Alex leaned back in the velvet chair, the only light in the room coming from his phone screen. Ariel's picture stared back at him, soft and bright in the darkness. Her messy curls fell across her shoulders, the playful crop top barely covering the teasing tilt of her hips. Her smile,it was real. Too real. Something so genuine didn't belong anywhere near the world he lived in.
He brushed his finger over the image, his expression almost tender. Almost.
Then, like a flash of lightning cutting through calm skies, Simon's name slammed into his brain.
The tenderness vanished.
That man. That mistake.
He'd been too lenient. Too slow. And now, Ariel could be close to discovering everything. The truth was dangerous. She couldn't know, not yet. Not until he was ready.
He stood up, jaw clenched, and dialed with a single swipe.
"Drop him," Alex said coldly. "Outside his house. No questions. No mistakes. I want it clean. No witnesses, and destroy the surveillance cameras."
Silence on the other end.
Then he added with venom, "And burn anything he touched. I don't want any trace of him near her."
He ended the call before the man could speak.
Then he turned to the full-length mirror, studying his own reflection. His face still looked like it belonged on a magazine cover. His body, tall, toned, unmarred. Untouched by pain.
Too perfect.
"She won't believe my story if I still look like this," he whispered, leaning closer to the mirror. "Everything needs to look perfect."
There was a knock at the door.
"Enter," he called.
His guards stepped in cautiously, five of them, all wearing identical dark uniforms. Franco stood in front, frowning slightly.
"Sir?"
Alex faced them, calm as ever.
"Beat me," he said simply.
They blinked.
"Sir?" Franco echoed.
"You heard me. I want bruises. I want to look like I've been through hell and clawed my way back. No mercy."
"Sir, with all due respect—"
"Do it!" he roared, his voice cracking through the room like a whip.
They didn't hesitate again.
Three hours passed.
Flesh met fist. Whip kissed skin. Bone strained under pressure. The pain was unbearable and exactly what he wanted.
By the end of it, Alex was on the floor, breathing heavily. Blood dripped from his lip. His ribs throbbed with every inhale. His back stung sharply from whip marks that would take weeks to fade. His left eye had ballooned, swelling shut, and a cut above his brow still bled slowly.
"Enough," he whispered hoarsely, waving a trembling hand. "That's enough. You've done well. Leave."
The guards filed out silently, disturbed by what they'd just done but too afraid to speak it aloud.
Alex pulled himself up, using the side table for support. His breath was ragged. He moved like someone who had escaped something unspeakable.
But he wasn't done yet.
Dragging his body into the kitchen, he opened a drawer and retrieved a sleek silver knife. It gleamed under the faint light.
He stared into the blade, watching his bruised reflection distort and flicker.
"Everything needs to look perfect," he whispered again, this time to himself.
With no hesitation, he pressed the knife against his skin and dragged it across his arm, deep enough to scar, but not enough to kill. He hissed but didn't stop. Another slice across his shoulder. Then his chest. A final one, slow and dramatic, across the palm of his left hand.
Blood spilled. Thick, warm, red.
It dripped into the sink, painting the steel crimson.
He leaned on the counter, chest heaving. For a moment, the pain washed over him like a tide. Real pain. But this wasn't for pleasure. This wasn't madness.
It was strategy.
He looked into the mirror again, his face now a stranger's. Battered. Bruised. Raw.
A man who looked like he'd been dragged through hell, left to rot, and barely survived.
A man worthy of sympathy.
He couldn't help it, his lips curled into a grin, even as blood pooled at his feet.
She would come running to him. She'd ask what happened. She'd cry. She'd beg for answers.
And when he told her… when he spun the story just right… she'd fall even deeper.
He could almost hear her soft voice. "Alex… what happened to you?"
Her arms around him. Her heart racing. Her defenses shattered.
Perfect.
Every bruise, every scar, every fabricated story, it would all serve a purpose.
To keep her his.
To make sure she never looked Simon's way again.
To make sure she never left.
He cleaned the knife with precision, bandaged his wounds clumsily, and stumbled back to his room.
One look in the mirror again, and he knew—
He had never looked more dangerous.
Or more believable.