II.

E S C A P E  P L A N

—aka, crimes are two fucking faced, even for a con artist,

INT— A HOTEL ROOM.

POSITANO, ITALY — MORNING AFTER.

SCENE I.

THERE ARE SUCH things as good body aches. These are the ones when you know you had a good time. You can feel your body, almost; tender and soft and touched in ways biblical women shout eureka for. Archimedes had nothing on the woman who had her first orgasm.

The type of tenderness where one could physically feel every inch of the soft, silky covers; the warmth of the morning gently caressing your face. When— if you stretched, you could almost hear every sound of your bones crack in pleasure.

Good body aches are holy.

It also meant you woke up late. Your body craving for the time you spent... not sleeping. Starved to rest.

And by you, I really meant me.

'But I don't stay for breakfast' my fucking left ass cheek.

The warmth of the beautiful morning— the sound of Positano, heartbeat of waves from the Tyrrhenian Sea and the soft, muted chatters of its people with its sharp honeysuckle and salt water smell — it felt almost goddamn offensive. Mocking.

Alright, steady, we can get out of this, I thought as I kept still and my breathing even to appear as if I hadn't woken up at all. Slowly, with microscopic precision, I moved my fingers around, trying to feel for another human body. When I found it cold and empty, I prayed a silent hope to whichever deity was in a good mood to forgive a small time repeated sinner who will most likely commit more sins, and cracked my eyelids by a slim breach.

And then I heard it— a god answering my small prayer. The sound of someone in the shower.

When I arched my neck and studied the room, I breathed out a sigh of relief. The room was bright in coral and muted mustard tones, a few lovely vases sporting a wild array of sweating flowers, and even my dress, proudly crumpled against a chair after it was tossed.

But no human billionaire.

I was both disappointed and relieved.

Okay. Time to run.

I tested my body first and stretched— and holy jesus, it felt good. Last time I had sex was decent at best. And it was from a person I had known a long time, having had an arrangement with. He knew my body and was decent. Decent.

Kristoff Park met me a couple of hours ago, doesn't really know me, and I can proudly say he made my body sing like an opera singer who had found her voice again after a catastrophic accident. He knew me like he had mapped me out for treasure and unearthed an entire fucking pirate ship for the taking, loot and bones and all.

Bunching up the covers to my body, I felt around for my underwear until I saw them under the lump of covers, hastily putting them on. The dress came next— a black satin piece that had a slit on one side and was thin enough to etch and endorse what lay underneath it. One of my few favourites; an outfit that had never failed me before. And obviously did not fail me this time.

I stood up, unfurled from the covers, and tried to put it on as quickly as possible, cursing how hard it actually is to put on a skin-tight silk dress with a trailing length. It was a mixture of tug, wiggle, and bend.

Once the dress was on, I exhaled, mildly tired. Across the corner of the room is a floor length, gilded mirror and from there I observe all the mild bruises across my thigh, the exposed hickeys across my neck and collarbone. Yeah. Yeah, coming out of the hotel now, with my strappy heels in hand and bare face, I would be getting more attention than I care for.

But it's either I sprint now or have to face a billionaire I promised I'd run out of, and that latter is definitely not a situation suitable for me.

Strappy heels. . . I snapped my fingers, murmuring curses as I realised I couldn't see where I put my shoes. Confidently owning the Walk of Shame cannot work without my shoes in hand because that's less 'hell yeah I got some' and more 'yes, I am ashamed, and yes I have no shoes because I am Mess itself'.

Yeah, no.

A lady must always have her faculties in order... even when she really doesn't.

"Fuck. . ." I started tossing pillows, covers, going down on my knees to peer underneath furniture, the panic slow but building, time a tickin'— and then, there it was. Right on time for a comedic intermission.

My worst nightmare come alive.

"If you're looking for your shoes," the nightmare said; deep, gravelly, and hair-raising— freezing me on all fours. "They're in the bathroom."

I closed my eyes, the memory like gasoline down my throat. I went to the bathroom first to freshen up, and decided to take off my shoes as I was fixing myself. Hitting my forehead softly against the armchair, I exhaled. Counted. Then put a goddamn bright smile, slowly stood up, turned— and stiffened.

Because of course— of course, gods above and beyond — my mark was half-naked as he greeted me with his very stoic face moulded in marble by the hands of a very passionate sculptor who can only make demigods as an act of service to fawning ladies.

Water trickles, clinging to hard plane and soft bronze skin in a mouth-watering performance. He stood there with one inquisitive eyebrow raised and full lips flat.

And again (because I feel like we should come back to this), he was half-naked. A towel was the only thing that separated him from a full on David portrayal. Pose and all.

It was too hard to look away.

. . . Is it obvious that I still want the man to ravage me? Again?

Because I sure do.

But he didn't need to know that did he?

My smile brightened, charm a hardened armour well-worn and abused. I put my hands behind me, fists clenched tight. "Please tell me you kept them in a safe space against steamy water."

"Hm," he said like this is a viable answer, then walks all the way to the side table where his Audemars-Piguet lay. He checked the time.

I could've snitched that, I really could've, but I didn't because I'm a decent person.

I could bolt, my head running thousands of scenarios a minute as well as trying to keep the sudden flare of annoyance amidst panic down, but my pride— not just as a con woman but as a woman — would not let me. Running was not an option for someone of my status. I'd bagged the likes of him before— this wasn't a new pas de deux. And I didn't come out of them ashamed of what I'd done.

My pride— the colour and malleability of gold — as a con woman will exit with grace, a sharp retort, and make his head throb with memories of me in the strangest of times.

After all, I've hit the mark with a bulls-eye already.

I've already won.

All I have to do now was exit gracefully and calmly.

So I sat on a plush, coral-shaped armchair closest to me, twisted my arms and legs, and tossed my hair back. My smile is firmly planted on my face, shooting daggers behind his back.

"Not getting ready are we? I mean I don't mind, always love an eye candy before breakfast— massive sweet tooth and all, but aren't billionaires supposedly busy?"

"I'm waiting for something," he replied calmly, back still turned, eyes intent on his watch.

My heart thudded. "You can't possibly be waiting for police?" The absurdity throbbed in my head, but I dug my nails on my skin. Patience. This isn't your first mark. Get over yourself. I envision this statement said by Mama and I started to relax. Mama was a patient predator. That's why she was so successful, able to retire at a young age but chose to do more jobs because she loved the thrill of it. She loved ripping people from their pedestals, at their roots, and pushing them to the marbled floors to shatter.

She did that as a hobby.

"No, that would be counterproductive wouldn't it?" He met my eyes then, finally. Under the stream of golden light and wet hair, his eyes appeared both darker and kinder. There was something different about Kristoff Park like this. Something I couldn't pinpoint. I started tapping my nails under crossed arms, away from his view.

He tilted his head when I didn't reply. "Would you like to watch me dress?"

I blinked. Once. "Would you like me too?"

We stared at each other, the silence stretching. Then he shrugged, turning away to the closet. "Wouldn't mind. Nothing you haven't seen before."

Despite it all— and all of it be damned — I smiled. "That's very true."

Once he dropped the towel, I tried not to let his full glory get to me. I felt an immense wave of pride though. There were faint nail marks on his back— not enough to wonder if he'd been attacked, but enough to proudly display a small achievement. Hickeys too, peppered in small doses across his torso, with the most offensive one on his shoulder where I had bit him a little too hard. It was starting to bruise.

My mark with a little mark.

"Your name. . . Antonina," he said in a steady voice, "—really isn't your name, right?"

I blinked, waking up sharply from the flood of memories. "Huh?"

Fuck.

What?

He turned, fitted pants and a crisp white shirt slowly buttoning. His expression was the same— severe in its deadpan. "Antonina La Verne. It's not really yours, is it? Or real?"

His gaze made it seem as if he could tell lies the minute they were loose from my tongue, so I curved a smile in a smaller stature. The tapping began again, the feel of wanting to run, but I held my ground. My head was drawing blanks and I didn't like it. I needed to know more.

How much does he know? What does he know?

But I didn't show it. None of the turmoil inside me. Well. . . that was a lie. Maybe a little. I was slipping, the cracks widening. I started to feel a little sick as I answered with a softer tone than I wanted. "No, not really."

"I see." He turned to buttoning his cuffs, gaze un-breaking. His fingers were adept, and his stare was obtuse. Like he had done this so many times before; stared down someone while getting dressed. "Then does my sister know?"

My heart stopped. Completely. When I found my voice, it was barely a whisper; more breath than words. "Excuse me?"

"Your name, Ms. La Verne, does my sister know?" He broke his stare, forcing me to gasp an inhale. He turned to his side table again, taking the watch, checking it, then putting it on. Every movement is languid as it is purposeful. Casual in its cruelty. "Is that the hammer she has over your head, or is it something more? Your entire life perhaps? The real you? Evidences of the deeds you've done using false names? It has to be something big enough that you'd agree to go after me."

There was such a dark sharpness in the way he said the last word— like he spat a poisonous dagger out of his lips — that there was a cold fear that dripped down my spine like honey. Slow and thick, it was suffocating.

He straightened himself, mouth curving at the corner. I blinked at it. "Breathe, Ms. La Verne. You're white as a sheet."

He's smiling, I thought belatedly as the room began to spin. That curve in his mouth is a smile.

"Sadistic bitch," I murmured under my breath, lungs knocked out. He knows, the panicked thought raged me into a hollowed mute. How much, I don't know, but he knows. He knows, he knows, he knows—

I straightened myself, my chin raised. Mama didn't mould a little bitch. I needed to find solid ground or it was more than over— I was going to die. I could feel it.

This man was more dangerous than I had anticipated. And more than ever, I needed my head to calm the fuck down.

First thing's first— "How much do you know?"

"A little," he admits, keeping my stare with that smile. I wanted to go feral on him, and not in the way we were last night. Sadistic bastard. God help me. "But I think it would be better if we have most of our cards on the table. After all. . . aren't you at a little disadvantage at the moment?"

He did that weird curving of his mouth again, which I guess passes for a smile. There were so many things I wanted to do, so many scenarios I flicked through to use, mind going a mile a minute that I register him going to the bathroom, only realised with delay that he had brought my shoes, his two fingers holding them by the straps like a very casual lover.

Kristoff Park knelt in front of me, offering a palm up. His gaze was almost sweet, almost loving.

But I could practically taste it, the air around him— us, that felt like the smell of storm before it roared with absolute ferocity. This silent reprieve was a warning. A promise. That Yuna Park's threats would be child's play compared to what he will do if I don't choose his side now. If I don't play along with the demonic entity in front of me.

The realisation settled on me like a blanket then, an almost comforting thing, being the only thing I was sure about.

He was never the mark in the first place.

No, in fact, he was the sweet honey trap to mark me.

I was the bee that managed to get swept, thinking I was the one baiting him.

And so I offered my foot and the devil took it, sweetly putting on my shoes in a sealing performance. A signed contract in disguise of affection. Prince Charming sealing Cinderella with the fate of a princess.

But what does a merchant's daughter turned pauper know anything about royalty? About nobility? If anything, the prince was damning her, chaining her to a position she knew nothing about in the first place. Claiming her while using her love as leverage and fodder— a reward and a chain.

I do wonder if Prince Charming ever kissed the arch of Cinderella's foot when he placed the glass slipper so sweetly as the devil did mine.

Because if he ever did, then Miss Glass Slipper should've kicked him in the face, spat on him for good measures, and ran. Ran to safety or a more merciful ending.

Unfortunately to whatever storyteller was damning us, I didn't either.

Fucking Fairytales.