I haven’t been in this city, in my home, in over six years. Six god damn years. It doesn’t feel like anything has changed, even the faces look the same. Perhaps no one noticed my absence. Perhaps no one cared.

I feel a flash of fury at that. That I was forced into exile, forced to hide, and to all these people it meant nothing. My sacrifice was nothing.

My hand tightens around the glass and I force myself to be calm. I am back. I have returned and this entire city shall feel the consequences.

And then I see her. Even from this distance, with her back to me, I still recognise her. Though her perfume may have changed, I know the scent of her soul. The colours of her heart. Two men are escorting her but I pay them no heed.

She walks up, takes a seat, and orders a drink. Vodka tonic. Just like she used to drink.

At least some things don’t change.

Only the things that matter.

My anger grows then, as I take in her clothes. Scarlet silk of a designer dress that clings to her curves that seem to have only gotten better as she’s aged. I guess the colour couldn’t be more perfect. She is in many ways the scarlet woman. The betrayer. Her dark hair flows in loosely styled curls reminding me of all the times she used to play with it while we’d talk, while we’d whisper our desires, as if any of it was real to her.

But especially I take in the diamond glinting on that finger. She moved on. She forgot me. She married someone else.

Despite everything we’d promised. Everything we’d agreed. In the end it all meant nothing. I meant nothing.

She sips her drink, her rouge lipstick leaving a smear on the glass, reminding me of so many times she would have done the same on my lips. Suddenly I can taste it, I can taste her. She glances around. Perhaps she senses that someone is watching her. In truth half the bar is. She’s Rose Capulet for Christ sake. Her family is as powerful as mine.

Her eyes cast over the corner where I’m sat, concealed, but she doesn’t see me and if anything that tells me what I need to know. That I am nothing. That she truly has forgotten me.

It should strengthen my resolve. It should make this task easier. Afterall I came here tonight for one reason and one reason alone. To make my mark. To let this city know that I am back and that this time they will pay for their insults.

Starting with her. With Rose. My first love. In truth the only woman I have ever loved, have ever cared for, my own sister excluded. If I had anything left that resembled a heart then I would feel something akin to grief in this moment but I have nothing now. Nothing but darkness.

She turns, her legs tucked to the side on the stool like she’s some graceful beauty and not some heartless creature of deception.

My hand pauses. I’m not one for changing plans. But now that I’m here, now that I’ve seen her it’s harder than I imagined. I thought this would be easy. I thought this would feel good. To take my vengeance. She belonged to me after all, all I’m doing is claiming that, fulfilling the promise she made all those years ago, when she said she would die for me. Though I can see now how hollow those words were, I was going to make them real. To claim her life. To take it. To watch her last deceitful breaths pass over those perfect lips.

But I can’t do it. The realisation hits me from nowhere.

I can’t kill her.

But she doesn’t deserve to live either.

And then he walks in.

No, saunters in.

He doesn’t look around. He knows where she is. His men have been stood close enough as if they’re her bodyguards but I wonder with the way she seems to flit if they might be more than that. Perhaps he senses her duplicity too. Perhaps he’s learnt to keep a tight leash on her. Can’t blame him for that.

He puts his hand on her back, where the dress exposes her skin and she doesn’t react. Doesn’t recoil from his touch. My jealousy spikes because she should fucking recoil. She should hate it.

His mouth lowers and he murmurs something in her ear. She sighs, nodding her head, her eyes fixed in front. She puts the glass down, gets to her feet and he leads her out, her heels clacking with every manicured step she takes.

She doesn’t look then.

She just walks.

Hand in hand with Paris Blumenfeld. The man she married instead of me.