Page 150 of Our Pretty Darling Psycho
“Maybe,” I sigh, examining my nails, “you should sit down and save your questions for when the wine finishes kicking in.”
He lurches backward, trying to put distance between us, and his legs simply quit.
He drops to his knees on the cold concrete, gripping his skull, a thread of panic finally fraying his voice.
“What did you do? Did you—did you drug me? The wine?—”
I walk toward him at last, taking my time, savoring every unhurried step, and I tilt my head down at the sight of him brought low.
“I do love a man who finds his way onto his knees for me,” I admit. Then I crouch, gripping his chin, forcing his swimming gaze up to mine. “Did you truly think,” I murmur, “I would ever submit… to you?”
And then I laugh.
The sound spills out of me bright and giddy, a symphony of triumph three years in the composing, and I shake my head at the beautiful, oblivious ruin of him.
“Oh, my love. The grand scheme has finally come to its grand reveal.”
“I don’t—” he slurs, “I don’t understand.”
“No,” I agree gently. “You never did.” So I decide, as a parting gift, to let him understand it all at the very end.
I tell him about the night my father died—the night you murdered him, I do not say, because we both already know—and how everything since that night has been preparation. Patient, surgical, three-years-deep preparation.
I tell him that Dorian was never a love story; Dorian was a catalyst, a deliberately chosen door, the necessary first move tofree me from one cage so I could build a better trap from the ruins.
That once I was free, I went hunting.
Far and wide, through the worst rooms in the worst corners of this world, until I had gathered exactly what I needed.
I watch the words land through the fog of the sedative, watch his swimming eyes struggle to assemble them into a shape he can survive.
The insanity defense.
The voluntary commitment.
The straitjacket, the spiraling, the screaming fits, the diagnosed delusions—every performance I gave inside those reinforced walls, every doctor I let believe I had shattered.
He thought it was a woman losing her mind. It was a woman choosing the one fortress in the country he could not buy his way into, and then making certain the world would never let her leave it without a pack strong enough to walk her out.
He spent three years smug that I’d gone mad hiding from him. I spent three years building the instrument of his death inside the one room he’d never think to look.
The asylum was never my breakdown.
It was my workshop.
“My own Holy Trinity,” I tell him, grinning. “A doctor brilliant enough to certify my madness while quietly safeguarding my mind—the perfect architect for a woman who needed the world to believe she’d lost it. A criminal with a record black enough to make the underworld itself flinch, planted exactly where he could shield me from within. And—last, my favorite—a mortician. A man who speaks so prettily of endings, when he knew all along that mine was a beginning about to bloom.” I lower myself to a crouch, eye to swimming eye with him. “It was all a plot. Every piece of it…and the one true pawnon this chessboard, my dear husband—” I pat his cheek, “—was always you.”
Do you understand it now?
Each one chosen for exactly what he could do, and then—this is the part that undid my own careful plan, the part I never saw coming—each one impossible not to love.
I went looking for tools and found a home. I assembled a defense and accidentally assembled a family.
You sent a man to kill me, did you know that? My beautiful Riot. You hired the blade meant for my throat, and he laid it down and chose me instead, because even the killer you bought could see in one look what you spent a marriage failing to:that I was never a possession.
I was a person.
With a personality, and dreams, and ambitions, and every right in this world to be loved. Three men proved your entire creed a lie simply by adoring me.
