Chapter 5 Chapter 5

At first, Luca didn't move. He just stared straight ahead, his jaw locked. But Chloe didn't get the hint. She leaned in close, her fingers trailing up his forearm, tracing the line of his muscle right where his sleeve was rolled up. She whispered something in his ear, laughing. My breath caught in my throat. The alcohol burning in the room suddenly tasted like ash.

Get your hands off him, my mind hissed, a dark, violent wave of possessiveness crashing over me so hard my knees went weak. He doesn't want you. He’s mine.

Then it hit my breaking point . Chloe leaned forward, closing the remaining distance between them, and pressed a loud, lingering kiss directly onto Luca’s cheek.

Everything went dead silent in my head. The music pounding through the speakers faded into a distant, muffled hum. A red haze flooded my vision, hot, furious, and blinding. The jealousy wasn't just a sting, it was a feral, screaming animal clawing at my ribs.

She was touching what I had claimed in the dark. She was breathing the same air as him, defiling the space that belonged to my obsession. I watched, my whole body trembling with suppressed rage, waiting for Luca to push her away the way he had done on campus. Waiting for him to snap her wrist or tell her to get the hell out of his sight but he didn't. He didn't smile, but he didn't pull away either. He just turned his head slightly, his dark gaze locking onto Chloe’s face as she whispered something else in his ear. That was all it took. The final tether snapped.

A moment later, Luca stood up from the booth, his hand resting firmly at the small of Chloe’s back, guiding her away from the open area and toward the private back rooms, the secluded VIP suites where elite students went to disappear behind locked doors. The anger, the jealousy, the all-consuming obsession, and the absolute, terrifying possessiveness rushed my veins in one massive, lethal wave. I didn't hesitate. I pushed off the concrete pillar, my boots moving on autopilot, tracking their every step through the shifting crowd.

They vanished down the dim, carpeted hallway leading to the private suites. I hung back in the shadows, my breathing shallow and sharp, my fingers gripping the small pocket knife hidden safely inside my hoodie. Ten minutes crawled by like hours. Every second I stood outside that hallway, the poison in my blood burned hotter.

Then, the heavy wooden door of the suite clicked open.

Chloe stepped out alone into the hallway, smoothing down the front of her dress, a flushed, triumphant smirk plastered across her face. She turned on her heel and started heading toward the main club washrooms down the corridor. I didn't think, neither did I have a  plan. I just stepped out of the shadows, kept my head down beneath the brim of my cap, and followed her into the dark.

The heavy metal  door of the women’s washroom swung shut behind Chloe, cutting off the pounding bass of the club into a dull, rhythmic thud. The room smelled of expensive perfume, stale powder, and bleach. It was dead empty except for the hum of the hand dryer and the harsh, flickering fluorescent lights overhead.

I slipped inside right behind her, moving like a ghost.

Chloe was halfway down the row of stalls, her fingers reaching out to push open the door of the end stall. Before her hand could even grip the latch, I closed the distance between us. I brought my boot up hard, kicking her into the stalling and slamming the heavy wooden stall door shut with a deafening crash that echoed off the tile walls.

Chloe gasped, trying to spin around her "What the…" she started saying but   I didn't give her a second to breathe. I move forward, my hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of her long hair at the back of her neck, yanking her head back with savage force. She opened her mouth to scream, a high-pitched shriek tearing at her throat, but my other hand clamped down hard over her mouth, muffling the sound into a wet, panicked choke. With a surge of pure, unadulterated adrenaline fueled by the white-hot rage burning in my veins, I slammed her head straight into the tiled wall behind the toilet.

A sharp, sickening crack echoed through the stall . A streak of dark red blood smeared instantly across the white ceramic tiles. Her body went limp as shock set in, but I didn't stop. The fury roaring in my ears was too loud, too heavy. In my mind, I still saw her hand tracing Luca’s arm, I still saw her lips pressing against his cheek. I slammed her head against the wall a second time.

More blood splattered against the tile, dripping down in a jagged line. I didn't say a single word. I didn't need to utter a single threat or warning. My expression was entirely blank, cold, and dead, the same terrifying emptiness I had felt years ago when the world around me was burning down. I was an executioner carrying out a sentence.

On the third impact, her eyes rolled back into her head. Her knees buckled, her dead weight dropping like a stone. I didn't let her hit the floor. I propped her unconscious body on the toilet seat so she sat slumped forward, her head hanging low as her blood began matting her hair. I stood in the cramped stall for a second, my chest heaving, listening to the drip of blood hitting the floor. Then, my eyes dropped to her right hand, the exact hand she had used to touch his arm, the hand she had run through his hair.

A dark, clinical detachment washed over me. I reached down, grabbed her limp wrist, and bent her fingers backward past their natural limit with a sharp, brutal snap. The bone broke beneath my grip with a sickening pop. she didn't even moan; she was completely gone, dead to the world.

I let her hand drop into her lap.

Slowly, deliberately, I reached deep into the front pocket of my black hoodie. My fingers wrapped around the cold, heavy handle of my pocket knife. With a flick of my thumb, the razor-sharp steel blade clicked open, gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light. I stepped closer, tilting her chin up with the flat of my hand. Her lips were parted slightly, stained with expensive gloss. You don't get to touch what isn't yours, I whispered silently in my head.

With surgical precision, I pressed the tip of the blade against the corner of her mouth and dragged it across, slicing a clean, shallow line through her lip. A fresh bead of crimson welled up, spilling over her skin. I snapped the knife shut, sliding it back into my pocket. Job done. I stepped out of the stall, walked over to the sink, and turned on the tap. I washed the blood off my hands with cold water, scrubbing my skin until it tingled, watching the pink water swirl down the drain.