The chirping of birds slipped into the quiet apartment, a natural alarm that nudged Chelsea awake. She stretched beneath the sheets, her blonde hair tumoring over her face, a smile tugging at her lips.
"What a wonderful way to start my day," she murmured, her voice soft with sleep.
At twenty-three, Chelsea had everything she once dreamed of. A well-paid job. A polished apartment in Houston. A sense of independence she guarded fiercely. She had built her life from scratch, and no one, not even love, was allowed to derail it.
Her hand slid to her phone, the glow of the screen illuminating the faint frown that touched her mouth. Still no text. Still silence from Harvey. With a sigh, she tossed the device onto the bed and rose, padding toward the bathroom.
The water was hot against her skin, rolling down her face like a curtain that opened up memories she tried to shut away. The flashback came sharp, uninvited. Harvey's voice replayed in her head with every droplet.
"I can't continue with this relationship, Chelsea. It's best if we go our separate ways."
The words had been final, spoken with a cold certainty that left no space for argument. Two years together, erased in minutes. He had found a new job in Chicago and expected her to follow, as if her own ambitions meant nothing.
"You're being inconsiderate," she had told him, her tone trembling between hurt and defiance. "I've built a life here. You want me to throw everything away?"
They stared at each other then, silence stretching like a blade between them. She had loved him, perhaps too much, but love was not enough to make her abandon everything she had worked for. Another girl taking her place, though, that thought made bile rise in her throat.
Her decision had been swift, a shield against heartbreak. She stood and declared, "I wish you the best in Chicago, ex-boyfriend."
The memory ended as quickly as it began, washed down the drain with the lather of soap.
When she stepped out, Chelsea dressed with her usual precision. Dark brown trousers hugged her legs, an ivory blouse softened her frame, and black heels clicked with each deliberate step. She was more than ambitious, she was magnetic. Slim, confident, beautiful in a way that drew eyes without effort.
At work, her presence was powerful. As head of the sales department in one of Houston's top companies, she was more than an employee, she was an asset. Her charm wasn't just in her looks; it was in her sharp mind, her determination, the way she made profit walk through the door.
But when night fell, Chelsea's world shifted. The lighthearted smile faded. In its place was something darker, colder. Tonight was not about my career. Tonight was about Harvey.
Dressed in black, she slipped into a cab and instructed the driver to stop at a corner store near his apartment. Her steps were calculated as she scanned the quiet neighborhood, eyes sharp for cameras. The street was still, only the hum of distant traffic filling the air.
At his door, she knocked three times.
Within seconds, Harvey opened, his familiar face flashing confusion, before everything ended.
Blood spattered the doorway, his body crumpling with a sickening thud. Chelsea stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She dragged him into the living room, her breath calm, her movements steady.
The kitchen was neat, almost too neat, but the hammer she pulled from the counter broke that illusion. She had struck him three times, once for each knock. The ritual was hers alone, a twisted rhythm she had perfected.
Harvey wasn't the first. He was simply the next.
"Breaking up with me," she whispered, standing over his body, "means coming to terms with the devil."
A laugh bubbled out of her, sharp and eerie, filling the quiet apartment. She sank onto his chest as if it were a throne, smirking at the sight beneath her.
"I liked him too much to let another girl have him. It's either me… or me."
She rose, her hair falling across her shoulders in a golden wave, and moved to the kitchen again. The hardest part was never the killing. It was what came after.
"Oh, how I hate getting rid of the body," she muttered, a smirk twisting her lips, "but no one does it better than me."
The knife in her hand gleamed under the dull light as she worked. Piece by piece, Harvey disappeared into a black leather bag. By the time she was done, he was no longer a man, just evidence to be disposed of.
Driving his car out of Houston, she kept to the back roads, routes free of cameras and patrols. The night stretched long and heavy, but her hands were steady on the wheel. At a cliff, the river below roaring in the darkness, she unzipped the bag. Piece by piece, Harvey vanished into the water.
When she returned to the apartment, she erased every trace with surgical precision. Not just the blood, but the weight of it all, as if her careful cleaning could scrub away her conscience. Only silence remained, pressing down on her as she stood frozen in the spotless room.
Back home, Chelsea shed her black clothing and let silk brush against her skin instead. From her closet, she pulled the fiery red dress that had always made her feel untouchable. It clung to her curves, cinched her waist, and turned her reflection into a woman who had survived the night with nothing but poise.
She had reserved a secluded table at one of the city's most esteemed restaurants, a place where candlelight danced across polished glasses. Chelsea walked in like she owned the room, her red dress catching every eye.
But the maître d' met her with hesitation, his expression tight.
"Miss, I'm afraid there's been a mistake. Your reserved table… It's been given away."
The words struck like a slap.
"To who?" she demanded, her voice clipped.
The maître d's gaze shifted, almost apologetic. Chelsea followed it to a man seated at her table. Dark-haired, sharp-suited, he sipped his wine with the calm arrogance of someone who knew the world bent for him. Around him, men in black suits occupied nearby tables, their posture alert, their gazes sharp. Bodyguards.
Chelsea's jaw clenched as fury burned in her chest. Her heels clicked against the floor as she strode across the room.
The moment she reached his table, half a dozen men rose, tension snapping like wire, ready to defend their boss. But the man gave them only a glance, and just like that, they sat back down, obedient.
Chelsea stood over him, her presence commanding, her voice ice-cold.
"Excuse me," she said. "But you're sitting in my seat."
The man didn't look up. His attention remained glued to the glowing screen of his phone. His thumb scrolled, indifferent, dismissive.
Chelsea's brows arched, disbelief flashing across her features. She cleared her throat, louder this time.
"Hello? Earth to table thief?"
Still nothing.
"Seriously? No response?" Her tone dripped with sarcasm, her patience thinning with every second.
Her hand brushed the strap of her purse, fingers curling around the familiar weight of the silver knife she carried everywhere. She had rules, she only killed her exes. But tonight, the thought of making an exception tempted her.
Heavily guarded or not, she thought, maybe I'll give this stranger a taste of what he deserves.