Kylie Bray (Love, Hate and Billions)

Chapter 52 (Kylie)

The last time I saw her I turned my back on her, I wanted her to go, to leave me, with the memory of

me doing it. I didn't want her to think too much about me.

As far as horrible best friends go I was much worse in the last years of our time together, fawning over RêAd lat𝙚St chapters at Novel(D)ra/ma.Org Only

Vincent.

It didn't get me anywhere.

Look at me now.

The black and blue gates make way, and something akin to caution fills me.

Squinting my eyes as they flutter open to a bright light coming from the roof of the house. My head

turns to Vincent, his small smile still plastered on his face.

It brings up memories of our night together. My body is telling me I need to feel something and my mind

is saying he is the only one who can give me what I want.

We step out of the car as the Mansion doors open, revealing a teenage boy. His shaggy hair looks like

he was lying in bed. Dressed in a pair of beach shorts and a polo vest, barefoot, he stands in waiting.

So innocent. I think to myself, he is lucky.

I slam my door as Vincent walks up the stairs. Lifting my head to look at the young boy again, and

Vincent.

Still not having a clue as to what is this big surprise. My feet walk around the car, toward the first step

just as Vincent reaches the boy. He grabs the boy into a hug.

Maybe this is his family home.

Growing up I have never seen Vincent's family house, I heard it was big. Like my own parents, his

mother and father came from old money. I won't be surprised if this young boy is his cousin.

My eyes track the top of the stairs where they are still standing, wrapped in a tight hug. The boy's eyes

widen and it is only then I hear the distinct shots.

Pop, pop.

I run up the stairs, taking it two at a time.

My gaze widens in horror as the boy drops to the floor,

“Vincent, what have you done!” Yelling at him, at the man who I supposedly loved not too long ago, as

my knees hit the hard surface, barely stinging.

A double sword reminder and repercussions of my time in hell.

The boy's light green eyes open, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

He gurgles as I apply pressure on the wound. It's too late. I already know he isn't going to make it.

People say everything comes in stages, including healing, for me as I watch this boy dying, I feel a

tinge of pain.

A bit more of the wrongness in this ordeal.

And it isn't the first time my mind screams that I should stop this, but how.

Not sure how long I sit with this dead boy that didn't deserve an early death.

My knees protest as I get up and walk into the mansion. The entrance is filled with sculptures from

different parts of the world, big to small.

One catches my eye- naked woman with a baby in her belly and a bucket on her head.

It is standing on a clear glass stand on the right, just before the wide spiral of stairs.

The beauty of the ornament enchants me and I consider taking it.

Pop, pop, pop

I hear more of those than I care to admit.

A silent gun, a silent killer.

Giving the dead boy behind me one last look lying on the ground just outside the front door, I move

toward the gunshots.

“VINCENT,” I scream, loud enough that if he's upstairs he'd hear my voice.

Speeding up my steps.

My feet aching in these three-inch heels that I shouldn't be wearing with the permanent damage under

the soles of my feet.

“Vincent,” I call his name again. He needs to stop this.

“In here, I'm waiting for you Kylie,” his eager voice has me frowning.

I follow his unrepentant voice to the dining area. Sweeping the room with a quick look I count six dead

bodies. One head shot.

Looking at the mass of dead bodies, deep down in my soul I know that this is wrong.

I have always been a Christian, mama always made sure when we were younger we went to church.

The pastor once preached about death, living, life, he said that God's people are his people. Living and

dying belong to god, it is not our right to take that away.

It isn't our decision to make. Right now, Vincent is playing god, he is doing it for me.

He said I am his muse but as I stand in the aftermath of his creation I wonder.

“You need to stop this Vincent, it ain't right, if you don't want to stop then take me home,” I snap.

Telling myself that these dead people are nothing to me, is harder than I thought, that I don't feel

remorse for them, is not true.

I was raped, tortured, they got a quick death, they're lucky. And that young boy by the door, did he rape

you, Kylie.