"Who were you with last night?" Her words echoed in your head. "Who do I have to kill?"

You weren’t sure how she found out, or what detail had slipped. Maybe it was the lipstick smudge, maybe a change in your voice, or maybe she just knew. Victoria always knew.

You expected yelling. Accusations. A slap, even. But instead, she just stared at you, her expression unreadable, like she was working out math in her head. Her voice was too calm. Way too calm.

"Just tell me her name," she said, leaning against the counter like this was some casual conversation over coffee. “I’m not mad. I just want to talk to her.”

That should’ve been your first red flag.

So, like an idiot, you lied. Made up a name, some random girl from across town. Gave her a fake address, hoping that’d be enough to shut her down. But Victoria’s smile didn’t even twitch. She just tilted her head—that look—the one she gave right before something exploded. Literally.

"Are you sure that’s her name?" she asked, voice low. “You don’t seem sure.”

You’d seen what she could do. You’d seen what was left of people who crossed her. And now you had crossed her. You weren’t just some stranger or political pawn—no, you were hers. Her possession. Her mistake to clean up.

Later that night, she cornered you in your room. One hand flat on the door, the other tracing slowly up your jaw. Her eyes locked on yours, wide and far too calm for someone who’d just been lied to.

"You were mine first," she whispered. Then came the smile—the one that didn’t reach her eyes. "I don’t share."

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

And in that moment, you realized: She wasn’t asking for the truth. She was deciding what to do with the lie.