Page 103 of Beautifully Broken
I force myself to keep breathing steadily, even though every inch of this place makes my skin crawl. The second I push through the heavy black door, I’m hit with a wave of heat and that overwhelming scent of excess — expensive cologne, leather, and something too sweet, too artificial. It’s the smell of everything that disgusts me about this place. The air itself feels like it’s trying to suffocate me, thick and rich with the weight of money that isn't earned. Along with power that isn't deserved.
That’s the type of place this is — a place where anyone with enough cash can get in, where the truth doesn’t matter. Where people are bought and sold, and no one even blinks.
The moment I step inside, the world feels like it shifts. The room is massive, glowing with an opulence that’s almost suffocating. Crystal chandeliers hang above, their diamonds sparkling like the eyes of vultures, feeding off whatever remains of the people they’ve swallowed whole. The walls are lined with polished marble, every surface gleaming like it’s been polished with the sweat of people who would never even notice the suffering beneath their feet.
The tables are filled with men, powerful, dangerous, empty-eyed men, draped in tailored suits that cost more than I make in a year. Women in dresses that shine under the golden lights, their movements slow and practiced, like they’re part of some twisted dance to keep these men entertained. But it’s not about the show, I know that. It’s about power, control, and manipulation. It’s about everything that’s wrong with this world, wrapped in gold and velvet.
I hate it.
I hate the way they look at everything, like it’s theirs for the taking. The way they talk in hushed tones, smiling behind their glasses, making deals in the dark corners of this hellhole. They don’t care who they ruin. They don’t care who they destroy as long as they get what they want. But I won’t let them keep it.
I slip deeper into the room, my heart hammering, but I keep my face calm, even though every inch of me wants to rip the whole place apart. The music pounds in the background, the deep bass vibrating through my chest, but it’s all just noise to drown out the truth. Every person here has blood on their hands maybe not literally, but it’s there, in every deal they make, in every breath they take.
There’s a small part of me that still wants to walk away. To turn around, leave this nightmare behind. But I can’t. Not now. Not after everything they’ve done. Not after everything I’ve learned. I move toward the back, knowing that’s where the power is, the people who run this place, the ones who keep the blood flowing. They don’t care who they destroy, who they break, as long as they stay on top. But I’ve got a plan. I’ve got something bigger than money to bring them down. And when I’m done, this place won’t be some shining palace of excess. It’ll be nothing but ashes. A monument to the greed and corruption they’ve built their empire on.
No one gets away with this. Not while I’m still breathing.
I linger in the shadows offstage, tucked just behind a velvet curtain, the bass of the music throbbing against my ribs like a second heartbeat. My eyes never leave the group gathered at the private table near the edge of the stage. Eight men. Eight monsters. The worst kind of filth this city has to offer.
Rape. Murder. Trafficking. Their crimes are whispered about in back alleys and dark bars, but no one dares speak their names aloud. Too dangerous. Too many bodies buried, too many cops bought and paid for.
John sits at the center, bloated with power, a king rotting on a throne built from broken lives. Around him: the police chief, the district attorney, the chief medical officer. These guys were supposed to protect us, but they’re just a bunch of bloodsucking wolves in suits, getting away with murder. No wonder the case sat cold for five long years. No wonder no one had lifted a goddamn finger to bring them down.
Until the girl. Until the one who tried to run, tried to survive. She made it to the next city before the damage caught up to her, before the internal bleeding, the shattered ribs, the violence they carved into her body finally won.
She deserved justice. She deserved fire.
And I was here to deliver it.
Chapter 13
I slip from the shadows, every step measured, every movement choreographed. The music shifts,Unholyby Sam Smith throbs through the gold-drenched air, a fitting hymn for what’s about to come. I let my fingers trail along John’s broad shoulders, let my hips sway in time with the rhythm. His eyes, glassy with ego and lust, find mine. He smiles. He thinks I’m another toy.
Good.
I grind against him, soft, inviting, as the server, wearing nothing but skintight shorts and a grin, approaches with the whiskey. The doctor’s special touch laced into the bottle, just like we planned. The server pours, the men laugh, and soon enough, each have a full glass in hand. Their teeth flash like jackals. Their time is running out, and they don’t even know it. The server nods to me, confirming everyone else who isn’t a part of this has been made to leave.
More dancers join me, their smiles brittle, their eyes dead. We move around the men, baiting them, playing the part. They drink. The drugs take effect. The slow stumble, the confused blinking, the way their hands miss their glasses when they reach.
They’re unraveling.
I strike.
In one breath, the knife hidden in my hair is in my palm. In the next, I’m leaning into a backbend, arching like a siren, and the blade flashes clean across the throat of the man beside John. Blood sprays hot against my skin, a bright, arterial pulse.
Before John can react, I straighten, press the cold steel against the tender hollow of his throat. He stiffens. His mouth opens, a gasp or a protest. It doesn’t matter. I lean in close, voice a venomous whisper against his ear.
“Hello, John. Karma’s here for you tonight. Your blood will cleanse the girls you’ve ruined.”
His eyes widen. Good. I drag the blade deep across his artery, watching as his lifeblood pours out in thick, dark rivers down his suit. The panic at the table rises, chairs scrape, bodies stumble but they’re too slow, too poisoned, too weak.
I move from man to man, precise, unflinching. Throat after throat opens under my knife, painting the floor crimson. They choke, gurgle, and collapse. It’s not enough. It’s never enough.
From behind the bar, I snatch a chef’s knife, heavy and brutal. Their bodies twitch at my feet, but I show no mercy. I drive the blade between their legs, hacking through muscle and bone, severing the last pieces of the monsters they once were.
The blood pools around me, thick and sticky and endless.
It’s not just revenge. It's an offering. For the girls who died alone. For every girl still trapped in chains.
