Attraction, desire, and sinfully beautiful, Mika Santana is a devil with the face of an angel. Despite her tragic past, she's never given up her ruthless pursuits for success and vengeance which leaves little to no room for matters of the heart. But...
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Shoes creak on the wooden planks as the door slams behind the individual. The person rolls their suitcases beside the wall as they rest their laptop on the coffee table. He removes the beanie from his head, revealing their set of coral-red curls. Taking their phone from their pocket, the person swipes through a few apps before slamming it down with a sigh.
Poor fellow seems tense.
He won't have to worry about that much longer.
I've been cooped up in this apartment all afternoon, waiting for him to arrive for his ultimate demise. It's a two-day operation with extreme surveillance to ensure any other casualties from becoming an issue. According to my employer, his soon-to-be wife is away on a girl's single trip for her final weeks. The only possible interference is their doggie.
So, I gave him to a girl walking down the street.
I've been surveillance the adolescent to ensure the pup's safety. So far, her family is taking excellent care of the corgi. The apartment is tight and suffocating. Most of the furniture is on top of each other, shoes sprawl all over the floor, and dirty clothing within every step. Dust coats every surface.
He rubs his palms on his thighs, tilting his neck to crack it. A relief sigh exhales from his nose, and he hoists himself to full length. The wooden planks creak as he roams to the refrigerator for a glass of orange juice. He takes a whiff of his drink and abruptly twists his neck back as if shivers ran up his spine.
The fellow audibly gulps, placing his glass on the countertops as he ascends down his hallway. It's like observing a scene in a horror movie. He takes cautious, dragged, paced steps as he opens every single door until he's on the last one-- his home office. My finger clicks off the surveillance and slips the phone into my pocket as I swirl in his desk chair for the fun of it.
On my third spin in the chair, the door swings open, slamming against the plain beige walls, and I observe the instant fear in his irises. Tilting my head with a smirk, I can read his thinking process like an accountant reading money. As I expected, he makes a beeline for the drawer on his left cabinet, but I've already beaten him to it.
With my gloved hand, I slam the gun he was searching for on the desk. "Looking for this?" I ask coyly. "What a beauty. Such a waste for an expensive-looking gun. It's nice to make your acquaintance, Spencer Forbes."
Horror flashes in his green irises as his entire body shakes, but he attempts to fake confidence. It's almost respectable, but extremely hopeless. "Who are you?"
Circling him, I halt behind him and massage his tense muscles, only for him to jerk my touch away. "Why don't you take a seat, Spencer? It must be tiring being on a plane for more than ten hours."
"I-I'm fine."
I shrug. "Suit yourself."
Spencer stays still, as if he's glued to the floor and his limbs to his side. His eyes vigilantly float from my bottom half to the top portion of my body, surveying my body as he marks off his checklist. An eerie grin creeps onto my face as I contemplate all the ways I could create a masterpiece.
