Chapter 11: A game of blood

Michael's words echoed in my head long after I left his car.

"You're going to betray me, Winnie. Just like he wants."

I understood what he meant.

We had to make it look real.

Damien wasn't stupid. He would expect proof—something undeniable. And that meant Michael and I had to stage the perfect betrayal.

But that also meant trusting Michael completely.

And trust was a dangerous thing.

The next night, I met Michael at an abandoned warehouse on the edge of town.

He was waiting for me, leaning against his car, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. The dim glow of the streetlights cast long shadows around us, making the moment feel even more ominous.

"You're late," he said, exhaling smoke.

I shrugged. "Had to make sure I wasn't followed."

Michael smirked, tossing his cigarette to the ground and crushing it under his boot. "Good. You're learning."

I folded my arms. "So, what's the plan?"

Michael opened the car door and pulled out a small black case. He flipped it open, revealing a syringe filled with dark red liquid.

My stomach twisted. "What is that?"

Michael's gaze was steady. "Your proof."

I swallowed hard. "You want me to fake your death."

Michael nodded. "Damien needs to believe you actually did what he asked. This"—he held up the syringe—"is a compound that slows the heartbeat, drops the body temperature. To anyone who doesn't know better, I'll be dead."

I stared at him. "And you trust me to bring you back?"

Michael smirked. "I guess we're about to find out."

I exhaled sharply. "And what happens after Damien believes I've killed you?"

Michael's smirk faded. "Then you get close enough to end him."

The words were simple.

The plan was not.

But I had already made my choice.

I took the syringe from Michael's hand and gripped it tight.

"Let's do this."

We staged the scene in an old club Michael used to own—a place no one would think to check until it was too late. The air inside was thick with dust, the scent of decay lingering in the walls. Broken glass littered the floor, crunching under my boots as I moved.

Michael lay on the cold concrete, his shirt stained with fake blood, his breathing shallow.

He looked dead.

Too dead.

I stood over him, my hands shaking, my breath coming in short gasps.

This had to be convincing.

It had to be real.

My stomach twisted as I pulled out my phone, my fingers trembling as I dialed the number I had memorized years ago.

Damien answered on the first ring.

"It's done," I whispered.

Silence.

Then—

"Good girl."

The line went dead.

I let out a shaky breath, staring down at Michael. His chest barely rose and fell, the compound working exactly as he'd said it would.

Now came the hard part.

I had to make Damien believe this wasn't a trick.

I returned to Eden just before midnight.

Damien was waiting in his office, sitting behind his massive desk, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He didn't look up when I walked in.

"You have something for me?" he asked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

I swallowed hard and reached into my pocket, pulling out the folded Polaroid Michael had given me.

I placed it on the desk.

Damien set his drink down and picked up the photo.

He studied it in silence.

It was a picture of Michael's lifeless body, blood pooling around him, his eyes vacant. The lighting was perfect, the angle brutal. It looked real.

It felt real.

Damien finally looked up at me.

"You did it."

I nodded, my throat dry. "Yes."

A slow smirk spread across his face.

Then he laughed.

Not a chuckle. Not a quiet amusement.

A full, satisfied laugh.

"I knew you wouldn't disappoint me," he said, leaning back in his chair.

I forced myself to stay still.

To pretend that this was the moment I had wanted.

Damien reached for his whiskey again, taking a slow sip before fixing me with an approving look. "And how did it feel?"

The question sent a shiver down my spine.

I forced myself to answer. "Necessary."

Damien grinned. "That's my girl."

My stomach churned at the words, but I kept my face blank.

This was the first step.

I had convinced him.

Now, I just had to wait for my chance to take him down.

Michael wouldn't wake up for another few hours.

He had explained the timing to me beforehand—how long the compound would last, how I would need to be back at the club before he came to.

So I waited.

I sat at the bar in Eden, nursing a glass of water, pretending I wasn't shaking from the inside out.

Selene slid onto the stool beside me.

She didn't speak at first. Just watched me, her dark eyes unreadable.

Then she finally said, "You did it, didn't you?"

I met her gaze.

I didn't answer.

I didn't have to.

Selene sighed, rubbing her temples. "I hope you know what you're doing, Winnie."

I gripped my glass tighter.

"So do I," I whispered.

Because the truth was—

If Damien ever figured out this was all a lie, I wouldn't get another chance.

And neither would Michael.