Page 6 of Queen
“I’ve been waiting.”
Smooth. Calm. Too calm. Like he already knew I’d fold. Like he always knows.
Lightning flashes again, so close it bleeds through the glass, bleaching his phantom into my vision.
I close my eyes. My pulse is a war drum in my throat.
“I’ll do it.” The words fall out bitter as rust.
Silence. I can see his smirk without needing to. He’s savoring it. Victory, possession, inevitability.
But I don’t let him breathe it into triumph.
I hang up.
The screen goes black, but my hand lingers. My heart is a storm in my chest, every beat daring me to regret.
I walk back to the window and drain the glass. Scotch swallows me like smoke and fire.
Another flash of lightning. This one so bright it blinds, thunder rolling hard enough to rattle the floorboards beneath my bare feet.
I set the glass down, harder than I intend. The crystal trembles against the wood, refusing to shatter. I almost wish it had.
My fingers press to the cold window, tracing the rain-blurred city. The glass fogs under my breath, clouding the skyline.
Tomorrow, everything changes.
Let them whisper. Let them plot. Let them sharpen their knives.
I’ve already signed my pact with the devil.
But they’ll learn soon enough—I don’t sign to surrender.
This time, I’m the one coming for blood.
2
emiliano
The Call
The burner phone vibrates on my desk—once, then again. Blocked number. But I know exactly who it is.
I let the first ring echo through the marble chamber, sharp as a gunshot in the stillness. The second follows, each chime cutting deeper into the quiet. The fireplace crackles behind me, flames snapping like they know the secret I’m about to claim. Shadows stretch across the walls—my walls—like sentinels keeping watch.
The bourbon sits untouched at my elbow, condensation gathering, amber light catching on the rim. Beside it: a folder of surveillance photos. Her face in every frame. Head high. Eyes on fire. A queen even in exile.
The third ring. I press “accept” and lift the phone slowly, deliberately, to my ear. I don’t speak. I don’t have to. Silence is its own kind of blade.
Her breath filters through the line. Not steady. Controlled, but with tremors she’d rather bleed out than show. I picture her lips parted slightly, the hand around the phone trembling just enough that she’d clench her jaw to still it. She always cloaks her fear in fire.
And then she says it.
“I’ll do it.”
Not a question. Not a plea. Not even a bargain. A vow.
Surrender.
