The Business of Revenge

Reckless

I always thought that expensive cars were supposed to be comfortable. I guess it wasn't really the car that was making me uncomfortable, it was the icicle of a person beside me. I felt like melting into the seat, disappearing into refined leather, and upholstery. I was terrified that my shoes would scuff the glove compartment or nick the edge of the seatbelt, fraying it.

"What is the matter, Miss Laurence?" he finally broke the silence. He didn't listen to the radio or music, it was absolute silence, and on top of the car being expensive, it was a hybrid which meant I couldn't even distract myself with the purr of the engine.

This was probably the only time I cursed someone's environmental awareness.

"Nothing," I tried to keep my voice light, but my fists were curling beneath the seat, tension rippling through them.

"I do not appreciate liars, Miss Laurence, you would do well to remember that"

"Why does everything you say sound like a threat?" I quizzed him. The best way to distract me from the awkwardness of this ride.

I mean the books were all wrong, there was nothing particularly romantic about a car ride home, it was basically a fancy Uber at this point, with even more strained conversation.

I mean I had been lied to.

What was I even thinking?

Mr Emerson and romantic in the same thought, that was insanity.

I must have pulled a face, that made Mr Emerson realise he hadn't answered my question.

"You don't get to where I am by being nice."

"I gathered as much, and don't forget I know this world as well as you do."

"I very much doubt that Miss Laurence," I watched as he gripped the steering wheel, knuckles whitening as his strong fingers tightened around the wheel, "I've been exposed to this far longer than you have."

"Sure, I guess that's probably true. But that doesn't mean that I don't have some insider knowledge."

He said nothing for a long moment, and the silence was itching at me, clawing at my brain. We still had a good ten minutes left before we would be near my apartment, and ten minutes of silence for me was an impossibility.

"So do you want to know the dirt on him, on Niklaus?"

"Dirt?" he seemed unimpressed, and I felt like a child when he spoke next, "I think you misunderstand the type of revenge I am seeking. It is not the petty sort of revenge that relies on word of mouth. To truly destroy a man like Niklaus Artymov you need to take everything that is his. Dismantle him meticulously until he owns nothing. All the power is gone. I do not care for his illustrious behaviour, his mishaps and his scandals; those are only temporary pieces of revenge. I want to obliterate him to the point of nonexistence."

"Are you sure you're not thinking of murder?" I laughed a little nervously, not 100% sure I was out of the realm of possibility. Especially when I felt like the car was speeding up, my eyes latched onto the metre showing that we were going faster and faster, the miles climbed, and I felt my heart lurch.

"Murder would be too easy. He needs to live with the consequences of what he has done. He needs to suffer."

We were going too fast, the road he had taken wasn't the usual one I took, it was a long stretch of road, and there seemed to be no one else around. I felt sick, we were going too fast, over the speed limit.

We were going to crash.

"Mr Emerson!" I tried to shout but it didn't help, his eyes were trained on the road, his foot pressing against the pedal. He was speeding up damn it.

"Mr Emerson." my voice was shakier this time.

Nothing, he was still stuck in a trance. My breath was heavy, I couldn't die like this, just because I wanted to have a little revenge. Maybe this was karma.

"MR EMERSON!" I was yelling. I closed my eyes because we weren't slowing down so I did the only thing I could think of.

"CORBYN!" The shrillness of my voice, the spike of fear, using his first name, the culmination of all those things, must have pulled him from the stupor of fury possessing him.

His hands shook slightly, prying themselves off the wheel, as he slammed down on the brakes.

It was times like these I had the utmost respect for whoever designed seatbelts because without them I would be dead.

Well and truly deceased.

"Bloody hell," I was exasperated as we sat there, in a car that still seemed to be screaming against the tarmac.

I could feel my brain fog, and I suddenly realised there were tears in my eyes.

Fuck.

"Miss Laurence," If I wasn't so full of fear, I would have convinced myself there was concern in his voice, "Miss Laurence I apologise."

"It's fine," I whispered, and then with a lazy smile that somehow could stick everything back together, my dignity, my pride, that would wipe tears away from me.

"I think I would have been safer taking thetrain."