Page 80 of The Colour of Revenge
Psychological torment is fun, but nothing beats the real thing.
I've been buzzing with anticipation. The thought of finally getting my hands on him, my knife in him, sends a slow pulse of satisfaction through me.
And Nate?
Nate has a flair for the dramatic.
So, he's set up a game.
Michael thinks he's about to meet an escort for a date.
In reality?
He's about to meet me.
We know his routine. He targets escorts, lures them in, and then makes them disappear. He thinks no one will miss them.
He's wrong.
The taxi pulls up outside the restaurant twenty minutes late—a deliberate move.
I step out, straightening my too-tight skirt and adjusting the lace top that barely covers anything. I feel exposed, like a version of myself I swore I'd never be again.
I hate it.
But I insisted on sticking to the plan.
Nate had hesitated, his jaw tight when he saw what I'd have to wear.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" he'd asked.
"I can handle it," was my reply. "I want to do it."
Michael only had me for six months before passing me off to Edward, but I was seventeen then. A brunette.
Now, I’ve got my pink hair, and I’m wearing coloured contacts for good measure.
As I stride into the restaurant, I spot him immediately.
Michael.
His head jerks up as the door swings open. His beady little eyes light up like he's just won a prize.
I feel the weight of other people's stares as I move through the tables toward him. They judge me. They don't know.
I push past the burn of humiliation, keep my chin high, and take confident steps.
"Michael?" I ask, tilting my head, letting confusion slip into my voice.
His lips stretch into a smile. Predatory. Greedy.
"Yes. Candy?"
Candy.
The fake name I gave him.
"Sorry I'm late." I plaster a coy smile on my face as I slide into the chair across from him.
