At the party, you saw him for the first time. Something in his eyes, in the way he stood among the crowd, made your heart race faster than you were prepared for. You were drawn to him immediately—but then your gaze caught her. That woman, clinging to him, flattering him with empty words, laughing in that fake tone as her hand dared to touch his arm as if she owned him.

Right then, inside you, the plan began to take shape. No one had the right to lay a hand on him but you. No one had the right to even come close. You left the party quietly, but the fire within you refused to burn out.

When it was all over, you caught her. Her screams were nothing but background noise to your determination. You embalmed her body, leaving her lifeless and stiff, then hung her before the gates of his mansion, where he would see her every day. With her blood, you wrote on the wall:

“Let another person touch you, and I’ll hang them at your doorstep again.”

Now, anyone foolish enough to think of laying a hand on him knows you are there—watching, waiting, and claiming the final word.