Cougar in the Kitchen

CW: Murder, death, all of that jazz.

The clock on the wall struck 11:00 p.m., the hum of the refrigerator the only sound cutting through the silence of the sleek kitchen. Sylvia, blonde and beautiful, the CEO of a mega tech company, stood poised like a queen in her marble palace. She sipped from her glass of Merlot, the wine dark as blood. Her eyes, icy blue, fixated on the vial of cyanide sitting innocently on the counter top, a lethal promise in its tiny glass casing.

The world seemed still as she held it in her hand, cold like the winter nights that cloaked her darkest impulses. Tonight was a night like any other—a night that brought out the side of her she buried deep during the day, the side that only awakened under the cover of midnight.

A prized catch, she thought with satisfaction. Her lips curled into a smile as she thought of him.

Anthony. The tall, dark, and brooding 24-year-old who had been clamoring for her affection for weeks, now sitting in the small dining room off the side of the kitchen, blissfully unaware of what the night held for him. He had no idea he was about to be more than just her guest—he was going to be her final course.

Sylvia glanced over at him through the open doorway. His strong jawline was shadowed by the dim light, his hands rested casually on the table, and his eyes held the faint glint of desire that all of her victims wore when they thought they’d caught her attention. It had been so easy to lure him in, like all the others before him—just a few coy words, a seductive smile, and they all fell, thinking they were special. Thinking they were the exception.

She turned her attention back to the simmering pot on the stove, stirring the rich, creamy soup with a practiced hand. The aroma of roasted garlic and herbs filled the air, a perfect blend of luxury and death. She had always loved the artistry of cooking, the precision it required, just like her killings. Tonight’s dish was going to be exquisite, enhanced by the few drops of cyanide she would so delicately swirl into his bowl.

A late-night rendezvous had been his suggestion, as if he were in control of how the night would unfold. She chuckled to herself, swirling her wine glass, watching the liquid reflect the kitchen’s low light.

She feigned exhaustion earlier, telling him about her long hours at the office, how she just needed a good meal and some company. In reality, her day had ended early—plenty of time to prepare the mansion, clean the kitchen, and set the stage for tonight’s performance. She always waited until the perfect time, when the sky was pitch black and the stars were hidden. There was something about the bleakest hours of the night that let her true nature breathe, like a beast released from a cage.

As she ladled the soup into the bowl, her grin deepened. The poison blended perfectly with the velvety broth, undetectable but deadly. She walked to the dining room, her heels tapping against the floor, each step deliberate, predatory.

Anthony looked up at her, his brown eyes lighting up as she approached. “Smells amazing,” he said, flashing a charming smile. “You really went all out tonight.”

Sylvia set the bowl in front of him, her fingers grazing the back of his neck for just a moment, feeling the warmth of his skin. “Only the best for you,” she replied sweetly, watching as he picked up the spoon, his gaze never leaving her.

“You really didn’t have to go all out like this!” Anthony said, as he eyed the growing plates of roasted Cornish hens in a pomegranate reduction, a gnocchi with a herded marinara, and the cheesecake centered in the middle of the table. His eyes widening with anticipation at each and every moment as he looked at everything. Thinking of how lucky he was to have met not only a sweet woman, but one who loved to look after her boys. One that he wouldn’t know that her ulterior motives — were the same with the fifteen other boys that had proceeded him.

Sylvia, looking at the red marks of her lipstick staining the glass as she swirls the wine, seeing the red gloss in the candle light. Why isn’t he eating the soup yet?

“Sylvia?”

“Yes, Tony?”

“I’ve really been enjoying my time with you these last few weeks.” His young love clouding his better judgment as he tries his best to hold down the feelings for the woman that is almost two years younger than his own parents.

“You should really try that soup, Tony,” Syliva says. Her anxiety being palpable.

“In a minute,” Anthony says as he looks across the table at the woman who he finds himself infatuated with. More and more by each and every passing second.

Sylvia, finding herself getting more and more and more impatient. Cyanide doesn’t go impotent as soup gets cold, but a mouth won’t take in the whole amount of soup necessary to kill one.

“You should really try the soup, Tony,” she says with excitement. Her words leaving her mouth with pure lust for him. The lust all being fake. She secretly despises him. Even for being tall, dark, and brooding, she find him boring, un-charasmatic, and duller than a dying light bulb. This isn’t her ending a life, this is her cleansing the Earth.

She sat down across from him, wine glass in hand, watching with a quiet thrill as he took his first sip of the soup. Time seemed to stretch, each second a heartbeat. The faint clink of the spoon against the bowl, his satisfied hum, the wine swirling in her glass—all of it was a symphony to her ears.

He had no idea that with each mouthful, he was drawing closer to his end.

Sylvia leaned forward slightly, her voice soft. “Tell me, Anthony,” she purred. “What do you think of the soup?”

He smiled, wiping the corner of his mouth. “It’s perfect,” he said, his voice thick with gratitude. “Just like you.”

Her smile widened, a flicker of something darker in her eyes. “I’m glad you think so.”

Because tonight, she would be perfect at her craft.

The candlelight flickered, casting dancing shadows on Sylvia’s face as she watched Anthony eat, each spoonful bringing him closer to his inevitable fate. His praise echoed in her ears, but she hardly cared for his words now. Her mind was racing, the thrill of control filling her as she envisioned the final moments—the collapse, the panic, the gasps for air.

She leaned back, swirling her wine lazily, eyes following every move he made. Anthony looked up occasionally, flashing her that smile she had once found tolerable but now found repulsive. He was clueless. They always were.

For a moment, she let her mind wander back to the others—young, handsome, eager. All so desperate for her attention. She had given it to them, just enough to lure them in. Sylvia saw herself not as a killer, but as a force of nature, weeding out the weak, cleansing her world of those she deemed unworthy. Each kill left her feeling more alive, more in control of the power that surged through her veins.

Her heart began to race as she watched Anthony reach for his wine glass, washing down the poison-laced soup. His hand trembled slightly as he took a sip, the faintest sign that the cyanide was already beginning to work its way through his system. Sylvia smiled, knowing the real show was about to begin.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, her voice smooth, laced with just a hint of faux concern.

Anthony blinked, his brow furrowing slightly. “I’m… fine,” he muttered, but there was an edge to his voice, a subtle unease. His hand reached up to rub his chest, and his eyes flickered toward her, confused.

Sylvia’s smile widened. “Are you sure? You look a little pale.”

Anthony frowned, his breath coming in shallow bursts now, his hand moving to his throat as if trying to loosen a collar that wasn’t there. “I… I think… something’s wrong,” he managed, his voice hoarse. He tried to stand, but his legs wobbled beneath him, betraying him as the poison took hold.

“Relax,” Sylvia whispered, rising from her seat with deliberate grace. “It’ll be over soon.”

Anthony’s eyes widened with sudden, horrifying realization as he staggered backward, knocking over his chair. He tried to speak, to plead, but his body was betraying him. He collapsed to the floor, gasping for air, his limbs twitching as the cyanide claimed him.

Sylvia stood over him, watching with cold detachment as the life drained from his eyes. His once strong, dark features now twisted in agony, his body convulsing in the final throes of death. It was almost poetic, she thought, how easily life could be snuffed out.

The room fell silent again, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant ticking of the clock. Sylvia took one last sip of her wine, savoring the moment. Another successful evening. Another name to add to her list.

She stepped over Anthony’s lifeless body and walked back into the kitchen, placing the wine glass in the sink with a quiet clink. She glanced at the clock. 11:45 p.m. It had been a flawless execution, like clockwork.

As she wiped the last traces of lipstick from her glass and tidied the kitchen, Sylvia smiled to herself. She had a full day ahead tomorrow, but tonight, she was perfect at her craft.