A Night of Reckoning

Isabella took a shaky step backward, her wide, disbelieving eyes locked onto the woman before her. Her breath came in short, uneven gasps, her body trembling violently. The words spilled from her lips over and over, as if repeating them might somehow change their meaning, might undo the horror she had just heard.

"You… you killed him? You're the one who murdered my father?"

Her voice was barely more than a whisper, choked with shock and fury. Her hands clutched at her head, fingers digging into her scalp as though trying to rip away the madness that threatened to consume her.

Olivia, on the other hand, remained utterly unbothered. She lounged in her seat, her expression one of sheer boredom as she sighed.

"Oh, Isabella, darling," she drawled, her voice laced with condescension. "You really should have your hearing checked. How many times must I say it? It wasn't my father who killed him. It was me. Otherwise, how would I have his necklace? How would I know where he's buried? Isn't it obvious?"

A change flickered across Isabella's face. The disbelief melted away, replaced by something far colder, far more dangerous. Slowly, deliberately, she stood, her movements measured, almost eerie in their calmness.

The maid, who had been watching from a distance, felt a shiver run down her spine. Something was about to happen. Something terrible. She hesitated, but a single glance from Olivia stopped her in her tracks.

"Do not interfere," Olivia commanded, her voice firm, unwavering.

And then it happened.

With a sudden burst of movement, Isabella lunged forward, her slender fingers wrapping tightly around Olivia's throat. She pushed her back onto the couch, her grip tightening with every passing second. Her breathing was ragged, furious. Her hands shook—not from hesitation, but from the sheer intensity of her rage.

But Olivia… she only smiled.

That wicked, taunting smile.

"What's this?" Olivia's voice was strained but still dripping with amusement. "Trying to kill me? Your hands are trembling, dear. Do you need a lesson in how to strangle someone properly? I do have experience, you know."

A sharp gasp escaped Isabella's lips, her grip instinctively tightening. Olivia's smirk deepened as if she were savoring every second of this twisted game.

"Damn you," Isabella spat, her voice trembling with fury. "I'll kill you. I'll rid the world of a psychopath like you."

Olivia chuckled—or at least, she tried to, though the pressure on her throat made it come out as a rasping whisper.

"Well, then?" she taunted, her eyes gleaming with a sinister light. "What's stopping you? Shall I tell you how I did it? How I strangled your father?"

She leaned in ever so slightly, her breath warm against Isabella's cheek.

"I pressed my fingers into his throat... slowly… watching as the life drained from his eyes, as he gasped for air until there was nothing left."

Her lips curled into a mocking smirk.

"And you? You can't even press hard enough to kill a fly."

A deadly silence fell between them. The air in the room thickened, charged with the weight of rage, of vengeance, of something dark and inevitable.

Isabella's fingers clenched tighter. This time, she would not hesitate.

Isabella's rage burned hotter than a forge at full blaze. Her heart pounded violently, her blood a roaring tide in her ears. Every fiber of her being screamed for vengeance, for justice, for release from the torment that Olivia had inflicted upon her. Without hesitation, without thought, without fear—she tightened her grip.

Her fingers, slender yet unyielding, pressed harder against Olivia's throat. The cruel smirk on the other woman's face faltered, her breath hitching, her body tensing. Isabella could feel it—the tremor beneath her hands, the slowing of Olivia's breath, the way her skin paled ever so slightly. She was winning. She was finally winning.

And then—Olivia smiled.

Not a weak, gasping plea for mercy. Not a fading, desperate surrender.

But a smirk. Mocking. Unshaken.

"Is that all?" Olivia's voice came, hoarse yet laced with amusement.

Isabella's breath caught in her throat. How? How was she still conscious? Still taunting her?

A sliver of doubt sliced through Isabella's fury. Her grip wavered—just for a moment—but it was enough.

A strange sensation flooded her limbs. A heaviness, unfamiliar and unnatural, settled into her muscles. Her fingers, once clenched with unwavering resolve, loosened.

And then—she saw it.

A single drop of crimson rolled down Olivia's porcelain cheek.

Blood?

No—her blood.

Panic shot through Isabella like a dagger to the chest. Her hands trembled as she touched her own face, and when she pulled back, her fingertips were smeared with red. More blood welled from her nose, tracing sinister lines down her chin, splattering against Olivia's white dress like cruel irony.

Her vision swam. The room tilted.

Her body was failing her.

Olivia exhaled, slow and deliberate, as she pried Isabella's faltering hands from her throat with an almost lazy ease. Then, with a single forceful shove, she sent her sprawling to the floor.

Isabella landed hard, her breath escaping in a strangled gasp. She tried to push herself up, but her limbs refused to obey. A wave of nausea crashed over her, her stomach twisting violently.

She turned her head toward the grand mirror on the opposite wall, her blurry reflection barely recognizable.

She wasn't crying.

She was bleeding.

The realization hit like ice in her veins.

"What… what did you do to me?" Her voice was a ragged whisper, barely audible.

Olivia crouched beside her, gripping Isabella's chin with fingers that were deceptively gentle. "Oh, Isabella," she murmured, her tone dripping with false sympathy. "Did you really think you could overpower me?"

A chuckle, low and dark, escaped Olivia's lips. She released Isabella's chin, letting her head loll to the side like a broken doll. "You're a fool," she continued, standing to her full height. "Trusting the wrong people… again and again. First my father… and now me. When will you ever learn?"

Isabella's mind reeled, grasping for clarity through the fog of poison seeping through her veins. And then, as if a cruel joke from the universe—she saw it.

The glass of water.

The one she had sipped from, handed to her by the silent, trembling maid.

Her stomach twisted again, and this time she could not hold it back. A violent retch tore through her, blood spilling from her lips, staining the plush white carpet beneath her.

Olivia sighed, shaking her head as she watched Isabella convulse. "Such a shame," she mused. "Your father lasted longer than this."

A burst of laughter—raw and bitter—escaped Isabella's throat. "So… you killed my father…" she rasped, her breaths coming in labored gasps. "And now… it's my turn."

Olivia tilted her head slightly, as if contemplating the thought. Then, a slow, knowing smile spread across her lips.

"Kill you?" She let the words linger in the air, savoring the way Isabella's bloodshot eyes flickered with a mixture of fury and resignation. "Oh no, darling. That would be too merciful."

A shadow passed over Olivia's expression as she turned toward the trembling maid. "Kira."

The girl flinched violently, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the hem of her apron. "Y-Yes, my lady?"

"Bring me the rope."

Kira hesitated for only a moment before scurrying to retrieve it from a nearby drawer. Her hands trembled as she passed it to Olivia, who took it with practiced ease.

Isabella barely had the strength to react as Olivia knelt beside her once more, wrapping a pristine white cloth around her mouth, muffling whatever curses or pleas she might have tried to utter.

"Shh," Olivia cooed mockingly. "We wouldn't want to wake the neighbors, would we?"

With methodical precision, she secured Isabella's wrists behind her back, tying the knots with the ease of someone who had done this before. Someone who had prepared for this.

Satisfied, Olivia stood, her gaze sweeping the room before settling on Kira once more. "Take her."

Kira paled. "T-Take her where, my lady?"

Olivia's gaze flicked around the room, considering. Then, with an air of casual decision, she gestured toward the hallway.

"The bathroom should suffice."

Kira hesitated, glancing between Olivia and the barely-conscious woman on the floor.

"Now, Kira."

The sharpness in Olivia's voice sent a jolt through the girl. She nodded hastily, moving to drag Isabella's limp form across the floor.

At first, Isabella struggled weakly, but the poison had done its work. Her strength was gone.

The bathroom door creaked open, and with a final, resigned breath, Isabella was pulled inside. The door clicked shut.

Olivia inhaled deeply, exhaling as if she had just finished a tiresome chore. She glanced down at the blood-streaked carpet with mild disapproval.

"Clean this up," she instructed, voice devoid of emotion. "I need some air."

Without another word, she turned and stepped into the cold night, leaving only the echo of her footsteps in the silent, suffocating house.