Page 38 of The Colour of Revenge
He fumbles with his phone, calling his contacts. No one answers, mostly because I switched every number to fake ones.
Not that it would matter.
No one is coming to save him.
I let him spiral. Let him scramble for passports and pack wads of cash into a duffel.
It's almost time.
Watching him pack, my mind drifts to the countless times I watched him prepare for his "business trips." Trips that ended with another girl's life being destroyed. The bile rises in my throat, but I force it down.
This isn't about my trauma. It's about justice.
The moment he lunges for the door, I step out.
He freezes.
His gaze skims over me—assessing, appraising. And then, he smirks.
"Darlin', I don't remember calling for anyone." His voice is low and slick. His green eyes glaze with lust. "I guess I have time for a quickie."
He unzips his jeans with practised ease.
Does he—? Revulsion roils in my stomach. But I keep my face neutral.
Not disgusted.
Not yet.
He believes I'm here to fuck him.
It should trigger me. It should send me spiralling back into that terrified fifteen-year-old girl.
Instead, it fuels my rage.
He hasn't changed.
But I have.
And tonight?
Tonight, Robert Dealer dies.
"What are you waiting for?" Robert asks, standing fully naked in the middle of his grand entrance hall.
What kind of man gets completely undressed for a 'quickie'?
I suppress the scowl, threatening to break free, keeping my voice flat. "I'm waiting for you to realise just how stupid you are."
He blinks, thrown off by my tone. "Excuse me?"
His smirk falters.
I take a slow, deliberate step forward. "Robert, Robert, Robert…" I cluck my tongue, shaking my head in mock sympathy. "It's a shame you don't remember me. But I remember you."
Confusion flickers across his face. Then wariness.
"What is this?" he growls, the confidence in his voice already fading.
