Adieu To Love

Chapter 25

Twenty-Fifth March, Twelve o'clock;

I can sense a peculiar excitement rumble within me, for I know she's near, so dangerously near. Threatening for her, I'm sure, for she has no clue what a dreadful mishap lies ahead of her. I was expecting her husband to lash out, but that shock had been hard to get over. If her husband is such a cheating douche-bag, had Charlotte been of the same kind, only with floral scent elegantly draped in silken folds of all things considered lovable to a man? I presume it had been such. He was so nonchalant, so at ease, like it was nothing, that I had accused his wife of adultery? Not a mite of shock, just a mocking jest playing on his face. What man would be at ease knowing his woman was belonged to not just him but to many others besides? He was inestimably handsome like a Greek god brought to the flesh, the arrogance had emanated from every muscle of his body. Funny how women at the end just fall for the muscular brutes that just wring their delicate hearts to naught yet are helplessly worshiping those ruthless gods as if their well-being depends upon it. It's the twenty-fifth of March, the spring breeze carries the soft, florescent aromas of the budding spring flowers, a lovely time of the year to celebrate and rejoice in love. Ha, how pathetic I must look, sitting cooped up in this office, the stubble of beard growing along my jawline, my eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep and my whole body ached by sleeping on the stiff sofas for far too long. I had snapped on Jones quite a few times, he seems afraid to talk to me unless it is highly necessary, idiot that he is, I have him well under my thumb, involved in an embezzlement of some Law firm in Germany from which he somehow wormed out of, possibly having an innocent convicted, I'm sure. Evidence provided by the every resourceful Nash also under my thumb for I could prosecute him as a serial killer reported as never to be found two years back, of three white women and possibly also responsible for the infanticide of a child belonging to one of the women.

Power is so... empowering!

Unfortunately, the threat to position did not work, and the abominable woman always lurks around my apartment as if I might pop in any time and she can chit-chat and make everything better. Pah, how could she make it better? I'm screwed, done for, what could she do but bring more misery upon me? That beautiful face is so repulsive for me to even glance at, a gush of anger erupts like a volcano within me and I wish I could break that pretty neck.

But there are just too many people around to do that.

I scratch the stubble of a beard that has grown along my jawline in these past few weeks, the neglect would have wounded me if I had been the Charles before this fiasco had occurred. It doesn't matter anymore, nothing does, and the more I see her, the more indignant at my failure I feel. How hard is it to catch a woman, I wonder, a woman of quality, of... a particular sentiment, bearing the pride of her virtues and vices alike. It's infuriating at times, seeing the happy couples around me, oh how I could wring their necks or more so, kiss their love to ashes, to catch the askance look on their beau's faces as betrayal mares the beautiful foundation of trust their bond is established on. Oh, but I remember that darling Amber's face, the look of shock, not once had it given away a semblance of pleasure, just rabid disgust. It was a work of art, exuberant! I wonder where she would be now, or rather wherewith Basil?

To say I oppose his finding another due to the age gap is entirely wrong. In a way, I suppose I wanted the man to be damned as I am, to feel a gram or two of the incomprehensible weight of destitution I feel, to know one is destined to loneliness. No, that one I hard to admit, and Fortune loves to hit a fact harder in one's face than one would like to have it. I hooked up with a girl or two, make that a total of seven in the time span of a month. None lasted for long I'm afraid, they only fell in love with the superficial charm that was hard to resist.

None wanted to taste the nastiness that lay deep within.

What's really muddling my mind is the absence of catching the captor with Molly on the CCTV for at least a month. It has been like that since mid of February and now March is about to end. I have the newspapers splayed on my desk. With headlines screaming of the crisis of management of British Chamberlains, their undue hiatus due to concerning lawsuits to address. Particularly what caught my attention was the successful suicide of Spencer Machintosh, the very man that wanted to ruin Basil's career. Lost his head being in captivity, and upon postmortem examination revealed to have poisoned himself. Cyanide. Easy way to pop off, without giving you much time to regret.