Page 154 of Eternal
But I never hated her.
I loved her. I loved my mom who taught me about flowers. I loved her for making me love the blue sky, the blue ocean. Loved her for offering me irises to wake me up and singing those poems she loved so much.
Some people ruined her.
And I had their names.
So, I needed to punish them
My next target is having a big dinner tonight. I’m supposed to be resting for my days off. If we can call them that.
But he’s here. Tonight, Antony Darveaux is here.
The man who built his empire on more than food. The man whose kitchens were filled with more than simple chefs. The man who disappeared the moment my mother was killed. He’s been hiding for years.
But it felt weird. How the names were all hiding. Like they fucked up somehow or felt guilty because they went too far after slaughtering us all that night.
But tonight, he’s stepping into the light again and so close to me. A private estate, a dinner with his friends and family perhaps. Halloween dinner.
I wouldn’t have even known if I hadn’t tracked the food shipments, the last-minute changes in the catering staff.
They need more hands tonight.
More servers.
One of those was supposed to be a certain Yelena Gabo. Twenty-seven, working under a fake visa. She won’t be showing up tonight. I sent her away, sent her to a fake address.
I will.
The only problem? They’re driving the staff in. No personal vehicles allowed, no easy exits, and once I’m in, I’m in.
Paranoid much…
But that means I need a ride back. And I only know one person who’s intelligent enough to be here, ask no question, and take me back home.
I text him the address with one word after our call. “Midnight.”
He’ll be there, I know he will.
The uniform is simple, a black little dress, white apron, and polished shoes.
I strip down, folding my clothes in the exact order I’ll put them back on later. A garter at my thigh, holding a thin blade that’s pushing through my skin almost. A vial of poison tucked into the folds of my apron, slow enough to be blamed on a weak heart, quick enough that no one is going to leave the room alive.
And my favorite addition, the flowery silver pin I twist into my hair, securing it in a tight knot. Looks like an accessory, but feels like a weapon.
One pull, and the sharp edge appears. Perfect for a throat.
By the time I step out the door, I’m no longer me, I’m Yelena Gabo.
I stare at the journal before stepping out.
I’ve read this entry so many times that the ink might as well be carved into my bones. But still, I keep reading, keep tracingthe letters with my fingers, mouthing the words like a curse I can’t get away from.
I should have walked away when she told me.
When Alina, his ex-wife grabbed my arm outside the courthouse, her eyes went wild. “He follows me. He watches. He knows I saw.”
I almost didn’t listen. The wife of Antony Darveaux, the man the world worships, the man whose hands create art on a plate was in reality a mess, barely coherent. But then she said something that made my blood run cold.
