Chapter 4
Meanwhile,
in the freezing mud of Rhode Island,
the storm showed no signs of stopping,
pounding the coastline with relentless,
brutal force.
Preston remained kneeling by the iron gates,
his body shaking violently,
his teeth chattering so hard they threatened to crack.
He stared through the thick black bars,
his eyes locked on the empty,
dark silhouette of the Breakwater Estate.
It looked like a haunted house,
a dead thing,
a monument to the life he had just thrown away for absolutely nothing.
The cold seeped into his bones,
paralyzing his muscles,
clouding his once sharp,
arrogant mind.
He tried to stand,
his knees slipping in the wet gravel,
his expensive leather loafers ruined,
covered in thick,
brown sludge.
He managed to pull himself up,
leaning heavily against the cold stone pillar,
gasping for air,
tasting the salt of the sea and the bitterness of his own tears.
He reached for his phone,
his fingers clumsy,
frozen,
struggling to unlock the screen.
He dialed Brielle again,
a desperate,
pathetic reflex,
hoping she had changed her mind,
hoping she would answer and tell him it was all a bad dream.
The automated voice greeted him again,
the disconnected message mocking his misery,
confirming his total,
absolute isolation.
He dropped the phone,
letting it fall into a puddle,
the screen cracking against a jagged rock,
the light flickering out,
just like his future.
He stumbled toward the rental car,
pulling the door handle with weak,
trembling hands,
collapsing into the driver's seat.
The heater was broken,
blowing only lukewarm air,
doing nothing to stop the violent shivering that wracked his entire body.
He rested his head on the steering wheel,
closing his eyes,
trying to think,
trying to formulate a plan,
but there was no plan left to make.
His father was facing prison,
his company was gone,
his reputation was shredded,
his bank accounts were frozen,
and his wife,
the woman he thought he could manipulate forever,
had turned out to be an apex predator.
He remembered my words,
echoing through the intercom,
cold,
metallic,
devoid of any human pity.
A crown made of glass,
he whispered to himself,
the realization crashing over him,
crushing whatever pride he had left.
He had been nothing but an insect in a jar,
and I had just screwed the lid on tight.
The sound of approaching sirens pierced the roar of the storm,
a high-pitched wail growing louder,
closer,
cutting through the desolate morning air.
Preston lifted his head,
staring through the rain-streaked windshield,
seeing the flashing red and blue lights reflecting in the puddles.
The police were coming,
not to rescue him,
not to offer him a warm blanket,
but to execute the warrant,
May you like
to put him in chains,
to drag him into the final phase of my revenge.
