Chapter 2
I was butchering our roses.
Three o'clock, and I'd been out here hacking away at Lyndon's white roses like they'd done something personal to me. Which they had, in a way. Everything perfect in this house was a goddamn lie.
Harper's roses. He'd planted them because they were her favorite.
Snip, snip, snip. My hands worked on autopilot while my brain stayed stuck on yesterday's nightmare - Lyndon's voice casually discussing Jake's murder like it was just another favor for his precious Harper.
The pruning shears slipped.
"Shit!" Blood welled up from my finger, bright red drops hitting the white petals below. I stared at the crimson spreading across the perfect blooms.
"Oh my God, baby, what happened?"
Lyndon's voice came from behind me, all panic and concern. I hadn't even heard him leave his studio.
"Let me see that," he said, gently taking my hand. His touch used to comfort me. Now it made my skin crawl.
"Just a little cut," I managed, keeping my voice steady. "I was distracted."
"Distracted? You're bleeding everywhere." He was already pulling out his phone. "Maria! First aid kit, now!"
I watched him examine my finger with such tender worry. Academy Award shit, really.
"You've been under too much stress," he murmured, pressing a tissue against the cut. "Those yoga bitches giving you trouble again?"
Stress. You have no fucking idea.
Four years ago, I was on top of the world. Golden Globe nomination, engaged to Ryan Blackstone, the entertainment industry's golden couple.
Then Jake died.
Ryan's eight-year-old son. His only child, his heir, the center of his universe. The boy who called me "Aunt Jazzy" and was supposed to be my ring bearer.
The public's grief was immediate and vicious. How could I let Ryan's precious boy die while I was inside fixing my makeup? What kind of woman was so selfish, so negligent?
The headlines painted me as a monster: "Bride-to-Be's Vanity Kills Child." "Future Stepmother's Fatal Neglect." "Hollywood's Most Hated Woman."
The mob found me three days after the funeral. Angry parents, grieving strangers, people who'd never met Jake but felt justified in their rage. They cornered me outside my apartment building.
"Child killer!" they screamed, fists flying. "You don't deserve to have kids!"
The beating lasted minutes but damaged me forever. Internal injuries so severe that when I finally made it to the hospital, the doctors delivered the final blow: I'd never have children of my own.
But that wasn't the end of it.
Two weeks later, I was staying at a hotel, hiding from the media circus. My parents had been getting death threats, protesters camping outside their house in Ohio.
"We're going to visit my sister in Florida," my mom had said during our last phone call. "Let things cool down."
They never made it.
The house fire happened at 3 AM. No survivors. The investigation concluded it was electrical, but I knew better. The timing was too convenient, too clean.
Later, I found the insurance payout had gone to a shell company. Months later, that same company made a donation to a children's charity that Harper patronized.
Ryan had my parents killed. Silently, efficiently, to tie up loose ends.
And Harper? She held my hand through it all. Brought tissues, whispered comfort while my world burned and my body broke.
The perfect fucking friend.
Then Lyndon found me on that hotel rooftop, ready to jump. My savior. My hero.
My biggest fool.
"There," Lyndon said, finishing the bandage. "All better."
I looked at the white gauze, then his concerned face. "Thank you. You always take such good care of me."
"Of course I do." He pulled me into his arms. "You're my wife. Protecting you is what I do."
Protecting me. The bile rose in my throat.
"Actually," he continued, stroking my hair, "let's visit your parents tomorrow. I had white orchids prepared - their favorite. Four years, baby. I know you still miss them."
Four years since Ryan had them murdered. And Lyndon was going to stand over their graves with fake flowers and crocodile tears.
"That's so thoughtful," I forced myself to say. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
"You'll never have to find out," he said, tilting my chin up. "The past is behind us. We're moving forward, together."
The past is behind us. I wanted to laugh. The past that you fucking orchestrated for another woman.
That night, I lay listening to Lyndon's steady breathing. 2:17 AM and sleep was impossible. Every time I closed my eyes - Jake floating in that pool, my parents' house in flames, Harper's calculated tears.
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: Check your email. - A friend
I slipped out of bed and opened my laptop in the bathroom. One new message with a video attachment.
Security footage from the Blackstone estate. Date stamp: the night before our engagement party.
My hands trembled as I hit play.
Harper walked into the pool house with someone I couldn't see clearly. They talked for several minutes, gesturing toward the infinity pool. Then Harper pulled out her phone and made a call.
"Tomorrow night," her voice came through clearly. "Make sure Jasmine is inside when it happens. No witnesses except the cameras."
The person with her stepped into the light.
Lyndon.
My husband. My savior. My parents' murderer.
"What about afterward?" Lyndon's voice on the recording.
"Ryan will need time to grieve," Harper replied. "But not too long. A man like him needs a strong woman, not a broken little girl."
"And Jasmine?"
Harper's smile was pure evil. "Jasmine won't be a problem much longer. I'll make sure of that."
I closed the laptop and stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. The scared, grateful victim was gone. In her place was something colder. Harder.
Tomorrow we'd visit my parents' graves. Lyndon would place those orchids with such reverence, maybe even shed a tear.
But I knew the truth now. Every lie, every manipulation, every death.
This time, I wouldn't be the victim.
This time, I'd be the hunter.