‘Get off!’ I shout, heaving my body from his grasp and sprinting across Miller’s office to the exit. My legs are moving fast, in time to my thundering heart, taking me away from Miller’s perfection, up the stairs and out into the midnight air. I all but throw myself into the road, giving a cab no choice but to stop or run me down. I jump in. ‘Belgravia,’ I pant, slamming the door and watching as Tony barrels out of Ice, his arms flailing violently at the doorman as he watches me pull away. I fall back against the leather, giving my heart time to recover, my forehead hitting the cold glass as I watch a dark London pass by.
London really has cast its black shadow.
Chapter Twenty-Five
His apartment block looks uninviting, the glass-adorned lobby cold and silent. The doorman tips his hat as I pass, my heels breaking the eerie quiet and echoing around the vast space. I don’t take the lift, instead pushing my way through the door that leads to the stairwell, hoping the energy it’ll take to get me up the ten flights might dull down some of the anger burning a hole in my gut.
My plan fails. I fly up the stairs and find myself slipping my key into the lock of his shiny front door in no time, with no sign that my temper has cooled. Knowing exactly where I’m heading, I run through his quiet apartment, into the kitchen, and start yanking drawers open. I find what I’m looking for; then I fly down the corridor to his bedroom, taking the first door into his wardrobe.
As I stand at the threshold, armed with the most vicious knife I could find, I cast my eyes around the three walls that are all filled with rails and rails of bespoke and designer suits and shirts. Or masks. I see them as masks. Something for Miller to hide behind. His armour and protection.
And at that thought, I scream, deranged, and start yanking down the rows and rows of expensive garments. I begin slashing at the material, dropping the knife sporadically to rip the expensive fabric into strips. The power in my arms makes my task easy, my anger my friend, the knife only reclaimed and utilised to make random holes everywhere before I tear with my bare hands.
‘I hate you!’ I scream, slashing through his racks of ties.
I’m bordering the level of psychosis that Miller has shown all too often in recent days, and I only relent when every piece of his clothing is a mess of torn fabric. Then I fall to my arse, exhausted, my breathing laboured, and stare at the piles of ruined material surrounding me. It wasn’t a given that my mission to destroy all of his masks would make me feel any better, and it doesn’t. My hands feel raw, my face is stinging, and my throat is sore from screaming my way through my task. I’m as big a wreck as the mess I’ve caused. Shuffling back, I find the cabinet that sits in the centre of Miller’s wardrobe and slump against it, my shoes lost amid the mess, my dress riding up to my waist. I just sit there in silence, heaving and panting, for the longest time, wondering . . . what now? Being destructive might momentarily divert me from thinking, but the relief is short-lived. There will come a point when I’ve destroyed everything, possibly even myself. Beyond recognition. Then what will I do? I’m teetering on the edge of self-annihilation already.
I let my head fall limply back, but jump when a loud crash rings through the apartment. My body stills, my breath catching in my throat. Then the hammering starts. I’m immobilised by a familiar fear, just sitting here listening to the persistent bangs on the front door, my eyes wide, my heart fighting to break free from my chest. I look around at the mess surrounding me. And spot the knife. Picking it up slowly, I watch the blade glimmer as I turn it in my hand. Then I stand on shaky legs. Perhaps I should hide, but my bare feet start moving of their own accord, my hand gripping the handle of the knife tightly. I wade through the remnants of Miller’s clothes towards the racket, cautious, wary, until I’m tiptoeing down the corridor and emerging into the lounge. I can see across the room to the entrance hall, and I can see the door physically moving with each hard bang.
Then the banging stops and an unnerving silence falls. I go to step forward, choking down my fear, determined to face the unknown threat, but halt when the mechanical lock on the door shifts and the door bursts open on a loud curse.
I stagger back in shock, my pulse bursting through my eardrums, making me dizzy and disorientated. It takes a few frightening moments to register what I’m confronted with. He looks unbalanced, a shocking thing for me to claim after the time I’ve just spent in his wardrobe. He’s a wreck, heaving and sweating, almost vibrating with anger.