Her Vicious Art, His Dark Obsession

"Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

The muffled voice of the wedding officiant drifted through the thick, bulletproof glass of the second-floor bedroom window.

Katelyn Reed stared down at the manicured lawn of the Atherton estate.

Down there, her cousin Chelsea was draped in custom Vera Wang, surrounded by a sea of white roses and California's tech elite.

Up here, the air conditioning hummed like a morgue refrigerator.

Heavy, rhythmic footsteps echoed in the hallway. Leather soles hitting marble.

Katelyn's pulse didn't spike. Her blood ran ice-cold.

She shoved the black burner phone-currently displaying a live cryptocurrency ticker-deep into the slit she had carved into the underside of her mattress.

She violently dragged both hands through her hair, tangling the dark strands until she looked feral.

She threw herself into the corner of the single armchair by the window, pulling her knees tight against her chest.

She forced her breathing to turn shallow and erratic.

Her lungs hitched. Her chest he heave. She locked her eyes onto the carpet, draining them of all life until only a hollow, terrified void remained.

The heavy oak door clicked and swung open.

Alistair, the head butler, stepped into the room. Two private security guards flanked him, their earpieces coiled tightly against their thick necks.

Alistair held a silver tray. On it sat a tiny paper cup and a glass of water.

"Time for your medication, Miss Katelyn," Alistair said. His voice was flat, devoid of a single ounce of human warmth.

Katelyn shrank back against the upholstery.

A pathetic, broken whimper clawed its way up her throat. She trembled, her shoulders shaking so violently that her teeth chattered.

It was a flawless performance. The textbook reaction of a deeply traumatized, broken girl.

Alistair didn't blink. He gave a microscopic nod.

The two guards stepped forward, their massive frames blocking the only path to the door.

Katelyn extended a violently shaking hand.

Her fingertips brushed the paper cup. She grabbed the two heavy sedatives and shoved them into her mouth.

She took the water glass with both hands, spilling a little down her chin, and swallowed hard.

"Mouth open. Tongue up," Alistair commanded.

Katelyn obeyed.

Alistair inspected her oral cavity. Satisfied that the pills were gone, he turned on his heel.

The guards filed out after him.

The heavy oak door slammed shut. The deadbolt slid into place with a sickening, metallic thud.

The second the lock engaged, the trembling stopped.

Katelyn's eyes sharpened into twin blades.

She sprinted to the en-suite bathroom, dropped to her knees in front of the porcelain toilet, and shoved two fingers deep down her throat.

Her stomach convulsed.

Acid burned her esophagus. She gagged, tears pricking the corners of her eyes as her body violently rejected the medication.

The two half-dissolved white pills splashed into the toilet water, surrounded by bitter bile.

She flushed the toilet and stood up, her chest heaving for real this time.

She turned on the cold tap and