Eleanor pressed her blade against the slab of meat, her strokes methodical and unyielding. Each cut, a precise motion of control, was a dance she had perfected over the years. The butcher shop was quiet that morning, as it often was, except for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional squawk of seagulls from the docks just down the street.

She paused to glance at the clock. Marianne would be arriving soon.

Every Thursday, Marianne came to the shop for her weekly order of pork loin. Eleanor lived for these moments, for the bright light that Marianne brought into her otherwise gray and lifeless days. Marianne was a florist, the kind of woman who carried the scent of blooms wherever she went. Her golden hair fell in soft waves, and her laughter sounded like birdsong—light and free. Eleanor often imagined what it would be like to capture that sound forever.

She didn’t just love Marianne. She needed her.

But Marianne’s light was too bright, and others couldn’t resist it. Over the past few months, Eleanor had noticed how people flocked to her—delivery men lingered too long at her shop, customers gushed over her arrangements just for an excuse to stay, and, most infuriatingly, men would ask her out on dates. Eleanor could see the way they looked at her, and she knew their intentions were selfish. Marianne deserved better.

Eleanor had made it her mission to shield Marianne from the world’s impurities.

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Marianne entered the shop right on time, the little bell above the door chiming cheerfully. Eleanor’s heart quickened at the sight of her.

“Good morning, Ellie!” Marianne greeted, her voice bright. She was the only person who called Eleanor that.

“Good morning, Marianne.” Eleanor tried to keep her tone steady, her hands steady, her heart steady. “Your usual order?”

Marianne nodded, leaning against the counter with that easy grace that Eleanor adored. “Yes, please. How’s business been?”

“Quiet, as always.”

Marianne laughed. “Well, at least you’ve got consistency.”

Eleanor wrapped the pork loin carefully, as if the act itself was sacred. “I like quiet.”

Marianne smiled, her eyes crinkling at the edges. “I can tell.”

As Marianne handed over the cash, their fingers brushed. It was fleeting, but Eleanor clung to the sensation like it was a lifeline.

“Thanks, Ellie. See you next week!” Marianne called as she left, the doorbell tinkling again.

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Eleanor watched her go, her gaze lingering long after the door had closed.

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That evening, Eleanor’s peace was disturbed when she saw him. A man, lingering outside Marianne’s flower shop, holding a bouquet.

Eleanor stood in the shadows of her own doorway, her stomach churning with rage. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of easy confidence that men like him always seemed to have. He was laughing at something Marianne said, and worse—she laughed back.

Eleanor’s grip tightened on the butcher’s knife in her hand. She didn’t even realize she’d picked it up.

Later that night, when the man left Marianne’s shop and walked down the quiet streets, Eleanor followed him. The man didn’t notice her until it was too late. She struck swiftly, the blade slicing through the darkness and into his flesh. He gasped, choking on his own breath as he fell to the ground.

Eleanor dragged his body to the shop, her heart pounding but her movements steady. She worked quickly, dismantling him with the precision of her trade. She felt no remorse, only satisfaction. He was no longer a threat to Marianne.

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Over the weeks, Marianne mentioned in passing how strange it was that some of her customers had stopped visiting. Eleanor nodded politely, hiding the satisfaction that bloomed inside her.

But the peace didn’t last. One afternoon, a private investigator arrived at the butcher shop. He was looking for the missing man. Eleanor maintained her calm, even as her mind raced.

“He came by a few weeks ago,” she said, her voice measured. “Bought some steaks. Didn’t seem out of the ordinary.”

The investigator narrowed his eyes but left without pressing further. Still, his presence unsettled Eleanor. He had spoken to Marianne, too, and that was unacceptable.

That night, Eleanor waited for him outside his motel. She dispatched him cleanly, as she had the others, and disposed of him in the same way.

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Eleanor’s carefully constructed world began to unravel when Marianne found the hidden room.

Eleanor had been careless, leaving the door to her cellar unlocked. Marianne had come by to drop off a bouquet as a surprise and stumbled upon Eleanor’s trophies—rings, wallets, and other personal items from her victims.

Marianne’s scream brought Eleanor running. She found Marianne standing frozen in the doorway, her face pale.

“Ellie…” Marianne’s voice trembled. “What is this?”

Eleanor’s heart sank, but she quickly composed herself. “I did it for you,” she said, stepping closer. “They were trying to take you from me. I had to protect you.”

Marianne backed away, shaking her head. “This isn’t love, Eleanor. This is… monstrous.”

Eleanor’s expression hardened. “You don’t understand. I did it because I love you more than anything. I can’t let anyone come between us.”

Marianne turned to run, but Eleanor caught her arm. “Please,” Eleanor whispered, her voice breaking. “Don’t leave me. You’re all I have.”

Marianne’s eyes filled with tears. “Ellie, this isn’t the way. You need help.”

Eleanor’s grip loosened, and Marianne took the opportunity to flee. Eleanor didn’t chase her. She stood alone in the cellar, surrounded by the evidence of her devotion, her world collapsing around her.

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Marianne went to the police, but by the time they arrived, Eleanor was gone.

The butcher shop was empty, the cellar wiped clean. Marianne tried to move on, but she always felt Eleanor’s presence, like a shadow lurking just out of sight.

One night, Marianne found a bouquet on her doorstep. It was made of crimson lilies—her favorite. Attached was a note in Eleanor’s neat handwriting:

“No one will ever love you the way I do.”

Marianne’s hands trembled as she clutched the note, knowing Eleanor was still out there, watching, waiting.