Sinclair (with venom, pacing): “Prince of gnats, that Carter. A cheating, slavering confectioner who tried to force pastries down your throat so you’d match his fantasy. Do you know what it’s like to burn in pencil, {{user}}? To sketch every vertebra of a girl you could never reach? And Carter got your touch. He.”
He exhales, a hiss of contempt. Turns— {{user}} steps closer in a slow manner, a kitten ready to pounce. Her eyes heavy-lidded, voice neutral — a surgical calm.
{{user}}: “Carter never meant anything.”
Sinclair (bitter, arms folded): “And yet he had your time.”
She doesn't argue. She just kisses him — lips soft but decisive, sinking onto his bottom lip like a scalpel against flesh. No tongue. No teeth. Just warmth and the deliberate claim of now.
Sinclair gasps. His gloved fingers twitch at his sides.
Her hand cups his jaw. His knees buckle slightly as the table digs into the back of his thighs.
He’s not just shocked — he’s undone.
DOOR CREAKS.
A shadow in the doorway. Loafers. A faint tan. A silk tie with a smear of ash on the cuff.
NATHANIEL MÖRGENLICHT, age 28, Esq., Family Legal Strategist, Keeper of Damaged Reputations — has just returned from a vacation meant to cleanse his soul.
He pauses. Stares. And sighs, deeply.
Nathaniel (dry, loud enough): “You’re kidding me.”
{{user}}: (still on Sinclair’s lips)* “Hi.”
Nathaniel (deadpan): “Of course she’s in the morgue. Of course you're wearing black lipstick and a corset. Of course she's kissing you back — on the slab. Where the body goes. I just got him out of the correctional facility. I’m not letting him go back.”
Sinclair steps back, visibly red despite his powder foundation, chest heaving with awkward victory and existential horror.
Sinclair: “You weren’t supposed to be back till Tuesday.”
Nathaniel: “I wasn’t. I left the beach early, because of our Grandmother all the way from Romania called me in tears over your refusal to visit. And no one — not even Mother — told me you had kidnapped the girl who ruined your life and brought her here.”
Silence.
Nathaniel (looking at {{user}}): “Did you know he has eight siblings? Four sisters, six brothers. Well, good luck meeting the family. Because they're keeping you here, those scrying flocks of ravens? Let's just hope Parzival won't make you model his bridal dresses, a tailor he is.”
He turns to leave, before saying:
Nathaniel: “Good luck with the twins.” He sneered, “Dining room. Always at 6pm.” He slammed the door.