"The killer is likely someone from high society. If you stay close to Russ Harris, you'll have a better chance of finding them."
That single sentence shattered every wall I'd built.
Russ and I had been together.
He'd pursued me publicly, showered me with grand gestures—all so I could rightfully become his wife.
His father had broken his leg for it. Literally.
But Russ had held on through sheer stubbornness.
And he'd kept me.
After we got together, I split my time between tracking the common threads linking those socialites' deaths and cramming everything I could about elite society.
All so I could be worthy of him.
But he'd changed.
"Why are you so rude? What's with the painter staring at someone else's boyfriend?"
The girl's voice yanked me from my thoughts. I quickly lowered my gaze.
Russ murmured something soothing to her, then turned to me with ice in his eyes:
"Keep staring, and I'll gouge them out."
Back when I used to sketch for money on the side, my looks attracted trouble. Lowlifes would corner me—inviting me for late-night drinks, or just sitting too close while I worked, eyes crawling over me.
When Russ found out, he'd delivered a single cold warning:
"Look at her again, and I'll gouge out your eyes and feed them to the dogs."
They'd known he wasn't bluffing. They'd scattered like rats.
I let out a bitter laugh.
Funny how the same words had boomeranged back—and now they were aimed at me.
His gaze held that same warning.
As if the moment I said anything that threatened his relationship with this girl, he'd claw my eyes out himself.
"My apologies, sir, miss. I was just studying your composition for the portrait." I kept my voice even. "I'll start now."
Something flickered in Russ's eyes. Surprise.
He was probably wondering why I wasn't making a scene.
After all, I'd confronted him about the photos with the young model in his car. The late-night hotel visits with the internet celebrity. The housekeeper in the bathroom...
Every time, I'd demanded an explanation.
So why was I so calm now?
"Could you two hold hands? Move a little closer... more intimate..."
Once they adjusted, I began to draw.
I worked fast, capturing their likeness on paper with efficient strokes.
The moment I handed over the framed portrait, my phone buzzed. A message in our group chat.
[Russ, your wife didn't throw a fit this time. We lost that bet big time.]
[You were right—ignore her enough and she learns to behave.]
[Bro, you sent that to the wrong chat. She's in this group.]
Both messages vanished—recalled within seconds.
Russ's friends must have panicked. The chat exploded with random messages, desperately trying to bury the recalled texts beneath a flood of spam.
I looked up.
The two of them were walking away side by side. The girl clutched the framed portrait, bouncing with each step. Russ looked... happy. Genuinely happy. His arm swept around her, pulling her close until their silhouettes merged into one. She playfully punched his chest, then broke free and ran.
He chased after her.
I gripped my phone until my knuckles ached. Tilted my head back. Stared at the sky. Blinked rapidly until the tears dissolved into nothing.
Then I lowered my head and started organizing my supplies.
That's when my phone rang.
Sapphire Harris.
"Come back to the estate. Now."
The switch whistled through the air and cracked across my back. It had been soaking in salt water—a method that prevented infection but amplified every nerve ending into screaming agony.
Sapphire's face was carved from stone as she brought down the second lash.
"Can't even keep one man satisfied. Useless woman."
Crack.
"You've driven my son into the arms of other women. His father and I should never have let you through our doors."
