Speculation

Angelica.

I do not believe in coincidences. If something happens twice, it's a pattern. And patterns were my forte–especially those hidden underneath the mask of perfection.

I didn't believe perfection existed on its own. There had to be something behind every urge to keep a place impossibly perfect.

Every other person found the slightest disorganisation to be unpleasant but normal. For germophobes, it was disastrous. But for people like Curtis, it triggered a full-blown traumatic reaction.

I had caught a glimpse of it. When a maid accidentally spilled water on him at his family mansion earlier in the day, he had nearly blown his top. He looked like he wanted to strangle me for ditching a hairpin in the living room but susprisingly, he had no reaction to the mess in my room. I had set it all up and his lack of reaction didn't quite add up.

So I raided his room for a new towel and 'forgot' to put the rest back, leaving the rest on his bed.

I still couldn't get over his outrage an