Warning: A very fucked up story with cussing and death. PG-13 to R.

Genre: Angst/Romance

Pairings: I'll let you guess.

White Lilies

Oneshot

She smiled into the mirror, did a half-twist to check the side of her face, and reapplied a bit of yellow concealer underneath her raw, red eyes.

The tiny bottle of eye-drops sat a foot away from her. She reached over her dresser and fumbled with her trembling fingers.

It fell to the floor with a muted clunk, and rolled to a stop by a limp, immobile hand.

"Goddammit," she screamed, snatching it up violently. Her glinting, hard eyes met the mirror and her temper cooled instantly.

Because she had to be perfect. Perfect people did not show anger, and most importantly, could not get angry. Perfect people smiled, even when they wanted to scream in frustration. Perfect people always looked perfect, and she was proud to be one of those perfect people.

So why the fuck hadn't he thought she was perfect?

He had been cheating on her; she knew he had. The late nights, the almost haggard appearance, the smell of luxurious perfume. A rich woman's perfume.

Not all pretty faces were fools. She was no fool.

That was his mistake.

No one cheated on her.

No one.

All it had taken was a gentle, understanding smile and some dinner laced in arsenic—tasteless and odorless if prepared just right. Just a little bit to distract him, but enough to start the ball rolling. Sometimes, she'd put it in his drink, other times into his dessert. Once, she had bought a box of powdered sugar doughnuts, and mixed the fine, crystalline poison gleefully into the sugar. It had looked absolutely perfect. Sugar sweet and brimming with venom.

Her plan had worked flawlessly. First, it had started out with minor headaches and confusion. Then a violently itchy rash. Nothing that a little lotion wouldn't fix up, she had offered, spurting handfuls of her expensive French moisturizer onto his back. And then stomach pains that were near unbearable, even for him.

She had counted on his contempt for hospitals that he would never see a doctor, but she should have known the other woman in his life would have thought otherwise. The day after a particularly exhausting photo shoot, she had come home to an appointment confirmation message on their answering machine.

She was no fool.

The doctor was not the same doctor they were medically insured for. The receptionist had been very kind over the phone when she called back. Perhaps talkative was a better word. Or maybe stupid.

He wouldn't be home for another five, long hours, but she would be sure to let him know, she had told the naïve girl. He had been coming home rather late these past few days, she had sighed.

Oh, yes, the receptionist had answered sympathetically, working for Relena Darlian was a tough job indeed.

Relena Darlian.

For three hours she had seethed with ice-cold anger. He hadn't listened to her when she had asked him to see a doctor for his broken leg, when their marriage was still young and devoted. He ignored her with frigid eyes when she doted on him out of thoughtful worry. He had never told her who or for what he worked for.

And now she knew why.

Relena Darlian, the little bitch, had him tied around her little finger. Relena Darlian reached him where she couldn't. Relena Darlian was nothing compared to her, but Relena Darlian owned his soul.

So, she had decided, she would take his body.

She had a butcher's knife prepared for him when he came home later. Foolish man had been so unsuspecting. The first thrust had sunk into his stomach like a hot knife through butter. The second did not finish him, so she had speared him again and again until she was spent. Blood had gotten everywhere, and at the last moment, she had regretted wearing her favorite negligee for such a messy activity.

It was ruined, but she could always buy another.

With a swift shake of her head, she set her silken blonde hair back into place. The fragrant white lilies on her bureau caught her interest again. She had found the enormous bouquet on the floor after she had showered away the stench of blood. Several petals had been stained crimson in the midst of her responsibility, but she had never seen white lilies more beautiful. She had taken her time to arrange them into a suitable glass vase until they looked as perfect as she did.

In the reflection of the mirror, she applied a deep, red lipstick to finish her look.

They were her favorite flower, after all.

AN: I think it's pretty obvious who it is. A real deviation from some of the other stuff I've written, in terms of character and plot and style. OOC? Maybe. I can imagine her flipping out like that in the most extreme case. Tell me how much you hate it, how much you hate me, and how much I should burn in Hell. Review me. [Edit: If you want a little more detail on the characters I chose for this fic, please read my profile for a short blurb.]