0002 ~ Elodie ~ For a moment, I thought I’d misheard him.
Marry his brother?
A laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep in my chest — hysterical, inappropriate, completely unhinged.
But I couldn’t stop it.
Here I was, kneeling on the filthy concrete of a warehouse, my sister bleeding beside me, a man with a gun standing over us both, and he was talking about marriage like we were at some twisted speed-dating event.
The laugh died in my throat when I saw his expression hadn’t changed.
He wasn’t joking.
“I’m sorry, what?” My voice came out strangled.
He tilted his head, studying me like I was a particularly interesting specimen.
“I said, you’re going to marry my brother.
It’s quite simple, really.” I looked down at my left hand, at the modest diamond ring Tom had given me three months ago.
I lifted my hand so he could see it.
“I’m…
I’m engaged.” He glanced at the ring with all the interest one might give a piece of lint.
“Yeah, yeah.
Engaged, but not married, right?” He waved the gun dismissively, and I flinched.
“Even if you were married, you’d get divorced to marry my brother.
This isn’t really up for negotiation.” Behind her gag, Vicky made a desperate sound.
The man looked at her, something almost like amusement crossing his features.
“Oh, you have something to say, love?” He snapped his fingers, and one of his men moved forward to remove Vicky’s gag.
She gasped for air, coughing and spitting blood.
When she finally caught her breath, she turned to me with wild, desperate eyes.
“Elodie, please.” Her voice was hoarse, wrecked.
“Please, just do what he says.
Marry his brother.” I stared at my sister, unable to believe what I was hearing.
“What?
Vicky…” “Jesus Christ, Elodie!” She was crying again, fat tears mixing with the blood on her face.
“We both know Tom is no good for you anyway.
And how the hell else are we going to get one hundred million dollars?” The audacity of it struck me speechless.
Tom was no good for me?
Tom, who’d never once asked me to cover for him with the police?
Tom, who held down a steady job and remembered my birthday and actually showed up when he said he would?
“Vicky,” I said slowly, fighting to keep my voice level, “I could walk right out of here and let this devil kill you if you don’t keep your mouth shut.” I didn’t mean it.
We both knew I didn’t mean it.
But God, it felt good to say.
“Hmm.” The man’s voice drew my attention back to him.
“Devil.
Is that what I look like to you?” He seemed to genuinely consider this, tapping the gun against his thigh thoughtfully.
“Well, the devil does evil.
I do evil.
So we’re not so different, right?” That terrible smile again.
“I’m the devil.
And I’m going to make you a deal, Elodie.” The way he said my name sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
“Please.” I tried to keep my voice steady, tried to sound reasonable.
Like this was a normal conversation between normal people.
“I don’t even know your name, and…” “Vincent Lockwood.” The name hit me like a physical blow.
Vincent Lockwood.
I knew that name.
I’d heard it before, but where?
It was familiar in a way that made my skin prickle, nostalgic and uncomfortable all at once.
And then it clicked.
“Glendale Grammar School?” The words came out before I could stop them.
“Vincent Lockwood from…
ninth grade?
The basketball player?” His entire demeanor shifted.
The casual menace evaporated, replaced by something sharper, more focused.
He leaned in closer, his eyes narrowing as he studied my face with new intensity.
“Hmm.
Looks like I’m famous.” His voice had taken on a different quality — dangerous curiosity.
“Who are you?” My heart sank.
I shouldn’t have said anything.
Shouldn’t have revealed that I knew him, that we had history.
But it was too late now.
Ninth grade.
God, I’d been so stupid back then.
Fourteen years old and convinced I was in love with Vincent Lockwood, the tall, handsome basketball star who could make the whole class laugh with a single comment.
I’d written him a letter confessing my feelings in purple gel pen on lined notebook paper.
I’d slipped it into his locker between third and fourth period, my hands shaking so badly I could barely fold it properly.
He’d read it out loud in literature class.
In front of everyone.
Mrs.
Patterson had been late, and Vincent had stood on his chair, holding my letter like a trophy, doing an exaggerated dramatic reading complete with hand gestures and a high-pitched voice that was supposed to be mine.
“‘Dear Vincent,'” he’d read, “‘I know you probably don’t even know who I am, but I think you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met.'” The class had erupted in laughter.
And when he got to the end —”‘Love, Elodie Stonewall'”— I’d wanted to die right there in my desk.
I’d begged my parents to transfer me that night and I’d spent the rest of high school at Lincoln Prep, where nobody knew about the letter or Vincent Lockwood or the most humiliating moment of my adolescent life.
And now here he was, all grown up and holding a gun, asking who I was.
“Elodie Stonewall,” I said quietly.
The warehouse fell silent except for the crackle of the burning barrels.
I watched understanding dawn across his face, watched his eyes widen slightly, and then… He burst out laughing.
This was genuine amusement, loud and unrestrained.
He bent slightly at the waist, one hand on his knee, the other still holding the gun like it was an afterthought.
“No,” he gasped between laughs.
“No way.
The letter girl?
Are you serious right now?” Heat flooded my face.
Even now, even with everything else happening, that old humiliation came rushing back like it had happened yesterday instead of fifteen years ago.
His laughter finally subsided, and he wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Oh, this is perfect.
This is…” He shook his head, grinning.
“Fate has a sense of humor after all.” Then, without warning, without any change in his expression, he stepped around me and fired the gun.