I shoved her with everything I had.
Layla fell to the ground hard, clutching her side. A twisted grin of pain and rage spread across her face as she glared up at me.
"You dare touch me, Ivy?!" she yelled, her voice echoing way too loudly through the hallway, shrill and unhinged, like she was one breath away from losing her mind completely.
"Yes, I did!" I shouted back, anger blazing through the fear. "What gives you the right to question me, Layla?"
I stared down at her as she crouched on the floor, still gasping. My voice dropped, cold and bitter. "The last time you fucked a human, Father didn't lay a finger on you. So don't act like I'm the only one who makes mistakes. You do worse. The only difference is Father covers for you every single time."
I knelt slowly to meet her at eye level, my bruised cheek throbbing. Fury ignited in Layla's eyes like wildfire. Before I knew it her hands shot out and closed around my throat, slamming me back against the wall with surprising strength, because she should not possess such strength during the day, unless something was wrong.
"You daughter of a whore," she spat as she pinned me there. "You dare put your filthy hands on me?"
"And you, Layla," I snarled back through gritted teeth, refusing to back down even as black spots danced in my vision, "you better be nice to me. I know you're currently dating a human again… but I kept quiet about it."
The words hit her like a slap. Fear flashed across her face. Her grip loosened instantly, and she dropped me. I slumped against the wall, coughing.
She was silent for a long, dangerous moment before hissing, "That doesn't matter, Ivy. You know Father won't dare hurt me."
"No… he won't," I whispered hoarsely, rubbing my throat. "But that guy? Consider him dead meat. Just like the last one."
"Let's see how you prove it!" she screamed, voice cracking with rage, before storming out and slamming the door behind her.
I collapsed onto my bed, gasping heavily, one hand still pressed to my aching throat. The skin there already felt raw and bruised.
Layla wasn't my problem right now. The aftermath of daring to fight back wasn't my problem either. I knew the consequences would come—slow, inevitable, and cruel.
But for the rest of the day, I buried myself in mindless chores, moving like a ghost through the mansion, waiting, praying that if this night passed safely, I could finally breathe.
That night, sleep refused to come. I tossed and turned on my bed, eyes constantly flicking to the window, searching for any shadow, any glimpse of movement of someone slipping out to finish what Father had started. But the grounds remained still. Too still.
Suddenly, my cracked phone rang, the sound slicing through the silence like a blade.
It was Maria.
I snatched it up with shaking hands. "Maria?"
"Please, Ivy… help me," her voice trembled, barely above a whisper, thick with terror. "I… I think someone wants to kill me."
My heart stopped. "Okay—stay calm, Maria. Please, be calm. Hold your breath, tell me did you leave your house?"
But she was too far gone. I could hear her heavy, panicked breathing through the phone, ragged and desperate. "He's coming… I can hear him…"
I didn't think. I ran straight to the window and leaped out into the night.
The moment my feet touched the garden path, Father's voice stopped me.
"What brings you out by this time of the night, My precious rebellious daughter"?"
He stood there under the moonlight, smiling calmly with a glass of deep red wine in his hand, as if we were simply having a pleasant evening chat.
I walked faster, refusing to answer, blood roaring in my ears.
"You are not to leave this house, Ivy," he said, still smiling, but the warning was steel beneath the softness. "Take this as a final warning."
He turned gently and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the garden.
I stood frozen, hot tears dripping down my face, mixing with the dried blood on my cheek. I knew too well what this meant. Maria was in danger, and Father had already sent Marcus. He always did the dirty work with that cold, emotionless efficiency.
My hands clenched into fists. Obey Father and let my best friend die… or disobey and face whatever punishment waited.
I chose Maria.
Without another thought, I vanished like a shadow, moving faster than I ever had.
In seconds I was at Maria's house, a modest two-story brownstone in a quiet Brooklyn neighborhood, with faded blue shutters and a small front porch cluttered with potted plants her grandmother loved.
I slid silently through her bedroom window on the second floor.
The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of a streetlamp outside. I moved carefully toward the bed, heart in my throat.
Gently, I lifted the edge of the blanket.
There she was.
Maria lay pale and lifeless against the sheets, her eyes half-open in frozen terror. Knife marks—deep, vicious slashes—were scattered across her stomach, blood soaking the mattress in dark, sticky pools.
A broken sob tore from my chest.
I covered my mouth with both hands to stifle it, hot tears pouring freely down my face as I sank down beside her bed. I didn't dare touch her. I couldn't leave prints. I couldn't scream. All I could do was sit there, shoulders shaking, staring at my best friend's still body.
"It's all my fault…" The words repeated in my mind like a curse. "This was all my fault…"
Footsteps creaked on the stairs outside the room slowly.
I immediately disappeared, reappearing on a thick branch of the old oak tree across the street. From there, I watched through the window as Maria's poor grandmother entered the room. The elderly woman's wail split the night as she rushed to the bed, shaking Maria's body violently, trying desperately to wake her.
Grief and rage burned through me like poison.
It was Marcus. I knew it was him. And in that moment, staring at my dead friend and her broken grandmother, I made a silent vow.
I would not let this go.
I would kill him.