Chapter 220
Serena
"And you just—" I gestured helplessly at the carnage. "You just followed her for hours?"
"I figured she might try something stupid. Revenge fantasies are common in people who've lost everything." His gaze flicked to Vanessa's crumpled SUV, expression hardening. "I didn't think she'd go this stupid."
He turned and stalked toward the driver's side door, wrenching it open with enough force to tear the damaged hinges. Vanessa spilled halfway out, held upright only by her seatbelt. Blood trickled from a gash on her forehead, mixing with the powder residue around her nostrils. But her eyes—God, her eyes—were still bright with that terrible manic energy.
She didn't look scared. She didn't look hurt.
She looked furious that I was still alive.
Wesley grabbed her by the collar and hauled her fully out of the vehicle, letting her stumble against the guardrail. She barely seemed to notice the rough treatment, her entire focus locked on me with laser intensity.
"Fuck!" Vanessa's voice tore from her throat, raw and shredded. "Why won't you just die already? How do you—every goddamn time, how do you—"
"Vanessa." My voice came out steadier than I felt, though my hands were shaking so badly I had to cross my arms to hide it. "I have to admit, even for you, attempted vehicular homicide is a new low."
She lunged. Wesley's hand shot out, catching the back of her jacket and yanking her back like she weighed nothing.
"She's high," he said, tone flat and clinical. "Two, maybe three grams of cocaine. This wasn't planned. This was impulse—desperation with a death wish attached."
Vanessa thrashed against his grip, mascara streaking down her hollow cheeks in black rivers, eyes wild and unfocused. The woman who once commanded rooms with a single glance now looked like something dragged from the wreckage of her own life—gaunt, feral, barely human.
"I'll kill you!" she screamed, words slurring together. "You think you can just—you think you can take everything from me and I'll just disappear? I'll rip your fucking throat out with my bare hands, you smug little—"
Wesley's fingers closed around her wrist. Hard. She gasped, whipping around to face him, and for just a second the manic rage in her expression flickered into something closer to recognition.
"Wesley," she spat, voice cracking. "You too? You traitor. You crashed into me—for her? After everything I—after we—"
"Shut up." His tone could have frozen blood. "Who put you up to this? You're not dumb enough to try something this sloppy on your own."
Vanessa went silent for exactly one beat. Then she threw her head back and laughed—a jagged, broken sound that made my skin crawl.
"Fuck you! What's it matter? Kill me if you want! But I swear to God, if I'm still breathing tomorrow, she won't be!"
The slap came so fast I barely saw it. Vanessa's head snapped to the side, and she crumpled to the asphalt, one hand clutching her reddening cheek.
"Tell me," Wesley said, voice dropping to something low and lethal. "Let me guess—Felix whispered in your ear, didn't he? Told you exactly where she'd be, exactly when. Have you been meeting with him?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she pushed herself up on one elbow, tilted her head, and smiled—a slow, mocking curl of her lips that didn't reach her hollow eyes.
"Oh, how touching," she drawled, every word dripping venom. "Wesley Lawson, playing hero for his ex-girlfriend. But what's the point, Wesley? You think she'll ever love you back? Newsflash, dumbass—she's Lance's. Always has been. Always will be. You could save her life a hundred times and she'd still never even look at you."
Something flickered across Wesley's face—too fast to name, too complex to decode. Pain? Resignation? Anger? It vanished before I could be sure, replaced by that new mask of cold indifference he wore so well now.
Heat rose to my cheeks. My chest tightened with something uncomfortably close to guilt, though I had no reason to feel it. I opened my mouth, searching for words that wouldn't come, then forced myself to pivot back to the immediate problem.
"Vanessa," I said, voice sharp enough to cut. "Tell us who's behind this. Right now. Or I'm calling the cops."
Wesley crouched down beside her, movements slow and deliberate, like a predator circling wounded prey. When he spoke again, his voice was soft—almost conversational—but there was something deeply, fundamentally wrong in the way he smiled.
"Oh, the cops?" He tilted his head, considering. "That's too clean. Too easy. See, my brothers in the Obsidian Brotherhood? They have other methods. We could start simple—break a few fingers, one at a time. Or go old-school—pliers, teeth, the whole nine yards. There's this guy, Dante, who's really good with a blowtorch. Says kneecaps make the best screams. Very… musical."