Page 35 of The Toy Collector

“How long have you worked for me?” I snap, my voice a sharp blade cutting through the tension, anger boiling just beneath the surface.

“W-what?” he stammers, his eyes widening in fear, his grip on the steering wheel tightening as if it could anchor him against the storm brewing in the backseat.

I shake my head with a sharp jerk, making a deliberate show of adjusting my cufflinks with a precise, almost mechanical motion. “The answer required a number,” I state, my voice cutting through the air like ice. “Six days, six months, six years. What it didn’t require was a question.” My eyes bore into him with a relentless intensity. “So I’ll ask you again, and this time, I expect nothing but the truth. How long have you worked for me?”

He swallows with a loud gulp, and a bead of sweat emerges on his forehead, glistening under the harsh light. “Four years, two months, and twenty-two days,” he stammers, his voice trembling with unease.

I nod slowly, my eyes locked onto his as I deliberately reach for my tie, undoing it with measured precision. “That’s exactly what I thought,” I say, my voice cold and cutting. “Which means you knew better than to touch her. You knew—and you still fucking did it.”

“Touch?” he blurts, panic rising in his voice. “I haven’t touched anything, Mr. Russo. I swear, I—”

His denial ignites a blazing fury within me, surging like a storm ready to obliterate everything in its path. I lurch forward with ferocious intent, wrapping the tie around his throat with a vise-like grip, squeezing tighter and tighter.

“I saw you!” I bellow, my voice echoing with the force of an avalanche. “Touching my toy in her own home. You. Touched. Her.” The words explode from my mouth, each syllable a dagger aimed at his very soul.

He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off with a glare that could slice through steel. There’s nothing he can say. Words won’t save him. Begging won’t slow me. He signed his own death warrant, and I’m here to execute it.

A dark thrill courses through me as I see the color drain from his face in the rearview mirror, his skin turning a sickly hue. Desperately, he raises a hand to tug at the tie choking him, but I slap it away with a force that leaves my palm stinging.

I don’t just choke him. I make him burn with it, just like I am. The betrayal. The audacity. And the fucking touch. My hands shake with rage as I squeeze.

His pulse thrums wildly beneath my fingers, a pathetic staccato begging for mercy. I don’t give in. I squeeze harder, feeling his struggle turn sluggish, his kicks weakening. His lips part—one last plea, one last breath. And then... nothing. Silence. Perfection.

My heart pounds, adrenaline surging as I text Cy, a single command for cleanup blazing across the screen. His response is instant and primal—a wolf emoji, howling back at me with the ferocity of a predator ready to devour the remains.

Chapter 14

Piper

It’s been one week since I had my interview at Blackwood Strategic Advisory. An interview I still don’t know how I feel about.

Part of me feels weirdly proud. I made a choice, took control. But then there’s that other voice, curled in the back of my skull like smoke, whispering that I sold my body for an opportunity I haven’t even started earning.

Thankfully, I’ve mostly been able to ignore that voice. Even if it’s right, who cares? I have landed one of the most prestigious internships that exists. Not just in D.C., but globally.

With Lena out of town, I’ve buried my negative feelings in what must be gallons of ice cream and more bottles of wine than I care to admit. A part of me is happy she’s gone. Otherwise, I would have confessed everything the second I got back from the interview. And… well, I really don’t want to.

The day after the interview, I received a package from the company. A man wearing a crisp suit delivered a bouquet of black tulips, a bottle of Louis Roederer Cristal Rosé Champagne, and a matte black folder embossed with the Blackwood crest—a wolf with its maw open in a silent howl.

Inside the folder was the contract I signed while blindfolded, onboarding documents—including a very strict dress code, an even stricter moral code of conduct, and instructions on how to contact my driver.

There was also a sleek brass Blackwood name badge for office access, already stamped with my face. Judging by the looks of it, it was taken of me as I entered the building the day I went for the interview.

The last thing inside the folder was a note from Maria—handwritten in careful script, just polite enough to feel impersonal.

We’re thrilled to have you join us.

Sincerely,

Maria Wilson

Later that afternoon, an email followed.

“Per company policy, all new Blackwood hires must undergo a comprehensive medical screening. Your appointment has been scheduled at Arlington Diagnostic & Preventive Services for October 8, 9:00 a.m. Please arrive on time. This ensures continued eligibility for internal insurance coverage.”

And now I’m here, standing outside a building I’ve never heard of until a week ago. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, willing my heartbeat to slow.

The doors slide open with a hushed whoosh, ushering me into a pristine foyer where the sharp scent of antiseptic collides with an incongruous whiff of expensive cologne. The collision leaves me off-balance before I even approach the gleaming marble reception desk.

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