The fall

Chapter 38

Penelope

Richard's office felt colder than usual, the sunlight streaming in from the tall windows doing little to soften the weight in the air. I stood in front of his desk, arms crossed, staring at the bag of coins he'd just dropped between us. The clinking sound grated on my nerves. I didn't reach for it.

"This is for your next mission," he said, his tone calm, as if I'm not a lost cause of becoming a killing machine. "The council approved it. You'll be going alone this time."

I raised an eyebrow. "Alone? That's what they came up with?" I let out a sharp scoff. "What a brilliant plan. Absolutely genius. Clearly, being alone is the perfect solution to everything."

Richard didn't rise to the bait, which somehow annoyed me even more. He leaned back in his chair, studying me like he always did, like he was looking for something he'd never find. "You need a change of environment, Penelope," he said, his voice maddening steady. "You're wearing yourself down. Slowly destroying yourself. Don't act as if I didn't find you completely unconscious earlier—I won't allow it, this. to happen again."

I felt my jaw tighten. "You won't allow it?" I repeated, my voice cutting. "What exactly do you think shipping me off on some solo mission is going to do? Do you think I'll suddenly feel safe in Valort? Do you think this fixes anything?" I laughed bitterly. "You're ridiculous, Richard."

He sighed, the kind of sigh that made me want to throw something at his face. "Penelope, I understand—"

"No, you don't!" The words burst out of me before I could stop them. My hand went instinctively to the collar around my neck, it's cold metal pressing into my skin. "You don't understand anything. This isn't about me feeling safe. This is about control. They don't trust me. They think I'm going to snap the second this thing comes off."
I took a step closer, leaning over the desk as I spat the words at him. "Do you have any idea how much I hate this? How much I hate them for doing this to me? For treating like I'm some kind of... ticking bomb?"

"I know," he said quietly before sitting up straight. "But I can't do anything about it. Not yet."

I laughed again, but it was hollow, humorless. "Of course you can't. You never can, can you? You're just their loyal little dog, sitting at their fucking feet, doing whatever they command."

That landed, though he barely showed it. Richard stood slowly, his face unreadable, and walked across the room to one of the massive drawers that lined the far wall. I watched him carefully, suspicion prickling at the back of my neck as he pulled something out. When he turned back, he was holding a neatly folded set of clothes.

"I had Meredith design these," he said, walking back towards me. "The quality is the best. They're made to be easy to move in. You'll need them."

I stared at the clothes, not moving. My frown deepened. "Why are you still being nice to me?" I asked flatly. "You know I'm just their prisoner, right? You don't owe me anything."

"You're not a prisoner to me," he said firmly. "You're someone who's been treated unfairly. And if I can get atleast a piece of fraction of your old spark back, I will."

I snatched the clothes from his hands with a sharp sigh, the fabric soft and light against my fingers. "Fine," I muttered, my voice dripping with annoyance. I turned and stalked toward the door. "I'll do your stupid mission."

As my hand closed around the doorknob he called after me. "I'll send the mission details through your new equipmen before you leave."

I paused but didn't turn around. "Of course you will," I muttered under my breath, just loud enough for him to hear. I pulled the door open and walked out, letting it slam shut behind me.

...

I stared at myself in the mirror, taking in the figure reflected back. My stomach churned, a sick twist of recognition settling in my gut. It was exa like the dream I'd had weeks ago—before I came to Valort, before I killed Mr. Laurens. Every detail was the same. The outfit, the reflection, the suffocating weight of inevitability pressing down on my chest.

The cropped black top clung tightly, leaving my midriff exposed. It was simple, fit for an assassin. Like I could disappear into the shadows after all kill. Over it, the long, flowing robe hung open, its black and dark blues shifting with every slight motion I made.

My eyes dropped to the fitted shorts—practial, snug and unyielding, a sharp contrast to the robes wild elegance. The thigh high stockings climbed up my legs, sleek and dark, blending into the sturdy boots that felt like they'd been molded just for me. Every piece made me want to scream and shout, it was as if someone had imagined this exact version of me before It even was created.

I hated it. Because as much as I wanted to reject it, I couldn't shake the feeling that it fit me too well. That I belonged to this image. Or worse—that this image had always belonged to me.