The Saturday sun rose with a pale clarity, filtering through the motel blinds and tracing cold lines across the silk sheets. I opened my eyes slowly, feeling the comforting weight of Grace against my chest. She was still asleep, an absolute contrast to the chaos I knew was waiting for me outside those marble walls.
Grace woke up shortly after. She blinked, her brown eyes still clouded with sleep, and upon finding me, she offered a smile that seemed to light up the entire room. It was a smile of surrender, of someone who had finally found a safe harbor.
“Good morning…” she whispered, her voice soft, nestling further into my warmth.
“Good morning,” I replied, forcing a gentleness that didn’t match the knot tightening in my stomach.
I looked at the digital clock on the nightstand: nearly 08:00. The truce had expired. Every second from now on was a countdown to my encounter with the abyss.
We got up for a quick shower. Under the hot spray, steam began to fill the space, blurring the mirrors and isolating us from the rest of the world. As the water washed away the remnants of our night—the scent of sex, the texture of her skin, the sweat of our ecstasy—I pulled her into an embrace from behind.
Grace rested her head on my shoulder and let out a sigh of pure satisfaction. She smiled, closing her eyes, believing this was a post-coital gesture of affection—a display of tenderness from a man in love. She couldn’t see my face.
To me, that embrace was an anchor of despair. I pressed her against me as if trying to merge her body into mine, engraving every curve into my cellular memory. My thoughts were miles away, on the operation with Henry, the risks of the plan with Artem, and the real possibility that these drops of hot water would be the last ones I’d ever feel with her. I was holding her as if I were saying goodbye to my own humanity before donning the executioner’s armor that Saturday demanded.
We finished our shower, got dressed, and I settled the bill at the reception with the mechanical coldness of someone closing a contract. We stopped at a nearby bakery for a quick breakfast; the bread was fresh, but to me, it tasted like ashes. Grace talked excitedly about the painting for Eziquel’s exhibition, and I simply nodded, watching the spark in her eyes while feeling the weight of the lie I carried beneath my suit.
I drove to her place, above the tattoo studio. When I parked, Grace turned to me, her eyes overflowing with a gratitude that cut me like a blade.
“Luke… thank you for everything you’re doing for me. Truly.”
I gave a vague smile—the kind I used to hide my depths. I leaned in and took her lips in a kiss. It wasn’t a kiss of lust, but something light and laden with a meaning she couldn’t comprehend. It was my silent “I’m sorry.”
“I’ll see you later,” I said, keeping my voice steady through pure survival instinct.
I watched her walk away and head up the stairs. Only when the door closed and I was certain she was safe did the “Strategist Luke” take full control of my system again.
I grabbed my phone and dialed Artem. He answered on the first ring.
“Any new information?” I went straight to the point.
“Jonathan called,” Artem’s voice was tense. “He’s picking me up at 18:00.”
“I’ll arrive earlier,” I decided, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “I’m going to coordinate with my contact.”
I hung up and immediately searched for Sofia’s number. She answered with her usual vivacity, but I had no time for pleasantries.
“Sofia, I need a favor. I need you to get Vanessa out of the house today. Organize a girls’ night, take her to a spa, a distant mall… anything. But get her out of there before 16:00.”
There was a pause. Sofia knew me too well not to sense the danger in my voice.
“Luke… why this? What’s going on?”
“I’ll explain later, Sofia. Please, just do it. I need to know she’s far from home today.”
“All right…” she replied, loyalty outweighing curiosity. “I’ll handle it.”
I felt a lump in my throat. I looked at the car’s dashboard, and memories of our childhood hit me. I remembered when I first met Sofia; our games as kids, growing up together. Though we drifted apart in high school, we had regained our intimacy. Sofia loved me madly, more than life itself, and every time I was alone with her, she did everything to please me. I was special to her, and as we spent time together, her presence had begun to fill my heart again.
“Sofia… I love you.”
There was absolute silence on the other end. I could almost hear her heart skip a beat. When she finally replied, her voice was thick with pure, unexpected happiness.
“Oh, Luke! I love you so much more! Take care of yourself, please…”
I hung up, feeling the weight of those words in the air. I shifted into gear and drove toward my apartment. Saturday had truly begun. And I was ready to burn whatever was necessary to ensure everyone survived—except for the man who deserved to die.
I parked the car in the building’s garage; the sound of the engine dying felt like the first chord of a funeral symphony I was composing myself. I took the elevator up. When I unlocked the apartment door, the space was silent, bathed in the white mid-morning light streaming through the wide windows.
Bianca was there. She was sprawled on the sofa, legs crossed casually, eyes fixed on her phone screen. At the sound of the door, she didn’t jump up with inquisitive questions or the demanding tone she used to use long ago. She simply looked up and smiled. A calm, almost serene smile.
“Welcome back,” she said, her voice soft, without a hint of sarcasm or jealousy regarding my night away.
A genuine smile touched my lips. It was gratifying to witness her evolution. Ever since the “verdict” I had handed down—the hard line regarding her behavior and the real threat that I would discard her if she didn’t change—Bianca had transformed. What began as blind desperation to maintain her status and proximity to me had blossomed into a discipline I respected. She had learned to read the silence and respect the space, becoming the kind of company I actually enjoyed.
“I’m back, Bianca,” I replied, closing the door behind me.
I walked to the center of the living room, feeling a wave of melancholy hit me. If the plan went wrong, if Jonathan was smarter than Henry and I predicted, this would be the last time I’d see this apartment. The last time I’d see Bianca.
“What do you want for lunch today?” I asked, surprising myself with the offer. “I’m going to cook.”
Bianca knit her brows for a moment, the confusion clear on her face. I rarely cooked, and when I did, it was a sign that something was different in the air. But she didn’t question it.
“White sauce pasta,” she answered, her eyes brightening at the idea. “That would be perfect.”
I nodded and went to the kitchen. I decided to make this lunch a final treat, a last gesture of kindness. Bianca had changed because of me; she had molded herself to my desires and endured my demands. In the game of my life, she had been with me for a long time, and I felt I owed her this—to act as I used to act in the old days.
While the water boiled and I began preparing the sauce, the sound of the knife hitting the granite counter was rhythmic, almost meditative. I grabbed my phone and shot a message to Henry: *”15:00. Have everything ready.”*
The reply didn’t take ten seconds. *”Understood. Central bakery at 15:00. Equipment is calibrated.”*
I locked the screen. The meeting at the bakery where we had our first strategic session was symbolic. Henry was fundamental to the plan—the man who would ensure Jonathan’s voice was recorded and his crimes documented for the final dossier.
Lunch was ready around 11:30. We served the plates and sat at the table. The aroma of melted cheese and herbs filled the room. Bianca ate with gusto, seemingly savoring every forkful. Midway through the meal, she looked at me with a mischievous but restrained glint.
“Luke… since you didn’t come home last night, I took the initiative,” she began, her voice dropping. “I put in the medium anal plug by myself. I managed to keep it in for a few hours before sleeping.”
I gave a wide smile. With all the tension accumulated over Grace, Jonathan, and Artem, I had completely forgotten about the training tasks I set for her.
“You’ve become a truly good girl, Bianca,” I praised, my voice husky. “I’m proud of your discipline.”
Those words had an immediate effect. A radiant smile of pure validation and happiness broke across her face. Seeing Bianca happy over a compliment of mine was the final proof that she belonged to me—not by contract, but by her own will.
“I’ll do the dishes,” she said, standing up with energy as soon as we finished. “You go get ready.”
I went up to my room. The clock marked just past 12:30. I still had time. I prepared a bath, letting the hot water rise to the brim. I climbed in and closed my eyes.
I stayed there, motionless, for nearly an hour and a half. I needed that absolute silence. The hot water relaxed my muscles, but my mind was working at a hundred miles an hour, reviewing every word I would say to Jonathan, every move Artem should make, and how Henry would position himself in the shadows. I was cleansing myself—not just of physical dirt, but trying to purify my mind for what would likely be the most violent and decisive act of my life.
At 14:00, I got out of the tub. I dried off and dressed in practical but discreet clothing: dark pants, a tech-fabric t-shirt, and a light jacket over it. I packed a small backpack with a change of clothes.
I went downstairs with the bag over my shoulder. Bianca was in the living room, as usual. I approached her in a way that took her by surprise. I didn’t usually initiate physical displays of affection before leaving; usually, she was the one seeking my attention. I stood before her, inches away.
“I’m leaving now,” I announced, my voice carrying a gravity I couldn’t hide.
Bianca nodded, but her eyes began scanning my face, searching for cracks in my mask of control.
“All right…” she murmured.
“Close your eyes,” I commanded.
She obeyed, her eyelids fluttering slightly. I leaned in and kissed her. It was a light kiss, lips barely touching at first, but it became deep and lingering. There was no sexual urgency like the night before with Grace; there was a sad sweetness, a taste of goodbye that I didn’t want her to notice, but was impossible not to feel.
When we pulled apart, Bianca opened her eyes, and bewilderment was written all over them. The lunch, the praise, and now this kiss… none of it followed my usual pattern.
“You’re different today,” she said, her voice laced with sudden suspicion. “Luke… are you coming back?”
The silence that followed felt like it lasted an eternity. I looked deep into her eyes, seeing the woman I had helped rebuild. If I answered with the absolute truth—that I didn’t know if I’d return—panic would consume her, and she might do something reckless.
“I am coming back,” I replied, forcing my voice to sound like an unbreakable promise.
I turned my back without looking twice and left the apartment. As I waited for the elevator, I felt the air grow thin in my lungs. I had lied to her, but in a game of life and death, hope was the only thing I could leave behind.
I walked toward the car. The clock showed 14:40. The time for Luke—the man who cooks and kisses—was over. The Luke who would destroy Jonathan was on his way to the bakery.
