Chapter 4 YANDERE VS YANDERE

# CHAPTER 4: "YANDERE VS YANDERE"

One month into my resurrection, and things with Barrett had shifted into something resembling domestic harmony—if your definition of harmony included psychological warfare disguised as affection. He'd stopped fighting my morning coffee ritual, occasionally asked about my day, and had even begun initiating conversations over dinner. Progress.

But I needed more than progress. I needed answers. With my death date fast approaching, I couldn't afford to waste time.

This is why, on a Tuesday afternoon when Barrett was scheduled to be in meetings until late, I found myself picking the lock to his private study—a room that had been strictly off-limits during our marriage. In my past life, I'd respected his boundaries. This time around, respect was a luxury I couldn't afford.

The lock clicked open with surprising ease. Either Barrett was overconfident in his privacy, or—more likely—he never expected me to develop lock-picking skills. Amazing what you can learn from YouTube tutorials when you're planning an elaborate revenge scheme.

The study was exactly as I'd imagined it—dark wood paneling, leather-bound books, and the lingering scent of his cologne. Very old money, very Barrett. I moved quietly through the space, careful not to disturb anything that would reveal my presence.

His desk was immaculate, each item placed with mathematical precision. I searched the drawers first, finding nothing but business documents and a spare pair of cufflinks. The computer was password-protected, of course, but I already knew his password—a combination of his mother's birthday and the day his father died. Sentiment, Barrett's hidden weakness.

The files revealed nothing suspicious—just spreadsheets, contracts, and emails about the Shanghai deal. I was about to give up when I noticed a slight discoloration on one wall panel. Pressing it gently, I felt it give way, revealing a hidden cabinet.

Inside was a single leather-bound journal. My heart raced as I carefully removed it, half-expecting an alarm to sound. When nothing happened, I opened it to the first page.

My blood ran cold.

It wasn't a journal—it was a murder board. Page after page of detailed notes about me: my schedule, my habits, my weaknesses. Photographs with dates and locations marked. Newspaper clippings about "accidental" drownings and untraceable poisons.

And a timeline. A methodical, precise timeline leading up to the day of my death on the yacht.

I sank into Barrett's chair, my legs suddenly unable to support me. Here was the proof I'd been looking for—irrefutable evidence that my husband had planned my murder down to the minute.

I flipped through the pages with trembling hands, each one revealing more of Barrett's cold calculation. He'd considered multiple methods—poison (too traceable), a car accident (too unreliable), a home invasion (too messy)—before settling on the "boating accident." It was the perfect crime: her body might never be found, and even if it was, drowning would mask any signs of foul play.

Her. Not my. Her.

The distinction jolted me from my horrified trance. I read the notes more carefully. The language was clinical, detached—as if Barrett was writing about a stranger, not his wife.

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And then I reached the final pages, dated just weeks before my death. The tone changed. The detachment gave way to something else—something that looked almost like regret.

"Alternative solution required," read one entry. "Target has proven more complex than initial assessment indicated."

And on the very last page, a single line that made my breath catch: "New plan: use love to kill her."

What the hell did that mean?

Before I could process it, my eyes fell on something tucked into the back cover of the journal—a small photograph. I pulled it out carefully, expecting another surveillance shot of myself.

Instead, I found a picture of Barrett and me from our honeymoon. We were on a beach in Santorini, my head thrown back in laughter as he looked at me with an expression I'd forgotten existed—pure, unguarded adoration.

Below the photo, written in Barrett's precise handwriting: "Remember why you started this."

I was so absorbed in trying to decipher the meaning behind these contradictory pieces that I didn't hear the study door open.

"Find what you were looking for?"

I froze, the journal still open in my hands. Barrett stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

"I—" Words failed me for perhaps the first time in my life. I closed the journal slowly, placing it on the desk between us. "Yes. I think I did."

Barrett entered the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click that somehow sounded like a death knell. He should have been furious at finding me in his private sanctuary, rifling through his secrets. Instead, he seemed almost... resigned.

"You weren't supposed to find that," he said simply.

"Clearly." I gestured to the journal. "A detailed plan to murder your wife isn't something most husbands leave lying around."

He moved to the bar cart in the corner, pouring himself two fingers of whiskey. He didn't offer me any. "It's not what you think."

"Really? Because it looks exactly like what I think." I forced myself to meet his gaze. "You planned my death, Barrett. Down to the minute."

He took a long sip of his drink. "Yes."

The simple admission knocked the wind from my lungs. I'd expected denials, excuses, maybe even threats—not this calm acknowledgment.

"Why?" I managed to ask.

Barrett set down his glass and approached the desk, picking up the journal. "Because someone had to."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I can give you right now." He tucked the journal into his jacket pocket. "How did you get in here?"

"Hairpin," I said, holding up the improvised lock pick. "You'd be surprised what skills a woman develops when she's been murdered by her husband."

Something flickered across his face—was that a smile? "I'm learning not to be surprised by anything you do anymore, Diana."

We stared at each other across the desk, the air between us charged with unspoken accusations and half-revealed truths. Finally, I broke the silence.

"There's something I don't understand," I said. "That last entry—'use love to kill her.' What does that mean?"

Barrett's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "It means exactly what it says."

"That's not helpful."

"It wasn't meant to be." He circled the desk until he was standing directly in front of me. "You've been very busy these past weeks, Diana. Coffee with blood, drones crashing meetings, surveillance systems. One might think you were trying to drive me insane."

"One might," I agreed cautiously.

"What I can't figure out is why." He leaned against the desk, studying me with those dark, inscrutable eyes. "Why come back? Why not just disappear, start a new life far away from the man you believe tried to kill you?"

It was a good question—one I'd asked myself in the darkest hours of the night. "Because running away isn't my style."

"No," he agreed. "It never was."

Another silence fell between us, this one less hostile than before. Barrett broke it first.

"I have a dinner meeting," he said, straightening. "We'll continue this conversation another time."

"Will we?" I challenged. "Or will you just find a more effective way to get rid of me?"

He reached out, his fingers brushing my cheek in a gesture so unexpected it made me flinch. "If I wanted you gone, Diana, you would be."

With that cryptic statement hanging in the air, he left, the study door closing softly behind him.

I remained rooted to the spot, my mind racing. The murder journal confirmed what I already knew—Barrett had planned my death. But the final entries, the photograph, his strange behavior... none of it fit the narrative I'd constructed.

I needed to recalibrate my strategy.

Back in my war room, I pinned new evidence to my own version of a murder board—photographs of the journal pages I'd managed to snap with my phone, notes on Barrett's reactions, the timeline of events leading to my death. Something was missing, a crucial piece of the puzzle that would make sense of it all.

My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number:

"Check the pantry. Third shelf, behind the quinoa."

Intrigued, I made my way to the kitchen and found exactly what the mysterious texter had described—a small package wrapped in plain brown paper. Inside was a USB drive and a note that simply read: "Watch me."

Back in my room, I plugged the drive into my laptop. A single video file loaded, time-stamped from three days before my death. It showed Barrett in his office, speaking with Andrew Chen—the same man I'd targeted with my cake bomb.

"It has to look like an accident," Chen was saying. "The board is already suspicious after what happened to Johnson."

Barrett's voice was cold. "I don't care how it's done. Just make sure it's clean. No traces back to either of us."

"And the wife?" Chen asked.

"Leave Diana out of this," Barrett snapped. "She knows nothing."

Chen smirked. "For now. But she's smart, Barrett. Eventually, she'll figure it out. And then what?"

"I'll handle Diana," Barrett said firmly. "You just worry about your end of the deal."

The video ended, leaving me more confused than ever. It sounded like they were planning something—something illegal, definitely—but it wasn't clear that I was the target. In fact, Barrett had explicitly said to leave me out of it.

Who had sent me this video? And why?

As if in answer to my unspoken question, my phone buzzed again:

"There's more to the story than you know. Meet me tomorrow. Café Noir, 2 PM."

I stared at the message, weighing my options. It could be a trap. Or it could be the key to understanding what really happened before my death.

My contemplation was interrupted by the sound of the penthouse door opening. Barrett was home early. Quickly, I hid the USB drive and went to meet him.

He stood in the entryway, his tie loosened, a strange expression on his face.

"We need to talk," he said.

"I'm all ears."

He ran a hand through his hair—a gesture I'd once found endearing. "I found something in my office today. Something that belongs to you."

From his pocket, he withdrew a small, heart-shaped bento box. I recognized it immediately—I'd left it on his desk that morning, filled with carefully arranged sushi that formed the pattern of a poison bottle.

"Very creative," he said, placing it on the counter between us. "The wasabi was particularly inspired."

"Thank you," I replied. "I spent an hour shaping it into a skull and crossbones."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "I noticed." He paused. "The note was... interesting."

I'd forgotten about the note—a simple card that read: "Even your favorite poison can't kill what we have."

"Too on the nose?" I asked lightly.

"Perhaps a bit." He studied me with an intensity that made my skin tingle. "You're not what I expected, Diana."

"What did you expect?"

"Someone easier to figure out." He took a step closer. "Someone easier to resist."

My heart stuttered in my chest. This was dangerous territory—the kind of conversation that could lead places I wasn't prepared to go. Not yet, not when there were still so many unanswered questions.

"Barrett—"

I was interrupted by the shrill ring of his phone. He checked the screen, his expression hardening.

"I need to take this," he said, already moving toward his study. "Don't wait up."

As the study door closed behind him, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Whatever game Barrett was playing, he was good at it—too good. Every time I thought I had him figured out, he said or did something that made me doubt my own understanding of our situation.

One thing was clear: tomorrow's meeting at Café Noir could change everything. If someone else had information about Barrett's plans—about my death—I needed to hear it.

I just hoped I wasn't walking into a trap.

But then again, I'd already survived death once. What was the worst that could happen the second time around?