Chapter 60: The Celebrity Target
The folder sat on Emily's bed like a coiled snake.
She'd carried it through the mansion's winding corridors, past the marble fountain and the silent grand piano, past the locked door where she knew Emma kept her private stash. The redwood walls pressed close, the air thick with the smell of old money and older secrets. Now, alone in her room, she opened it.
Veronica Voss stared up at her from a dozen glossy photographs.
The first was a headshot—hair the color of honey, spun gold under studio lights. Green eyes wide and innocent, the kind of eyes that sold movie tickets and magazine covers. A smile that seemed to promise everything and nothing at all.
Emily spread the photos across her duvet. Premiere shots, red carpet shots, candid paparazzi shots. Veronica at a charity gala, wearing a white dress that made her look like a virgin sacrifice. Veronica leaving a nightclub at three in the morning, her face half-hidden under a baseball cap, her hands trembling as she clutched a coffee cup. Veronica in a hospital parking lot, tears streaking her perfect cheeks.
The medicine cabinet shots were the most interesting. Hector's people had done their work—there were images of prescription bottles, close-ups of pill labels. Oxycodone. Hydrocodone. Xanax. Enough to kill a horse, or a starlet who couldn't say no.
Emily traced her finger over Veronica's face. The woman was twenty-six years old. She'd been in three blockbuster films, had a Grammy nomination for a song she'd recorded for a soundtrack, and was engaged to a hedge fund manager named Bradley who had a jaw like a brick and a smile that never reached his eyes.
She was also, according to the file, three hundred thousand dollars in debt to her manager, a man named Gerald Wolf who had been skimming twenty percent off every paycheck and hiding it in offshore accounts. Veronica didn't know. Not yet. But she would—Hector would make sure of that.
The plan was simple.
Emily would become Veronica's new best friend. She would find her at the clubs where the actress went to hide, the ones with back rooms and discreet exits and dealers who knew how to keep their mouths shut. She would offer her something better than pills. Something that would make everything go away.
Something that would hook her so deep she'd never find her way out.
Emily closed the folder and closed her eyes. Her cunt was wet. She could feel it slick against her thighs, a heat that had nothing to do with the heroin and everything to do with the image in her mind. Veronica Voss on her knees. Veronica Voss begging. Veronica Voss with a needle in her arm and a collar around her neck.
Emily wanted it more than she'd ever wanted anything.
She reached for the drawer beside her bed and pulled out her kit. Not Emma's—her own, now. Hector had given it to her the night of the branding, a leather case with her initials stamped in gold. Inside was a syringe, a spoon, a lighter, and a small vial of China white.
She cooked a dose with practiced hands, the ritual as familiar now as breathing. The draw of the plunger. The tap of the needle. The slow push into the vein.
The rush hit her like a wave, warm and vast, and she lay back on the bed and let it carry her.
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Emma found her an hour later.
She was standing at the door, leaning against the frame, a cigarette burning between her fingers. She was wearing a silk kimono the color of dried blood, her dark hair loose around her shoulders.
"You're supposed to be studying," she said.
Emily didn't open her eyes. "I studied."
"You're high."
"I'm focused." Emily smiled, a slow, lazy curve of her lips. "There's a difference."
Emma crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped. Her hand found Emily's thigh, warm through the thin cotton of her underwear.
"Tell me what you learned."
Emily opened her eyes. The ceiling was a blur of cream and shadow. She could feel every pore of her skin, every pulse of her blood.
"Veronica Voss is a fraud," she said. "She plays the innocent on screen, but she's a mess. She's addicted to painkillers because her manager's been stealing from her and she's too scared to ask for help. She's engaged to a man who doesn't know she exists. She goes to clubs where she thinks no one's watching, and she buys pills from a guy named Snake who works out of a basement in Koreatown."
Emma took a slow drag of her cigarette. "And?"
"And she's going to be mine." Emily turned her head to look at Emma. "I'm going to find her. I'm going to become her friend. And then I'm going to give her something she can't say no to."
Emma's face was unreadable. "You sound confident."
"I am confident."
"Why?"
Emily sat up. The room tilted, then settled. She reached for the folder and pulled out a photograph—Veronica at a Hollywood party, champagne glass in hand, laughing at something someone had said. Her eyes were glassy. Her smile was too wide.
"Because she's already looking for a way out," Emily said. "And I'm going to be the door."
Emma was silent for a long moment. Then she leaned forward and pressed her lips to Emily's forehead. The kiss was soft, almost tender.
"You're going to be magnificent," she whispered.
Emily caught her wrist before she could pull away. "Train me."
"I have been."
"Not enough." Emily's grip tightened. "Hector gave me a week. I need to be ready before I walk into that club. I need to know how to read her, how to break her, how to make her mine."
Emma's eyes flickered. "You want me to teach you."
"I want you to show me."
The cigarette had burned down to the filter. Emma crushed it out in the ashtray on the nightstand and turned back to Emily. Her expression was different now—harder, calculating.
"All right," she said. "Get undressed."
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Emily stripped out of her clothes and stood naked in the center of the room. The evening light was fading, casting long shadows across the floor. The brand on her ass throbbed in the cool air.
Emma walked a slow circle around her. She was still in her kimono, still holding herself with that quiet authority that made Emily's stomach tighten.
"If you want to own a woman like Veronica," Emma said, "you have to understand what makes her tick. You have to find the cracks and press until they shatter." She stopped in front of Emily, her dark eyes meeting hers. "What are Veronica's cracks?"
"Her addiction," Emily said.
"Too obvious."
"Her fiancé. Her manager. The money."
"Better." Emma reached out and touched Emily's shoulder, her fingers trailing down her arm. "But you're still thinking like a detective. Not like a predator."
Emily swallowed. "What's the difference?"
"A detective wants to solve the crime. A predator wants to eat." Emma's hand moved lower, tracing the curve of Emily's waist. "Veronica doesn't need someone to save her. She needs someone to destroy her. Someone who will take everything she has and leave her begging for more."
"Someone like me."
"Exactly." Emma smiled, a sharp, dangerous smile. "Now get on your knees."
Emily obeyed. The floor was cold against her skin. She looked up at Emma, her heart hammering.
"You're going to learn how to break someone with nothing but your voice," Emma said. "How to make them hate you and need you in the same breath. How to make them feel so small they'll do anything—fucking anything—just to feel like they're worth your time."
She reached down and tangled her fingers in Emily's hair, yanking her head back.
"Look at me."
Emily looked.
"Tell me you're worthless."
The words stuck in her throat. Not because she didn't believe them—she did, sometimes—but because saying them out loud felt like a surrender she wasn't ready to make.
Emma's grip tightened. "Say it."
"I'm worthless," Emily whispered.
"Louder."
"I'm worthless."
"Now tell me you need me."
"I need you."
"Beg me to hurt you."
The words came easier now, spilling from her lips like something broken inside her had cracked open. "Please. Please hurt me. I want you to hurt me."
Emma slapped her. It wasn't hard—just enough to sting. Emily gasped, her cheek hot and red.
"Again."
Emma slapped her again. Higher this time, catching the edge of her eye. Emily's vision wavered, tears springing up.
"Tell me what you're going to do to Veronica."
Emily's voice was hoarse. "I'm going to make her love me. I'm going to make her need me. And then I'm going to give her something that will make her my slave."
Emma's grip loosened. She crouched down, her face level with Emily's.
"You're going to do all that," she said. "Because you're the best I've ever had. And because if you fail, Hector will sell you to someone who won't be as gentle as me."
Emily understood. The threat was real. She had one chance—one week—and if she blew it, everything she'd suffered to get here would be for nothing.
But she wouldn't fail.
She reached up and touched Emma's face, her fingers tracing the line of her jaw.
"I'm not going to fail," she said. "I'm going to bring her to you. And she's going to be so broken she'll never find her way back."
Emma's expression softened. For a moment, she was the girl from the first night again—the one who'd stayed with Emily after her branding, who'd stroked her hair until she fell asleep.
"Good girl," she said.
Then she stood up and reached for the tie of her kimono.
"Now," she said, "let me show you what you're going to do to her."
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Emma's naked body was a lesson in contradiction—soft curves and sharp angles, pale skin marked with fading scars. She stood over Emily, her breasts full and heavy, the silver chain around her neck catching the dying light.
"This is what you're going to be for her," Emma said. "A safe place. A warm body. A source of relief." She stepped closer, her bare feet silent on the floor. "But underneath, you're going to be the thing she fears most. The thing that will consume her until there's nothing left."
She reached down and pulled Emily to her feet. They stood face to face, inches apart. Emma's breath was warm against Emily's lips.
"Kiss me," she said.
Emily leaned in. Their mouths met, soft at first, then harder. Emma bit her lower lip, drawing blood, and Emily tasted copper and salt and the faint ghost of tobacco.
Emma's hands were everywhere—cupping her breasts, pinching her nipples until they hurt, sliding down her stomach to the slick heat between her thighs. Emily moaned into her mouth, her hips bucking forward.
"Lie down," Emma commanded.
Emily lay on the bed, heart pounding. Emma climbed on top of her, her knees on either side of Emily's hips. She lowered herself until their cunts pressed together, wet and warm.
"Tell me what you see," Emma said.
"I see a beautiful woman."
"Wrong." Emma began to move, slow at first, a gentle grinding that sent jolts of pleasure through Emily's body. "Tell me what you see."
Emily closed her eyes. The image of Veronica Voss floated in the darkness—perfect face, perfect smile, perfect life.
"I see a target," she said. "A girl who thinks she's safe. A girl who doesn't know she's already been sold."
Emma's movements quickened. Her breath came in short gasps. "Good. What else?"
"I see a cunt that needs to be filled." Emily's voice was rough now, raw. "A mouth that needs to be shut. A mind that needs to be broken."
"Yes." Emma moaned. "Yes. More."
"I'm going to make her cry," Emily said. "I'm going to make her beg. I'm going to make her strung out on her knees in a pool of her own cum."
Emma came with a violent shudder, her body collapsing on top of Emily's. She buried her face in the pillow and held on. Emily's own orgasm followed a moment later, a white-hot flash. They lay tangled together, slick and spent.
When the shaking stopped, Emma rolled off her and lay on her back beside Emily. She was staring at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling.
"You're ready," she said. "Tomorrow night, you're going to the club. You're going to find Veronica. And you're going to bring her to me."
Emily could hear the conviction. The certainty. She felt it too, a hot coal in her stomach that burned away everything else.
"I won't let you down," she said.
Emma turned her head. Her eyes were bright with tears.
"I know you won't," she said. "That's what scares me."
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The next morning, Emily woke alone.
The sun was filtering through the curtains, a pale California gold. The folder was still on the nightstand, the photographs spilling out like secrets. She reached for it, pulled out the shot of Veronica leaving a nightclub—The Vault, the file said, a members-only establishment in West Hollywood that catered to celebrities and those who wanted to be them.
She studied the photo. Veronica's face was angled down, her hair a curtain hiding her eyes. She was wearing a silver dress that clung to her hips. She looked tired. Scared.
Emily knew that look. She recognized it. It was the same look she'd worn every night before she became a thing that could cut.
She set the photo aside and pulled herself up. Her body ached from Emma's lesson—little bruises on her thighs, a soreness between her legs. She ran her fingers over the collar around her neck, feeling the metal warm against her skin.
She was ready.
At the door, she heard footsteps in the hall. Then a knock.
Emma's voice, muffled through the wood: "It's time."
Emily stood and pulled on her robe. She opened the door.
Emma was dressed in black, her hair tied back, her face set in an expression of quiet determination. She held out a small purse.
"Your ID. A few hundred in cash. And a gift for Veronica."
Emily took the purse and looked inside. There was a small bag of heroin, pure white powder, wrapped in plastic.
"Give her this," Emma said. "Tell her it's a gift. Tell her it will make her feel better than she's ever felt in her life. Don't push. Just offer. She'll do the rest."
Emily nodded. She tucked the bag into the pocket of her robe.
"What about the rest of it?" she asked. "The clothes, the cover story—"
"All arranged." Emma reached into her pocket and pulled out a small key. "There's a room at the Chateau Marmont. Room 712. It's in your name—Jane Miller. The manager there is one of Hector's. He won't ask questions."
She pressed the key into Emily's palm.
"One week," she said. "You have one week. Bring her to me, or don't come back."
Emily closed her fingers around the key. The metal was cold.
"I'm coming back," she said. "With her."
Emma smiled. Then she turned and walked away, her heels clicking against the marble floor.
Emily stood in the doorway and watched her go. The light was bright behind her, the morning full of promise. Somewhere in the city, Veronica Voss was waking up to another day of hiding. She didn't know yet that the thing hunting her was already on its way.
But she would.
She would soon.
Emily turned back into her room and closed the door. The folder waited on the bed. The photos stared up at her like a dare.
She picked up the one of Veronica at the nightclub. The actress's eyes were half-closed, her mouth a thin line. She looked like she was drowning and didn't know how to swim.
Emily smiled. It was a cold, sharp thing. When she reached up and touched her collar, her fingers were steady.
She was ready.
The Chateau Marmont loomed against the sunset like a monument to old Hollywood sins—white stucco and wrought iron, palm trees casting long shadows across the courtyard. Emily stepped out of the cab and paid the driver with cash from the purse Emma had given her. The air smelled of jasmine and exhaust and something older, something that had been soaked into the walls for decades.
Room 712 was on the top floor, a corner suite with a view of the hills. She let herself in and stood in the doorway, surveying her new home for the next week. King bed. Marble bathroom. A balcony that overlooked the pool. The carpet was thick and cream-colored, the furniture sleek and modern. It was the kind of room where deals were made and secrets were kept.
She set her bag on the bed and walked to the window. The city sprawled below her, a glittering grid of lights and longings. Somewhere out there, Veronica Voss was getting ready for another night of hiding in plain sight.
Emily turned away from the window and opened her bag. She laid out her supplies on the dresser—the bag of heroin, a syringe, a small mirror for lines, a razor blade. She hadn't shot up since morning. Her hands were steady, but her veins were hungry.
Not yet. She needed to be sharp for tonight.
She showered and dressed in clothes that Emma had packed for her—a black slip dress that clung to her hips, silver heels, a leather jacket that softened the edges. She applied makeup with a careful hand: dark eyeliner, red lips, a sweep of highlighter across her cheekbones. She looked older than her eighteen years. She looked like she belonged.
At ten o'clock, she called a car and gave the driver the address for The Vault.
The club was on a side street off Santa Monica Boulevard, its entrance marked only by a velvet rope and a single black door. There was no sign, no marquee, no neon promise of anything. If you knew, you knew.
Emily walked up to the bouncer—a mountain of a man with a shaved head and a diamond stud in his ear—and gave him her name.
"Jane Miller," she said. "I'm on the list."
He checked a tablet, nodded, and unhooked the rope. "Enjoy your evening, Ms. Miller."
The door opened onto a staircase that descended into darkness. The music hit her before she saw anything—a low, throbbing bass that vibrated through the walls and into her bones. She walked down the stairs, her heels clicking on the concrete, and emerged into a room that was all shadow and red light.
The Vault was exactly what its name promised: a subterranean sanctuary for those who needed to hide. The ceiling was low, the walls covered in tufted leather. Booths lined the perimeter, each one screened by velvet curtains. In the center of the room, a bar stretched the length of a city block, its surface black marble shot through with veins of gold. Bartenders in white shirts and black ties moved behind it, pouring drinks that cost more than Emily's first month of rent.
She found a stool at the end of the bar and ordered a vodka tonic. The bartender didn't card her. She sipped her drink and scanned the room.
She spotted Veronica within five minutes.
The actress was in a corner booth, half-hidden behind a curtain that had been pulled almost shut. A single candle flickered on the table, illuminating her face in soft, golden light. She was wearing a pale blue dress that made her look like something out of a dream. Her hair was down, her makeup smudged slightly at the corners of her eyes. She was alone.
Emily watched her for a long time. Veronica wasn't drinking. She was staring at a glass of water, her fingers tracing patterns on the condensation. Every few minutes, she would glance toward the entrance, then back at her glass. She looked like a woman waiting for something that wasn't going to come.
Emily finished her drink and ordered another. Then she stood and walked toward the booth.
Veronica looked up as she approached. Her green eyes were wide and wary.
"I'm sorry to bother you," Emily said. She let her voice go soft, almost shy. "But you're Veronica Voss, aren't you? I'm a huge fan."
The actress's expression flickered—pleasure, then caution, then something that looked almost like relief. "Thank you," she said. "That's very kind."
"I didn't mean to interrupt." Emily gestured to the empty seat across from her. "I just... I've been having a really shitty night, and seeing you here, it's like—I don't know. It felt like a sign."
Veronica studied her for a moment. Then she smiled, a small, tentative thing. "Sit down."
Emily slid into the booth. The velvet was soft against her bare legs.
"I'm Jane," she said. "Jane Miller."
"Veronica." The actress laughed, a nervous flutter. "But you already knew that."
"I'm trying not to be weird about it."
"You're not being weird." Veronica leaned forward, her elbows on the table. "You're being nice. I don't get a lot of nice these days."
The words hung in the air. Emily could see the cracks now, the places where the perfect facade had worn thin. Veronica's hands were trembling slightly. Her pupils were dilated, too wide for the dim lighting of the club.
"You okay?" Emily asked. She kept her voice gentle. Probing.
Veronica's smile faltered. "I'm fine. Just tired."
"You look like you haven't slept in a week."
The actress laughed again, but there was no humor in it. "Try a month." She picked up her glass of water and took a sip. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be dumping this on you. We just met."
"Sometimes it's easier to talk to strangers." Emily shrugged. "No expectations. No judgment."
Veronica set down her glass. She was looking at Emily differently now—curious, evaluating. "Why was your night shitty?"
"I got into a fight with my boyfriend. He doesn't like me going out without him." Emily rolled her eyes. "He's controlling. But I'm not very good at being controlled."
"I know what that's like." Veronica's voice was quiet. "My fiancé, Bradley, he's not controlling. Not exactly. But he doesn't see me. Not really. I'm just... a prop. A piece of the brand."
"You're more than that."
"Sometimes I don't feel like it." Veronica looked down at her hands. "Sometimes I feel like I'm disappearing and no one notices."
Emily reached across the table and touched Veronica's wrist. The touch was light, but deliberate. Veronica's skin was warm and smooth beneath her fingers.
"I notice," Emily said.
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They talked for two hours.
Emily told lies that were close enough to the truth to feel real—a childhood in the Midwest, a family that didn't understand her, a series of bad relationships with men who wanted to own her. She talked about feeling lost and alone and desperate for something she couldn't name. She talked about the pills, the ones that made the world soft and distant, the ones that helped her sleep at night.
Veronica listened. Then she talked about her own addictions—the painkillers her doctor prescribed for a back injury that had healed a year ago, the constant fear of being found out, the way Bradley looked at her when she told him she was tired. She talked about her manager, Gerald, and how he controlled every aspect of her career, how she'd signed a contract when she was eighteen that she didn't understand and couldn't escape.
By the end of the second hour, Veronica was holding Emily's hand across the table. Her eyes were bright with tears she was fighting not to shed.
"I don't know why I'm telling you all this," she whispered. "I don't even know you."
"Maybe that's why." Emily squeezed her fingers. "I'm not part of your world. I'm not going to sell you out to the tabloids. I'm just... here."
Veronica looked at her for a long moment. Then she leaned forward and pressed her lips to Emily's cheek. The kiss was soft, tentative. Emily felt the warmth of it spread through her like a shot of whiskey.
"Thank you," Veronica said. "For listening."
"Anytime." Emily smiled. The smile felt almost real. "Listen, I know this is going to sound crazy, but I have something that might help you. Something that makes everything go away. No pills. No hangover. Just... peace."
Veronica's expression flickered. Wariness, then curiosity, then something else. Something hungry.
"What do you mean?"
Emily reached into her purse and pulled out the small plastic bag. She set it on the table between them. The white powder glistened in the candlelight.
"Do you trust me?" Emily asked.
Veronica stared at the bag. Her breath caught in her throat. She looked up at Emily, her green eyes wide and scared and desperately, terribly hopeful.
"I barely know you," she said.
"I know." Emily leaned closer. "But I know you. I know what it feels like to be trapped. To be owned. To want something so badly you'll do anything to get it." She touched Veronica's hand again. "This will set you free. I promise."
The silence stretched between them. The music thumped, the lights pulsed, the city breathed outside. Veronica's fingers closed around the bag.
"What do I do with it?" she whispered.
Emily smiled. It was a cold, sharp thing, but Veronica didn't see. She was already lost, already falling.
"I'll show you," Emily said. "But not here. Somewhere private. Somewhere safe."
She stood up and held out her hand. Veronica hesitated for only a moment. Then she took it.