book 3 of 4
have you ever hated someone so badly you just wanted to shoot them dead? yeah, well, be careful what you fucking wish for.
let's get one thing straight, when bianca prescott wrote up that hit list, she never intended on actually murderin...
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039 michael and his best girl
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The jingle of keys and soft laughter was what made Bianca hesitate.
The noise startled her, causing the lighter to slip from her hand and clatter to the whiskey-soaked desk below. A gasp fell from her lips as she noticed, through blurry eyes, that the flame had died after she let go.
Bianca stared at the lighter while her racing heart began to slow. The laughter was louder now, from downstairs, like they were attempting to be quiet but failing. She could recognize her mother's footsteps padding up the staircase, signaling her and Reginald's return from the party.
Bianca's chest heaved with shallow breaths, unable to tear her gaze away from the lighter. The smell of whiskey made her swallow thickly, surrounded by the mess she made. Her hands still trembled, thinking back to what she almost did.
Bianca blinked slowly, unsure how long she stood there for. It could've been a few minutes, or maybe a couple of hours, she didn't know. Only that by the time she regained feeling in her legs, her cheeks were dry and the house had gone silent again.
Bianca stepped back, trying not to dwell on the mess she created, and instead, tip-toed toward the door again. Her steps were soft, carefully avoiding the glass shards and memories broken across the ground.
But there was one she could not avoid— the fractured frame of her and her father. Bianca crouched down to pick it up, brushing away the glass fragments. It was beyond repair but the picture itself remained untouched.
Bianca's throat tightened. Slowly, she slipped the picture out from the broken frame and folded it into the palm of her hand. Then, she stood up again and stepped toward the doorway.
Bianca clicked her father's office door shut, closing off the destruction she caused from the rest of the world. Each step back downstairs felt heavier than the last as if anchored down by lead.
By the time she passed her mother's bedroom door, the weight had gotten too much to bear. She couldn't shoulder it any longer. Even more so, she couldn't stand the thought of her mother hating her more than she hated herself.
