Chapter 60

Chapter 60
The boy twirled her again. She smiled. Her hair caught the light like it had the right to be that free in my presence. I stood there, still as a blade resting in its sheath, and for a fleeting second I considered walking down those stairs, pulling her away from him, and letting the entire room see who she truly belonged to.

But no. That would be too easy. Too loud. Too... merciful.

I stepped back into the shadows, away from the rail. The mayor's nervous laughter floated from somewhere nearby, the strings of the quartet filling the air like a veil. I adjusted my suit jacket, my expression a mask, and turned toward the exit. My men followed instantly — they always did.

The heavy doors of the gala opened, spilling warm light onto the cool night street. I didn't glance back. I didn't need to. Joy would feel my absence later, in the quiet when she realized she hadn't seen me. And that realization would sit in her chest like a stone.

Outside, the city air tasted different — raw, unpolished, real. I lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating my face before vanishing. A black car pulled up, tires whispering against the pavement. My driver stepped out to open the door, but I waved him off.

I wanted the walk.

Every step away from that building was deliberate. The further I got, the clearer my thoughts became. The boy's face. His posture. His touch on her. I stored it all away like evidence in a locked drawer, ready to be used.

By the time I reached the car, my plan was already forming. It wouldn't be tonight. It wouldn't be messy. It would be personal.

I slid into the back seat, the door closing with a muted thud. "Drive," I told the chauffeur.

The engine hummed to life, and the gala's golden lights faded in the rearview mirror. Ahead, the streets stretched into darkness — the kind of darkness where I did my best work.

Joy could dance for now. The boy could breathe for now. But nothing lasts forever.

And I was done being merciful.

The drive back to the house was quiet, except for the soft purr of the engine and the occasional flicker of streetlights slicing through the car's tinted glass. I kept my gaze forward, my mind replaying the gala in fragments — the boy's smirk, Joy's smile, her grandmother's approving touch. Every detail etched deeper into me, feeding a hunger I didn't intend to starve.

The gates of the estate opened on command. The car rolled into the courtyard, the gravel crunching like brittle bones under the tires. The house loomed in front of me — tall, dark, familiar, and mine. My driver parked, and I stepped out without a word, the night air cooler here, cleaner.

Inside, the hall was dimly lit, the chandeliers casting lazy shadows across the marble. I shrugged off my coat, tossing it onto the arm of a chair, and was halfway toward the stairs when I heard the soft click of heels behind me.

"Long night, sir?"

Her voice was light, teasing, and far too comfortable for her station. I didn't bother turning yet.

"It was... entertaining," I said, my tone neutral.

She moved closer, the faint scent of her perfume curling into the air. "You could use some company," she said, a sly smile in her tone. "Someone to help you... unwind."

That made me turn. Slowly.

She was standing there — young, pretty, with a silk blouse just a button too low. Her eyes were warm, her lips painted with the kind of confidence that thought it could tempt me.

"You think I need company?" I asked, stepping toward her.

Her smile widened. "I could make you forget all about—"

"Go stand by the wall," I interrupted softly.

The sudden shift made her blink. "The wall?"

"Yes," I said, my voice warm, inviting. "Over there. Just... stand for me."

There was a flicker of hesitation in her eyes, but she obeyed, walking slowly to the far side of the hall, her heels tapping against the marble. She turned, her back against the cold plaster, still trying to make it playful.

I closed the distance between us halfway — then stopped. My hand slid into my jacket, fingers curling around the handle of a small throwing knife. The weight was comforting.

"You know," I said conversationally, "flirting with me... in this house... is dangerous."

She laughed lightly, though her eyes darted to the blade as I let it catch the light. "I didn't mean any harm—"

The knife left my hand before she could finish.

It cut through the air in a clean arc and buried itself into her stomach with a wet, muffled sound. Her breath hitched, eyes widening in shock before her hands clutched at the hilt. A dark bloom of red began spreading across the pale silk of her blouse.

She slid down the wall slowly, her breathing shallow, her eyes glassy with disbelief. I walked up to her, crouching slightly, my voice low and almost gentle.

"Here, harm is never about intention. It's about disrespect."

Her lips trembled, trying to form words, but blood was already seeping from the corner of her mouth. I straightened, tugged the knife free with a quick motion, and wiped the blade with a crisp white handkerchief.

The hall was quiet again, except for her ragged breaths. I didn't look back as I called for one of my men to "clean it up."

As I walked away, I thought of Joy again — and the boy at the gala. The maid's blood was just a reminder.

Blood has a way of reminding you what's essential and what isn't. Standing there, wiping the blade with slow, deliberate movements, my mind settled into a conclusion I'd been circling for weeks: me and Joy do not need this many maids.

They're clutter. Clutter that talks. Clutter that sees.

Too many eyes watching her when I'm not around. Too many voices whispering nonsense into her ear, feeding ideas that don't belong to her. A smaller staff — loyal, silent, and handpicked — will be all we need. People who understand their place and have no desire to look into ours.

When I bring her back — and I will bring her back — my first mission will be simple: get her pregnant.

Not in months. Not after she's "settled." Immediately.

A child changes everything. She won't have the energy to run, the desire to escape, or the courage to fight. And once she's carrying something that's half of me, she'll begin to understand what it means to belong — not in the way she thinks now, but in the way I define it.

She'll be a full housewife. No more wandering, no more late-night walks in the garden looking for fresh air. She'll breathe the air I give her. She'll live within walls I've chosen. She'll wear dresses I've bought. And she'll never wonder about the outside world again — because the outside world will have no part of her anymore.

The thought already sent a warm, dangerous satisfaction through me, curling low in my stomach.

I could see it now: Joy moving through the kitchen, barefoot, hair tied loosely back, the scent of something cooking drifting through the air. She'd look up when I entered the room, offering that soft smile I'll train into her, one that means yes, I understand my place.

The garden — she'd tend to it during the day, her hands in the dirt, her mind too preoccupied with the child inside her to think of running. In the evenings, she'd be upstairs, in our bed, the lamp casting a golden glow over her face as I reminded her, over and over, why she exists here.

She wouldn't be a prisoner. No. Prisoners dream of escape.

She'd be a possession. And possessions don't dream.