Page 52 of Blood Debt
“You’re a piece of shit.”
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, raw and bitter.
His eyes narrow. But I’m already pushing against him, shoving at his chest with both hands.
His grip loosens, maybe from surprise, maybe from restraint, but I don’t wait for either. I duck out from under his arm, spin toward the door, and run.
Down the hallway. Past the silk-lined walls and the polished sconces and the faint scent of cigars still clinging to the air.
I don’t stop until my hand hits the handle of my room.
I twist, slam it shut behind me, lock it.
I don’t move for a second. I just stand there, palm flat on the door, breath jagged.
The mattress is a few steps away. I cross the room and sit down slowly. The weight of everything I’m holding finally pulls my shoulders low.
My hands rest in my lap, still shaking.
I stare at the wall for a beat too long.
Then I reach beneath the bed, under the loose floorboard where I keep the photo.
The picture is creased at the corners, the edges softened by touch. My little girl’s smile beams back at me—her cheeks round, curls bouncing, eyes impossibly bright.
I clutch it to my chest and walk to the bathroom. The light is dim. I don’t turn it up.
I press my back to the wall, then sink down, sliding until I’m sitting against the cool tile.
I lift the picture. Press my lips to it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
My voice cracks.
“I’m sorry I made you the child of that man.”
The photo trembles slightly in my hands.
I sniff, breathe in deep, and press it to my chest.
“I’m going to end him,” I whisper. “I’m going to rip his empire out from under him and leave him bleeding with nothing.”
My heartbeat begins to slow—not from calm, but from rage.
It’s been three weeks. Of watching. Cleaning. Playing quiet.
No one would question it now. Not if I stepped into his office. I’ve been the one dusting it. Arranging the files. Stocking the minibar. Bringing in coffee.
I slide the photo carefully back between the pages of the old book where I hide it, beneath the bed frame.
Tonight, I make my first move.
****
Black, fitted shirt, my softest shoes. tray. Nothing that makes noise when I walk.
The house shifts with its night noises—footsteps distantly rotating, laughter muffled from the guard room two floors down, a door shutting gently near the west wing.
