Page 35 of The Colour of Revenge
The first time he hit me, I didn’t believe it was real. The first time he tied me down, I thought I would die. He took something from me each time—my hope, my will, my fight.
Standing in the shadows across from his favourite café, I watch as Robert steps out with a caramel latte. Like clockwork, he checks his phone, his brow furrowing—probably another friend who’s suddenly too busy. That part was almost too easy. A few carefully dropped rumours. A few choice whispers. Now, his so-called friends avoid him like a plague. Tight shoulders and darting eyes replace the smug arrogance he once carried.
He’s unravelling.
And I’m just getting started.
I trail him to one of his estates, a sprawling home that exudes his presence even in his absence. Of all his properties, this is his favourite—his sanctuary. Everything is curated in the well-manicured gardens, the faint glow of motion-activated lights, and the distant hum of security cameras. Controlled.
I bide my time, waiting for the embrace of nightfall. The estate falls silent, save for the occasional whisper of wind through the trees.
Once darkness fully takes hold, I make my move.
Slipping from my hiding place, I scale the trellis, its latticework barely sturdy enough to hold my weight. The rough wood digs into my palms, but I don’t stop.Can’tstop.
At the top, I haul myself over the wrought-iron railing, landing softly on the stone balcony. My pulse thrums.
The French door is slightly ajar, just as it was hours ago.
A noise from inside stops me cold.
Footsteps.
I flatten myself against the limestone wall, pressing into the shadows. My breath hitches. The footsteps grow louder, then pause on the other side of the door. My heart pounds, the sound deafening in the silence.
Then, just as suddenly, they fade.
I wait another agonising moment before peeling back the curtain just enough to see inside.
Perfect.
Robert’s office is empty, bathed in the dim glow of a single lamp. His laptop sits on the desk, waiting for me.
I move swiftly, my fingers skimming through the drawers. Nothing. No notes, no scraps of paper with hastily scribbled passwords. Just polished wood and space.
I hover over the keyboard. Think.
Robert is predictable. Arrogant.
I type.
Robert.
[Incorrect password. Two more tries.]
Damn it.
I try again:Robert1234.
The screen unlocks.
A smirk tugs at my lips. A man obsessed with control, undone by his lack of imagination.
At first, I find nothing but the expected schedules, contracts, and emails. But deeper, buried under layers of corporate jargon, lies the truth.
The images.
I clamp my teeth together, bile rising in my throat. My hands tighten into fists, my nails digging into my palms. The transaction records are worse—names and numbers, a ledger of the girls he’s purchased like commodities.
