"The wedding is in forty-eight hours, Irina. After that, we’ll have nothingbuttime."
He pulls back, a dark, triumphant glint in his eyes. He knows he has me. He knows that no matter how much I fight, the walls of the cage are too high to climb.
But as I look around the table at the men who think they’ve won, I realize that they’ve made a fatal mistake. They’ve brought the "Elena" back into the Morozov house. They’ve brought the girl who knows how to pick a lock, the girl who knows how to bribe a maid, and the girl who has absolutely nothing left to lose.
I look at Kira one last time, and for a split second, the envy vanishes, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.
You found your freedom in love, Kira,I’m going to find mine in the ashes of this alliance.
CHAPTER FIVE
IRINA
The suite is too large, too quiet, and smells far too much like a man who intends to break me.
Mikhail had practically tossed me into this mahogany-paneled prison before disappearing into what I assume is his office, leaving me with nothing but my racing thoughts and the weight of the wool coat still draped over my shoulders. I shed it now, the heavy fabric hitting the floor with a dull thud.
I need to breathe. I need a wall between me and that dark blue gaze before I actually lose my mind.
I retreat into the bathroom, clicking the lock into place. It’s a pathetic little sound, a tiny metal bolt against a man who kicks down doors for fun, but it’s the only sanctuary I have. I lean against the cold marble of the vanity, staring at the woman in the mirror.
My hair is a mess, my skin is pale... I look like a ghost haunting my own life. I reach into the hidden pocket I stitched into my leggings back in Cancun—a little trick I learned from a girl who used to smuggle cigarettes into our boarding school.
My fingers close around the cold, plastic casing of the burner phone.
It’s small, cheap, and currently the only thing keeping me tethered to the truth. I shouldn't use it. Not here. But the thought of my leads in Mexico going cold, of the "ghost" disappearing back into the fog because I didn't check in, is worse than the fear of Mikhail.
I turn on the faucet, letting the water roar into the basin to drown out the sound of my voice. It’s an amateur move, the kind of thing they do in movies, but I’m desperate.
I dial the number from memory. My heart is a frantic drum against my ribs, each ring tone feeling like a countdown to my own execution.
"Yes?" The voice on the other end is guarded, hushed.
"It's me," I whisper, my eyes fixed on the locked door. "I’m in New York. The situation has... shifted."
"Shifted? Elena, I heard there was trouble at the spa. Men in suits."
"It doesn't matter," I snap. "Listen to me. I’m at the Morozov estate. The number I gave you before is dead. This is the only way to reach me, and I can’t keep it on. Did you find anything in the Jersey files? Any sign of the transfer?"
"It’s difficult. The names are scrubbed. But there was a payment, Elena. A recurring one, masked through a shell company in the Caymans. It’s tied to a private residence in upstate New York. I’m trying to get an address, but it’s risky."
A surge of hope, sharp and painful, pierces through me.
Upstate. They're close. I’m so close I can almost taste the air they breathe.
"Find the address," I command, my voice low and fierce. "I don't care what it costs. I’ll find a way to get you the money. Just don't lose the trail, please.”
"I’ll do my best. And I’ll pass the info to our man in New York.nBut be careful. If they find out what you’re looking for?—"
"They won't," I cut him off.
I end the call, my fingers trembling as I pop the battery out and shove the pieces back into my hidden pocket. I splash cold water on my face, trying to wash away the scent of conspiracy. I need to look like the "perfect doll" again. I need to look like a woman who has accepted her fate.
I can do this. I can play the part. I’ve been acting since I was six years old. Mikhail is just another person in the audience.
I take a deep breath, unlock the door, and step out into the bedroom.
The room is dim, lit only by the city lights filtering through the massive windows. And there, leaning against the doorframe of the dressing room, is Mikhail.
