Page 31 of Downfall

Paris dead and me finally free of this entire charade.

Roman

Yeah I did it. I took the opportunity to sneak inside. No one was around, at least none of the staff were anywhere to be seen.

And I watched the pair of them disappear into the waiting car, all dressed up and no doubt off to play the perfect couple at some event or other.

The house feels even more soulless than it did from the outside. Everything is pristine. White. Colourless. There are no personal effects, no photos, nothing out of place that suggests an actual couple lives here. It’s all so stilted. As if they expect paparazzi to be peering over the hedges at any moment.

I pause looking about, savouring the moment of being here, in her space. My fingers skim across the surfaces feeling the cool quartz worktops, feeling the smooth metal sideboard and the soft sensual leather of the couch.

Sitting down into it I imagine how she would react if she knew I was here. She’d be shocked. Angry too. Part of me wants to wait it out, to sit here patiently until they return, to see the look on their faces, to hear her pitiful excuses first hand.

For a moment I think about doing it again. About ending her.

I pull the gun from the folds of my jacket, running my hand over the cold smooth steel. It would feel good. Hell, it would feel more than good to sit here, to have the pair of them on their knees begging for forgiveness, begging for their lives. I smirk, my hand fingering the trigger as I imagine Paris’s face contorted with fear as he begs me. And Rose, my dear darling Rose, pleading, as the tears stream down her cheeks.

Yeah that would feel good.

Except I know I wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger. Not on her. And Paris is going to get a far more useful ending than this. Useful to me that is. He’ll die the way I’ve planned out as a demonstration not only of my power but that I know everything and that fighting me is futile.

I get up, climb the stairs. It’s hard to imagine how anyone could live in such a sterile environment let alone the vivacious woman I fell in love with.

Except that’s not her.

I have to remind myself over and over that that woman does not exist. That she never existed. The Rose I knew was a mirage, no more real than a character from a book. She played a part. She played a damn good part but that is all.

I wander through the rooms, this place has too many to count. Pointless rooms. Rooms they’ve clearly never used for anything.

As I come to their bedroom I pause. The bed is huge but like everything else it looks too perfect. The sheets looked freshly ironed, the pillows impossibly plump.

This is where she sleeps. Where she wakes beside him. Where they fuck.

That thought makes me mad. Unreasonably so. After everything I know of their relationship, at least on some level it’s not all consensual but she still married him and she still chooses to be here.

I let out a snarl. A stupid noise that could give me away and proves I’m not altogether in control of myself. I pause, listening but there’s no movement. Nothing. No one in the house has heard me.

The closet is filled with their clothes. Trappings of a gilded life organised onto hangers. His and hers.

I ignore his. I don’t give a fuck about his suits, his shirts, any of it. But my hands flicker across hers. I feel the softness of her dresses, the richness of the fabrics.

I open a cupboard and my eyes widen just a little as I see the dirty clothes in the laundry box.

I shouldn’t do it. I know I shouldn’t but my hand reaches in, I grab at the maroon lace without considering the consequences, pulling it free. It’s a thong. It’s her thong. Worn. Dirty. I raise it to my face and like a man possessed I sniff groaning, taking in the deep scent of a creature who even now is like a drug to me.

I can taste her in this moment.

I can see her too.

As she was so many years ago, laid out, spread wide and eager for me to devour her.

I wonder what exactly she did while wearing this underwear, if Paris fucked her before she put them on, if she’d gotten aroused while wearing them and if some small residue of her still remains permeated into the stitching.

My cock hardens in my pants at the thought. At the memory of her smell, at the taste of her on my tongue. I reach down grabbing hold of myself, needing to get some release. My hand moves on instinct. I’m jacking off, grunting, burying my face into the thong surrounded by her clothes, her belongings, her damn intoxicating smell. Before I can even think, before I can register it’s happening I’m coming, spunking all over a midnight blue dress. I can see the streams of it as it drips down. I could wipe it off. I could make an attempt at cleaning it up but I don’t.

I want her to find it.

I want her to see what she’s done.

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