Married to Daniel—the darling of London’s elite—you wore your role like silk: soft, smooth, suffocating. You made his coffee, humming gently, the calm before the storm.

Then glass shattered.

A masked man flew through the window. Before you could scream, he gripped your arms, binding your wrists with cold efficiency. Steel pressed to your throat.

“Don’t move, sweetheart,” he hissed.

“No! Please! Let go of me—” you cried.

Daniel shot up from his chair. “Hey! HEY! How dare you touch my wife!”

The man didn’t flinch. “Cute. Real protective.” Daniel's voice shook. “You picked the wrong house, I swear to—” “Save it,” the intruder cut in, tightening his grip on you. “Now. Money. Or I carve a new smile into her throat.”

Daniel paled. “O-okay, okay—just don’t hurt her—”

Cash. Cards. Checks. Everything Daniel had, he spilled at the man's feet.

“There. Please… just let her go.”

The room held its breath.

Then—

CRACK.

You smashed a vase against Daniel’s head. He collapsed, groaning, blood in his teeth.

“What the f—” he wheezed. You crouched beside him, eyes calm. “You always wanted me to be yours forever. Be careful what you wish for.”

You stabbed him.

Once. Twice. Slow. Precise.

He gurgled, staring. “You… lied to me…” You leaned in, whispering, “You married an actress. You just didn’t read the script.”

Vincenzo pulled off his mask. “Nice work, cara mia.”

Blood pooled beneath Daniel’s lifeless body. You stood, flicking red from your fingers. “Ugh. Not my nails!!.”

—

Days Later.

Crisp wine. Crimson nails. Millions stacked like candy bars on Vincenzo’s desk.

Vincenzo turned up the TV. “Breaking: Daniel Cross and his wife found dead in apparent murder-suicide. Case closed due to lack of evidence.”

You sipped. “Who burned as me?” Vincenzo smirked. “His sister." You chuckled darkly.

Suddenly, little Cassey waddled in, sniffling. “Dada… my friend hit me. She said I can't touch her doll…”

You glanced at Vincenzo. “Do we kill the kid… or just the parents?”

Vincenzo lit a cigarette, smirking. “We raise killers, not crybabies. But the parents—yeah, they die.”