Three's a Crowd, Four's a War

PROLOGUE

My husband is a yandere.

But not for me.

He spends his days in his home office, a silent, brooding figure, plotting how to lock his idealized crush in the basement.

I, in turn, plagiarize his plans, my pen scratching across the pages of my own notebook as I add notes and improvements, preparing to use them on *my* idealized crush.

This was our silent, twisted arrangement.

Until the day he found my revised edition.

I force a tight, painful smile onto my face, my mind a blank wall of panic.

Before I can even begin to formulate a lie, his long, slender fingers, fingers I've only ever seen signing documents or holding a glass of whiskey, land on one of my annotations.

Nice improvements, he says, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, his eyes dangerously dark, like chips of obsidian. We can try them on you first.

01

I cross my arms, the cool, damp air of the basement clinging to my skin as I do a slow circuit of the room.

The collection of& *items*& has grown again. Exponentially.

It s easily doubled since I was last down here two weeks ago, a fact that sends a shiver of both dread and professional curiosity down my spine.

Beyond the disturbingly pristine bunny ears and the sleek, leather cat tail, there are now several new sets of& adorable little outfits, displayed on mannequins like some kind of twisted boutique.

Seriously, what are these scraps of fabric even supposed to cover? They're more suggestion than substance.

My eyes scan the room, taking in the new inventory, and then they freeze, locking onto the far wall.

There used to be only one whip hanging on the wall, a single, ominous black line against the gray concrete.

Why are there three of them now? One black, one red, one a cruel-looking braided leather.

I take a deep, steadying breath, the air tasting of dust and cold stone. My gaze finally settles on the new centerpiece, the pi?ce de r?sistance of his burgeoning collection a monstrous, gilded birdcage.

It s huge, ornate, and gleaming under the single bare bulb that hangs from the ceiling, casting long, warped shadows across the floor.

The plan, meticulously detailed in his ledger, is to lock his crush in here. To see her as his property, his pet. To savor her helplessness and forced, absolute dependence on him.

You ve really got a knack for this, Sebastian Wilder, I think, a flicker of grudging admiration in my chest.

I stare at it for a long moment, then step forward, my footsteps echoing in the silence.

I rap my knuckles against the cold, metal bars. The sound is a dull, solid thud.

I pinch the metal with my fingers, testing its strength. It doesn't give.

I m one step short of biting it, just to be sure.

This can t be solid gold, can it?

Sebastian is rich, but he s not * solid gold birdcage for my psycho obsession * rich. That's a level of wealth that borders on the absurd.

Or maybe he is.

Maybe this is the true measure of his fixation on her, a monument to his madness.

The ledger, the one he usually keeps locked away in his office, is here this time, left carelessly on a small, rickety table.

He was probably down here, admiring his new acquisitions while updating his master plan, getting lost in his dark fantasies.

A surge of competitive irritation, sharp and unwelcome, floods through me. He's making progress, and I feel like I'm falling behind.

I drop into the hard wooden chair and flip open the ledger.

He s added five new pages to his imprisonment plan.

Five.

It s obvious he s been thinking about his crush more and more lately, his desire growing sharper, more focused. The scrawl of his handwriting seems more urgent, more unhinged.

02

The pages of the ledger feel heavy in my hands, each word a testament to a meticulous, unfolding psychosis.

I want to see her in the cat ears and tail, wearing this outfit. Begging for my attention. It would be so cute.

Her skin is so pale. Red marks would stand out so beautifully against it. Like poppies in snow.

I want to bruise her. I want to leave my mark on her, so everyone knows she belongs to me.

I should have locked her in a cage from the start. Then she wouldn't be able to run around, to look at other people, to smile at anyone but me.

She needs a gag, too. To stop her from saying things she shouldn t. Her voice should only be for me.

&

I fight to keep my expression neutral as I flip through the pages, my own dark, twisted excitement churning in my gut.

Holy shit.

It s getting more and more explicit, the fantasies more detailed, more violent.

I speed-read through his latest entries, my professional admiration warring with a hot flush of jealousy. He's so much more creative than I am.

The methods of torment are getting heavier, more psychologically twisted.

Isn t he afraid he ll break his precious crush? Shatter her completely?

So cruel.

But if it were *my* crush& my sweet, innocent Owen&

Hmm&

I think we could take it even further. I think I could be even more creative.

I pull a small, leather-bound notebook and a sleek, silver pen from my pocket. My own personal ledger.

Cross-referencing his plan, I begin making my own annotations and improvements in the margins of my notebook.

For instance, this section here the rest period he s allotted is far too generous. An amateur mistake.

In my opinion, there should be no rest.

Constant pressure, a steady erosion of hope, is the best way to dismantle a person s will, to erase any thought of resistance until all that's left is perfect, pliant obedience.

I glance up at the tools hanging on the wall, a grim smile touching my lips. I jot down a few of my favorites in my notebook for a future shopping trip.

As for those little outfits&

I wonder if they come in men s sizes. The thought sends a pleasant shiver down my spine.

The more I think about it, the more thrilled I become, my mind alight with possibilities.

So thrilled, in fact, that I don't hear the faint sound of the front door of the house opening upstairs.

I mutter to myself as I write, completely lost in my own dark, intricate fantasies, the world outside the basement fading away to nothing.

I only agreed to this marriage of convenience because Sebastian Wilder seemed so respectable, so perfectly, impeccably boring.

A safe, predictable choice that would get my family off my back and provide me with a comfortable, hassle-free life.

Turns out he s a refined scoundrel of the highest order.

A pristine, polished exterior hiding a mind that is filthy and depraved and, I have to admit, brilliantly creative in its darkness.

Thank god I can keep up.

Then I hear it footsteps.

Heavy and deliberate on the floorboards directly above my head.

Getting closer. Moving towards the hidden entrance.

My head snaps up, my eyes wide with terror, my blood turning to ice in my veins. I stare at the basement door, my throat suddenly dry.

No time to get out.

Shit.

I scramble out of the chair, my movements clumsy with panic, and dive under the table, pulling the chair in tight in front of me like a child hiding from a monster.

It s a pathetic shield, offering no real concealment, but it s all I have.

My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm. I hear the soft beep of the keypad, a sound that spells my doom, and the heavy door swings open with a low groan.

I hold my breath, my body rigid with tension, trying to make myself as small as possible, willing myself to become invisible.

Through a gap between the chair legs, I see a pair of long, straight legs encased in perfectly tailored gray trousers. Impeccable, as always.

He scans the entire basement, his gaze sweeping over the room with a proprietary air, before his legs start moving, slowly and deliberately, in my direction.

*Don t come over here. Don t you dare come over here. Please, please, don't.*

My pulse is a frantic drum in my ears as he stops directly in front of the table, his expensive Italian leather shoes mere inches from my hiding spot.

He reaches down and picks up his ledger from the tabletop. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

My hand flies to my mouth to stifle a gasp. *Don t pull out the chair. Don t sit down. Just leave.*

His hand, all long fingers and elegant knuckles, a hand that could probably snap my neck without any effort, rests on the back of the chair, his grip casual but firm.

My heart is going to stop I am going to die of a heart attack in this perverted basement

Just then, his phone rings, a sharp, clean chime that cuts through the suffocating silence like a knife.

He pulls his hand back, the spell broken. He slips the phone from his pocket, glances at the screen, and turns to leave without a second glance.

The basement door clicks shut behind him, his deep, resonant voice already fading as he walks away, answering the call that just saved my life.

My body goes limp with relief, slumping against the dusty floor.

I suck in a huge, shuddering breath of air, the dust motes dancing in the single beam of light from the bare bulb above.

My own phone screen lights up, the sudden glare making me flinch. It s a text from Sebastian.

[Where are you?]

I reply instantly, my fingers flying across the screen, the lie coming as easily as breathing.

[Getting my nails done with Chloe.]

A few seconds later, he responds, his reply concise and to the point.

[I ll come pick you up.]

[No need. I m not coming home tonight.]

I regret the words the moment I send them.

Idiot. Complete and utter idiot.

I should have given him a fake address, sent him on a wild goose chase across town, and then casually texted him an hour later saying I d already gone home. A classic, effective maneuver.

If he stays home tonight, how am I supposed to get out of this basement?

I am *not* spending the night with this collection of evil toys and perverted costumes. The very thought makes my skin crawl.

Just as my panic begins to spiral, a message from my best friend, Chloe, pops up, a welcome distraction.

[Lydia Carmichael is back in the country. We re throwing a welcome home party for her tonight at The Gilded Lily. You coming?]

Before I can even hesitate, a second message follows, a bombshell.

[And get this that underclassman you had a crush on in high school, Owen Jacobs? Turns out he s her cousin. Holy shit, they came back together.]

My world tilts on its axis.

Sebastian s idealized crush is the cousin of *my* idealized crush.

Lydia Carmichael and Owen Jacobs.

They have the same last name through their mothers' side, a little family quirk I'd completely forgotten. How did I never connect them before?

I sigh, a slow, weary exhale, the sound loud in the silent basement.

Those two. They were the very definition of beautiful and kind in high school. Golden children, beloved by all.

And us? Me and Sebastian?

We re both dark, twisted, and utterly, hopelessly depraved.

Well, as they say.

It s all in the family.

03

I listen intently, my ears straining against the silence of the house, waiting for any sound.

Finally, I hear it: the solid, definitive thud of the front door closing upstairs.

Sebastian is gone.

He s definitely on his way to The Gilded Lily, to his crush s welcome home party.

A giddy thrill shoots through me, a potent mix of relief and malicious excitement, chasing away the last of my fear.

I scramble out from under the table, my joints protesting.

Of course. It all makes sense now.

Sebastian texted me to confirm my location, to make sure I was out of the way so he could have the night with *her*. Pathetic.

He s going to be floored when he sees me at the party. The thought brings a genuine, predatory smile to my face.

I push open the basement door, the hinges groaning in protest, and head upstairs, already planning my outfit, my steps light and confident.

The house is empty and silent, a perfect getaway.

I even feel bold enough to stop by the kitchen to grab a glass of iced milk from the fridge, the cold glass a welcome shock against my skin, grounding me.

As I m about to head up the grand staircase to my room, something catches my eye.

A shadow on the living room sofa? A shape that doesn't belong.

My blood runs cold. I take a few cautious steps back, my heart beginning to hammer against my ribs again, a frantic, panicked rhythm.

My gaze collides with a pair of pitch-black eyes.

Silence. Heavy and absolute.

My heart does a goddamn lurch into my throat. The Grim Reaper holding a tax audit couldn't have been a more unwelcome sight.

Sebastian Wilder is lounging on the sofa, legs crossed, the picture of lazy, predatory elegance, looking as if he's been waiting there for hours.

His eyebrow quirks, a small, mocking gesture, and his voice is pure ice, cutting through the stillness and shattering my composure.

Getting your nails done?

I press a hand to my forehead, swaying theatrically, my mind racing at a million miles an hour to find a plausible lie.

I think I m running a fever, I say, my voice weak and unsteady, a damsel in distress. I must be delirious& I ll, uh& I ll get them done tomorrow.

Sebastian rises from the sofa in one fluid, graceful motion, his tall frame looming over me, casting a long shadow in the dim light of the foyer.

The sheer pressure of his presence, the silent, judgmental weight of his stare, makes sweat prickle on my back. I brace myself for an interrogation, for the inevitable explosion.

But, to my immense relief, he doesn t press the issue.

He walks past me, his shoulder brushing mine, a fleeting, cold contact. His voice is calm and even, devoid of any discernible emotion.

I have plans tonight.

Not another word of explanation. No questions, no accusations.

When the front door clicks shut for the second time, for real this time, I finally look back, my legs feeling like jelly, my carefully constructed bravado crumbling.

He s really gone.

I let my gaze drift downward, my mind slowly, painfully piecing things together.

There s a small powder room on the first floor, right next to the hidden, soundproofed door to the basement.

From his position on the sofa, angled the way it was, he couldn't have clearly seen which door I'd come out of.

He could only see the door opening into the hallway.

I got lucky.

Incredibly, terrifyingly lucky. A chill runs down my spine. That was too close.

04

I change into a short black dress, something that screams a confidence I absolutely do not feel, and head straight for The Gilded Lily.

It's a trendy downtown bar, the kind with exposed brick, velvet ropes, and dim, moody lighting that makes everyone look more attractive and more dangerous.

Chloe is already there, tucked into a corner booth, and has been dutifully acting as my reconnaissance agent, secretly snapping a few pictures of Owen Jacobs for me.

He s still so pale, so delicate-looking, a stark contrast to the dark, opulent surroundings.

When he smiles, his eyes crinkle at the corners, and faint dimples appear in his cheeks. The perfect, untainted image of innocence.

Chloe texts me from across the room, her message glowing on my screen: [He hasn't changed a bit. Maybe just a little taller than in high school.]

[Is his personality the same?] I text back, my eyes still fixed on him, a strange possessiveness stirring in my chest.

[Yep. Still smiling all the time. A total sweetheart.]

Then she follows up with another text, her words a small, jarring note of discord: [He was abroad for five years and didn't change at all. Don't you think that's a little weird?]

[What s so weird about it?] I ask, a little defensively. Some people are just genuinely good.

[It means his high school personality was an act. Do you really believe a guy can be that sweet and innocent, or do you believe I m the Queen of England?]

I pause for a moment, frowning at my screen. [Are you trying to tell me Owen Jacobs is a wolf in sheep s clothing?]

Anyone else might be faking it, but not my sweet underclassman.

Never. He's the one good thing I remember from that hellhole.

As for his cousin& Lydia.

Like Owen, she has that fair, clean look that seems completely non-threatening, that puts you at ease.

A beautiful, deceptive mask.

I remember back in high school, I was always getting into trouble, a magnet for chaos.

One winter, during finals week when everyone was mainlining caffeine, Lydia Carmichael brought me a thermos of what she called a specialty hot chocolate.

It warmed my hands and my stomach.

Less than twenty minutes later, I had stomach cramps so bad I had to abandon my history final.

Another time, during a charity bake sale, I missed out on the last brownie, my stomach growling in protest.

She walked up to me, her smile gentle and full of sympathy. I m not hungry. You can have mine.

I ate it, my heart filled with gratitude for her unexpected kindness.

Half an hour later, I collapsed from what the doctors called a severe, unexplained allergic reaction. Food poisoning.

I never knew for sure if it was just a string of horrible coincidences or if she was doing it on purpose.

But after that, I avoided Lydia, and anything she offered me, like the plague. It became rule number one for survival.

Thinking about it now, she and Sebastian were probably already into each other back then. That magnetic pull of two predators recognizing each other.

I sat between them in class, a constant, oblivious third wheel in their silent, twisted courtship.

She must have hated me for it.

Heh.

Whatever.

Whatever I suffered because of her, I ll get back from her cousin, one way or another.

Get ready to be broken, Owen. You're too pure for this world anyway.

05

My mind filled with deliciously evil thoughts, a dark counterpoint to the cheerful buzz of the bar, I find the private room Chloe indicated and push the door open.

Just a crack.

Let s see what they re talking about before I make my grand entrance. A little reconnaissance is always a good idea.

Unexpectedly, the room is quiet.

No loud chatter, none of the party atmosphere I was expecting.

In fact, it s almost completely dark inside, lit only by the faint, pulsing blue glow from the hallway.

Then I hear two voices, hushed and conspiratorial, their words sharp and clear in the stillness. A man and a woman.

Sis, I got the stuff for you.

Good.

My blood runs cold. It s Lydia and Owen.

Is Lydia planning to drug Sebastian?

I never took her for the type. She seemed more inclined towards psychological torment than crude chemical warfare. She s more twisted than I thought. This is escalating things to a whole new level.

I consider it for a second. Should I warn Sebastian?

Nah.

Let the two psychos go at it. A battle of the freaks. It'll be entertaining to watch from the sidelines.

Owen hesitates, his voice a little lower now, a note of uncertainty in it. Are you coming with me tonight?

You go on your own, she replies, her voice smooth as silk, utterly dismissive.

Got it.

Looks like Sebastian won t be coming home tonight after all. He's walking right into her trap, the fool.

Tsk.

With Lydia back in the picture, our divorce needs to get on the schedule, and fast.

Then he can have his fun with his obsessive, manipulative crush, and I can have mine.

Suddenly, Owen s tone shifts, a note of genuine, heartfelt concern in his voice that makes my heart ache for him. Sis, what you re doing& it s not right.

There he is. My sweet, noble underclassman. My faith in him is instantly restored.

He s actually trying to talk her out of her insane, criminal plan. He's the moral compass in their twisted family.

But Lydia is unmoved. She says, her voice light and airy, yet sharp as a shard of glass:

Are you insane?

I hear the rumble of a service cart approaching in the hallway, the rattling of glasses getting closer, threatening to expose my position.

I quickly and quietly close the door and step away, my heart pounding, not wanting to be seen eavesdropping.

And because I move, because I retreat into the shadows, I don't hear Lydia s next sentence, whispered with venomous contempt into the darkness of the room:

You know more about this stuff than I do. Don't play innocent with me.

First, search for and download the Novellia app from Google. Then, open the app and use the code "793876" to read the entire book.