquid doing little to soothe the fire already burning in my gut. But then I see her. Arianna. Across the crowded dining hall, her eyes land on me, and my heart stops. Not from adoration, not today. Her expression is a storm. Angry. Hurt.

Shit.

Of course, I’m the cause.

Sara, oblivious across from me, chatters about some pointless previous cases of missing twin brothers, but my focus is locked on Arianna. Her gaze flickers to Sara, then back to me, and something sharp and possessive flashes in their dark depths. Jealousy. The sight should ignite a thrill, a dark satisfaction in my veins, but today, it’s overshadowed by something heavier. Pain.

Even the ghost of a smile dies on my lips. Her tears aren’t visible, but the intensity in her eyes is a physical blow. I can’t look directly at her, the raw emotion too potent, too dangerously close to shattering my carefully constructed façade of indifference.

What have I done?

She turns abruptly, a sharp, wounded movement, like a cornered animal. Nicole, ever the peacemaker, intercepts her, whispers something, and then, damn it, a waiter is leading them to a booth on the opposite side of the hall. I still see them, though. Through the narrow gap between their table and the wall, Arianna’s slumped shoulders and the way she keeps wiping at her eyes are a brand on my soul.

I can’t take it anymore. This charade with Sara, Arianna’s pain… It’s all a twisted knot in my chest. Slipping the tiny earpiece from my jacket, I slide it into my ear while Sara is distracted. A quick press of the audio button on my phone, and suddenly, her voice, trembling and broken, fills my ear.

“Don’t bother. I will not allow him to ruin my life anymore. He was a mistake.”

The glass in my hand shatters. I don’t even register the sharp sting at first. Only the wetness and the crimson blooming across my knuckles as I slam my fist onto the table. Sara jumps back, staring at me like I’ve lost my mind. And maybe I have. Maybe losing Arianna is enough to drive me insane.

My girl’s words echo in my head, a brutal, unforgivable judgment. The restaurant stills, a ripple of shock spreading through the room. I don’t care. I wasn’t trying to make a scene, wasn’t planning on anything but enduring this dinner so I could escape to Arianna’s place later, making things right in the darkness of her apartment. But now? Now everything is different.

My glare finds her across the room, pins her in place. She’s watching me, her throat working as she swallows, a tiny, vulnerable movement that ignites a different kind of fire.

I’m a mistake?

Three days. Three goddamn days I’ve been away, tangled in work, and she thinks… she thinks I don’t love her enough to stay away from temptation? That she’s not the only one who matters? I’ll make her eat those words. I will taste her regret on her lips as I pull her close, as I bury myself deep inside her, reminding her, branding her, with the undeniable truth of my possessive, absolute love. She is mine. Only mine.

Blood drips onto the pristine white tablecloth, but I barely feel it. My fingers, trembling with rage and something darker, something possessive, punch out a text on my phone, the blood smearing the screen in the process.

Baby, you’re in big trouble.

Her eyes widen, a flicker of fear mixing with surprise. But then, defiance hardens her features. And she does the unthinkable. The ultimate insult. She flips me off. Then she takes Nicole’s hand and flees, disappearing through the restaurant doors. Leaving me. Leaving without a single word. Without even acknowledging my message, breaking our unspoken rule.

Rage turns to ice, a cold, stiffening dread. Guilt, unwelcome and unwanted, claws at me as I watch the empty doorway. I’m up, chair scraping back with violent force, ready to chase her, to drag her back, but Sara’s voice stops me.

“What are you doing? You’re bleeding.”

I can’t even look at her. My gaze is locked on that door, on the space Arianna just occupied. I need to catch up with her. Now. My feet move, carrying me toward the exit, leaving Sara standing dumbfounded, blood smeared and forgotten at the table. Let her be annoyed. Let her hate me. It’s insignificant. Nothing matters but Arianna.

Wiping the blood with a napkin snatched from a passing waiter, my teeth grind together.

Mistake, she called me.

I’ll show you a mistake, love.

I’ll fucking show you.