CHAPTER 171: THE BEGINNING OF THE STORM III: WHEN EVIL WORE SILK

The room was cloaked in half-light, the golden lamps burning low, their glow flickering faintly across the polished floor.

A hush lay over everything — the kind of stillness that made even the ticking clock sound deafening.

The faint scent of cologne and whiskey mingled with the cool night air drifting through the slightly open window.

Abigail stood at the edge of the bed, her silhouette trembling in the dimness.

Her eyes — sharp, hungry, and gleaming with a cruel satisfaction — fixed on the man before her.

Roman lay motionless, his head turned slightly to one side, his lips parted just enough to reveal the calm rhythm of his breathing.

His chest rose and fell with each exhale, steady as a tide, unbothered and unaware of the darkness standing above him.

For a long moment, she simply stared. Her gaze traced every curve, every line of him, as if memorizing the shape of temptation itself.

Then, slowly, she leaned forward, the bedsheet whispering beneath her hand.

Her fingertips hovered near his throat — close enough to feel the faint pulse beneath his skin.

It was steady, strong. The touch made her breath hitch. A slow, feverish smile curved her lips as her fingers brushed the crisp fabric of his collar.

With deliberate care, she slid her hand beneath the edge of the bow tie and tugged.

The silk loosened with a soft hiss, gliding against his neck before slipping free.

She tossed it aside, her hand trembling slightly — not from guilt, but from excitement.

"Perfect," she breathed, her voice almost soundless, as if afraid to wake him yet desperate to hear herself say it.

The dim light kissed the sharpness of his jawline, glinting off the faint shadow of stubble that darkened his face.

There was a quiet power in the way he lay — even unconscious, he looked untouchable, regal.

But Abigail had always loved touching what she wasn’t supposed to.

Her hand moved again, this time slower, tracing from his throat downward, lingering over the warmth of his chest.

The heat of his skin seeped through the thin fabric as her fingers found the first button of his shirt.

Click.

One undone.

Click.

Another.

The sound of each button loosening was like a whisper in the silence — daring, forbidden.

Her breath deepened with every movement, the anticipation curling through her chest like smoke.

When the last button gave way, she hesitated — not out of shame, but to savor the sight.

With a faint rustle, she parted the shirt open.

The soft light spilled over him, revealing a chest sculpted with strength — smooth skin, the faintest sheen of warmth, and the shadowed ridges that spoke of discipline and control.

His heartbeat pulsed faintly beneath the surface, strong and maddeningly alive.

For a moment, Abigail forgot to breathe.

Her eyes drank him in greedily, her face softening into something that might have been admiration — if not for the twisted hunger behind it.

Her fingers, pale and slender, brushed against his chest, trailing down toward his stomach in a delicate line. His warmth clung to her skin.

"You’re handsome in every corner, love," she whispered, her voice unsteady, trembling with obsession and envy.

The words hung in the air like perfume — intoxicating, wrong, yet strangely beautiful.

Her lips curled faintly at the edges, half in admiration, half in mockery.

The faint breeze from the window stirred her hair, sending a dark strand across her cheek.

She didn’t move to brush it away. Her focus was entirely on him — the sleeping man, the forbidden prize, the reminder of everything she could never truly own.

And in that fragile moment, with the soft hum of silence pressing between them, Abigail smiled — the kind of smile that promised destruction disguised as devotion.

The room held its breath, and the night outside seemed to lean closer, listening.

"But sorry, my dear... we have work to do," Abigail murmured, her tone dipped in silk and poison.

The words rolled off her tongue like a lover’s whisper, but her eyes gleamed with something far darker than tenderness.

For a moment, she lingered — watching his still face, the quiet authority that clung to him even in unconsciousness.

His lashes cast faint shadows beneath his eyes; his lips were faintly parted, as though he might wake at any second and crush her between fury and disdain.

The thought thrilled her. It made her heart pound faster.

A tremor of anticipation moved through her as she stretched her arm toward the nightstand.

Her nails—painted a sharp, blood-red—clicked lightly against the wooden surface until they found what she wanted.

Her phone.

She snatched it up, the device glowing to life in her hand. The harsh light briefly illuminated her face—half angel, half demon—casting long shadows across her cheekbones.

She unlocked it swiftly, her fingers moving with the kind of grace born from obsession, not care.

The front camera opened with a soft chime, and suddenly her reflection filled the screen.

Her own face stared back at her — a picture of elegance and madness intertwined.

"How good," she whispered, tilting her head as a sly smile crept across her lips. Her pupils were wide, reflecting the soft blue glow of the phone.

The light kissed her features, outlining every wicked curve of her grin.

She looked almost ethereal, like a fallen goddess admiring her handiwork before the storm.

Her lips parted in delight as she shifted her gaze toward the man lying still beside her.

"Perfect," she breathed, lowering the camera slightly. "Just perfect."

Without hesitation, Abigail leaned closer.

Her body moved with predatory grace, her chest pressing against Roman’s firm arm as she positioned herself above him.

Her perfume—something expensive and heavy—filled the air, mingling with his faint scent of wood and smoke.

Her face hovered inches from his. She could feel his breath, faint but steady, brushing against her cheek like a ghost of warmth.

The camera shutter clicked.

Then again.

But her smile faltered.

"No... this isn’t what I want," she hissed under her breath. The photos weren’t enough. They didn’t capture the illusion she needed—the scene she envisioned.

She wanted something dramatic, something intimate enough to burn the world when it surfaced.

Her frustration broke like a wave. With a sudden, sharp movement, she sat upright.

The bedsheet creased under her, the faint sound echoing in the tense silence.

Her hand darted to her hair.

In one swift, violent tug, she yanked out the golden pin holding her bun. The metallic piece slipped from her grip and fell, clattering softly against the wooden floor.

The transformation was instant.

Her long, black hair cascaded down like a dark waterfall, spilling over her shoulders, her back, her chest—thick, glistening strands tumbling until the tips curled in soft, heavy waves near her knees.

The faint lamplight shimmered against the glossy strands, turning her into a vision both divine and dangerous.

She exhaled, running her fingers through her loosened hair. The motion was slow, sensual, deliberate — every strand that slid between her fingers seemed to draw her deeper into madness.

Her reflection on the phone now looked entirely different.

Wild. Untamed. Beautiful — in the way fire was beautiful before it devoured everything.

"This will do," she murmured, her tone trembling with dark satisfaction.

Her lips parted slightly, and a shadow of a smile crept back into her eyes as she adjusted the camera again.

The soft hum of the phone mixed with the faint whisper of her breathing.

Abigail tilted her head, brushing her hair over one shoulder, her neckline exposed against the dim light.

"Now..." she whispered, leaning toward him again, "...let’s make you mine, if only in a picture."

The flash went off once more, capturing her poised above him like a temptress over prey — light and darkness frozen in a deceitful embrace.

And in that frozen second, with her hair spilling across his bare chest and the faint click echoing in the silence, the monster in her eyes came fully alive.

Abigail placed the phone gently on Roman’s chest, her movements unnervingly delicate, almost reverent—like a worshiper laying an offering before her sleeping god.

The faint glow of the screen lit his bare torso in a ghostly blue, outlining the smooth planes of muscle beneath his skin.

Her fingers slid into her hair, combing through the thick, dark strands as she twisted them wildly.

Each motion transformed her, stripping away the last fragments of grace she had worn when she entered the room.

In her place stood a woman unrecognizable—a creature born of jealousy and rage, her beauty now sharpened by madness.

Her reflection shimmered faintly on the glossy screen of the phone, eyes wide and unsteady, lips parting with the smallest, trembling smile.

"This will do," she murmured, her voice low and throaty, thick with satisfaction.

She leaned down again, her breath hitching as she inched closer.

Roman’s scent—clean linen and faint cologne—still clung to his skin, maddeningly serene against the chaos brewing in her heart.

Her lips hovered just above his collarbone. The air between them felt charged, almost alive, as if the silence itself were watching her.

Then came the soft click.

And another.

And another.

The camera captured every illusion she painted with her body. Abigail shifted with the grace of a dancer and the hunger of a predator.

In one frame, she draped herself over his arm, her cheek pressed to his skin as if in sleep.

In another, she nestled her face into the crook of his neck, her lashes brushing against him with feigned tenderness.

The next shot froze her in mid-movement—her lips grazing the edge of his jaw, her hand splayed against his chest, his undone shirt framing them like a portrait of forbidden passion.

Sometimes, she kissed him—just barely, the whisper of her mouth leaving no trace but promising the world otherwise.

Other times, she merely lingered close enough that the illusion became indistinguishable from truth.

Each shutter flash was a dagger.

Each photo, a carefully woven lie.

When she finally paused, the silence in the room seemed to pulse.

Abigail glanced at the screen, her reflection mingling with Roman’s still form. Her lips parted into a satisfied sigh.

"Hmmm," she hummed softly, tilting her head as if critiquing art. "This is good... or should I say, more than good."

Her voice dripped with cruel delight. The images gleamed on the screen—fabricated intimacy captured in perfect light, angles that whispered of sin and secrecy.

In every frame, Roman appeared vulnerable, unaware, hers.

Her thumb swiped through them slowly, her eyes devouring each photo like a starving soul.

The spark of triumph danced across her face—wild and unrestrained.

Then her smile changed.

It curved into something darker, something venomous.

"Now, Mrs. Thompson," she breathed, each word a drop of poison. "Why don’t I give you the biggest surprise of your life?"

Her tone was sharp, dripping with envy, her eyes narrowing with hatred so thick it could choke the air itself.

She glanced down at Roman, lying so still—his strength hidden beneath that temporary weakness—and sneered softly.

"You took everything, didn’t you?" she whispered to no one. "His eyes. His heart. His peace. But let’s see what you’ll take after this."

Her laughter began softly—an almost melodic chuckle that slipped past her lips like silk. But it grew louder.

And louder.

Until the sound filled the room entirely.

It was a laugh that didn’t belong to a woman anymore but to something hollow, cracked, and cruel.

The walls seemed to carry it, the echo stretching into the corners like fingers of shadow.

Had the soft music not been playing on the floor speaker—a gentle classical tune Roman had left on earlier—the sound might have spilled into the hallway, alerting anyone nearby.

But instead, the haunting melody mingled with her laughter, turning it into something far more chilling.

In that dim room, illuminated by the ghostly glow of the phone, Abigail looked like a queen of ruin—her dark hair spilling wildly over her shoulders, her dress wrinkled and slipping down one arm, the manic light of victory burning in her eyes.

She stared at the last photo again, one where her lips hovered over Roman’s, frozen in a breathless almost-kiss.

Perfect.

The image of destruction.

And as she gazed at it, her laughter softened into a whisper.

"Let the world see what I see," she said quietly, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "Let her drown in the same pain I did."

Her finger hovered over the screen—ready to send the poison out into the world.

And the soft music continued to play, oblivious to the storm about to begin.