Sharon Countbell had discovered something delicious: silence was more corrosive than words.
She didn't need to shout. She didn't need to accuse. She didn't even need to remind Arga of his sins directly. The spaces she left empty — the pauses, the glances, the unanswered invitations — those were enough to rot him from the inside.
He was unraveling beautifully.
But Sharon was not impatient. A true performance was savored, not rushed. And Arga Bridgman deserved every act, every scene, every moment of slow suffocation.
***
She invited him to dinner. A private restaurant, candlelit, their table already prepared with crystal glasses and white linen.
Arga arrived on time — early, even. He sat waiting, his hand tapping nervously against the stem of his wineglass.
Sharon did not come.
An hour passed. He called her phone. No answer. Another hour, and he called again. Still nothing.
Finally, the maître d' approached with a soft apology. Would he like to close the bill?
Arga left in silence, his chest hollow, fury simmering beneath humiliation.
The next morning, a bouquet of white lilies arrived at his office with a handwritten note:
Did you enjoy the wine?
No signature. No explanation.
He crushed the note in his fist, trembling.
***
Two nights later, Sharon appeared at his penthouse unannounced.
Arga, disheveled in a half-buttoned shirt, blinked in disbelief when the doorbell rang and revealed her standing there in a simple black dress.
"Sharon—" His voice cracked.
"Are you going to let me in?" she asked coolly.
He stepped aside instantly, his heart hammering.
She walked through his home with a calm familiarity, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor. She didn't comment on the scattered papers, the empty bottles, the mess of a man's unraveling. Instead, she trailed her fingers across his bookshelf, pausing at titles he hadn't touched in years.
"Your life looks different now," she said simply.
Arga swallowed hard. "It's… complicated."
Her gaze flicked toward him, unreadable. "Complication suits you."
Before he could reply, she smiled faintly and left without another word.
He stood frozen in the silence long after the elevator doors closed.
***
Days later, he found an envelope slid under his office door. Inside was a single sheet of paper, on which only a line was written in her elegant hand:
Do you remember the drawing?
His stomach turned.
He did. The cruel caricature they had drawn of her in school — exaggerated features, mocking words. He had laughed at it. He had watched her cry.
He crushed the paper, his throat tight. For hours afterward, he couldn't focus on anything.
The ghost of her teenage tears followed him into his meetings, into his sleep, into his every attempt at escape.
***
One night, restless and unable to sleep, Arga drove through the city aimlessly. The streets were quiet, washed in the pale glow of streetlamps.
He found himself outside her building without realizing it.
For a long moment, he sat in the car, gripping the wheel, debating whether to leave. But then, as if summoned, Sharon appeared at the lobby window. She wore a silk robe, her hair loose, her face calm.
Their eyes met across the distance.
She didn't move, didn't beckon him. She simply watched.
Arga felt exposed, like a moth pinned to glass.
Then, slowly, she turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of her home.
He sat there another hour, shaking.
***
At a private foundation event weeks later, Arga finally cornered her in the corridor away from the crowd. His desperation had reached breaking point.
"Sharon, please," he whispered. "I can't do this anymore. You're everywhere. You're in my head all the time. Just tell me what you want."
Her eyes narrowed. "What do you think I want?"
"I don't know," he admitted, his voice breaking. "Forgiveness? Punishment? Just—say it. Say something. Anything."
Sharon studied him for a long, agonizing silence. Then she leaned close, her breath brushing his ear.
"What I want," she whispered, "is for you to keep wondering."
Then she walked away, leaving him trembling against the wall.
***
Back in her penthouse, Sharon poured herself wine and reflected. Arga was crumbling beautifully — his obsession curdling into desperation, his pride withering into pleading.
But he wasn't ready to break completely. Not yet.
She needed him to stew longer. To doubt himself more. To blur the line between torment and desire until he no longer knew which one he craved.
And then, when he was at his most fragile — she would deliver the blow that shattered him in full view of the world.
For now, she would keep him on the string.
***
Arga, meanwhile, was unraveling faster. He stopped attending some meetings altogether. His assistants whispered about his erratic moods, his sudden absences.
He spent hours staring at the silver mask she had sent him, the cold metal gleaming under his lamplight. Sometimes he pressed it to his face, imagining her standing behind him.
Other times, he smashed glasses, threw books, anything to drive away her presence. But nothing worked. She was always there.
At night, he sat in the dark, whispering her name like a prayer, like a curse.
***
At yet another gala, Sharon let him draw close. Too close. She stood with her glass of champagne, speaking softly with another guest, when Arga slipped beside her, his presence tense.
Their eyes met. The air between them thickened.
For a moment, she let her mask slip — just a fraction. A softness in her gaze, a suggestion of intimacy.
Arga leaned closer, his breath uneven.
And then she turned her face away, her smile polite, dismissive.
"Not here," she said, her voice like silk over steel.
He froze. The moment shattered.
And Sharon walked away, leaving him drowning in the ashes of hope.
***
Epilogue – The Unfinished Symphony
Sharon lay awake that night, the city glittering beyond her window. She thought of Arga's face — desperate, fractured, clinging to illusions.
She thought of the girl she once was, sobbing alone, clutching a cruel drawing in her hands.
The symphony of revenge was still unfolding. The melody was not yet at its crescendo.
But soon, very soon, the music would swell.
And when it did, it would be a requiem — written for Arga Bridgman alone.