Beauty in Deception

Knowing what I’ll find, I feel the door. Locked. My throat is thick with fear. I can guess why Roman would’ve wanted to take Evie. The fact that she showed me the diamond and mentioned his name tonight is too much of a coincidence. Something must’ve happened. Bell must’ve mentioned something to her. Maybe Roman sent a message or a threat. I can’t ignore the possibility that they may have expected an attack, but I don’t want to believe it. The implication is too unnerving. If they knew and still sent me ahead, I’m more expendable than what I thought. I rub my eyes. No. I can’t think like that. Bell needs a double for his daughter. It took him nine years and a considerable investment of money to turn me into her doppelgänger. He’ll make sure I stay alive. He needs me to protect Evie.

Win time. Keep up the show.

That’s my only chance of getting out of here alive. If Roman suspects I’m not Evie, he’ll slit my throat. A tremor runs through my body. Another one follows in its wake. My teeth starts chattering. At least five of Warren’s men are dead, all sacrifices in a mafia war. The reality of it hits me with nauseating clarity. Up to now, being caught was a theoretical idea, something I prepared for in play-act and on paper. I’ve been naive to believe I could ever be ready. Nothing could prepare me for this. I don’t want to think about what Roman can do to me, but I can’t stop the images of a man’s mangled body spilling into my head. Bell made me watch. He taught me first-hand what my fate could be.

Pressing the heels of my palms against my eyes, I expel the mental pictures. Now isn’t the time to be weak. I have to stay calm and rational. Yet the human side of me borders on hysteria. It takes enormous effort to keep sane. I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth until the shaking stops.

Keep up the show.

As long as Roman believes I’m Evie, he won’t kill me. She’s too valuable. I just have to pretend until Bell pays the ransom and secures an exchange. In the meantime, the only weapon at my disposal is knowledge. I need to find out as much as I can. I need to figure out where I am. If an opportunity to escape arises, I’ll need any head start I can get.

The blinds are open. I go to the window. A blanket of lights stretches out below. We’re on a hill. I don’t recognize the view, but we’re still in the city.

The door opens, making me jump. A tall man enters, carrying a tray laid with a steaming mug and a sandwich. He’s dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. I home in on the gun in the holster strapped across his chest. When he kicks the door shut and carries the tray to the coffee table, I turn my back to the window. I don’t retreat when he straightens in front of me from depositing the tray. I won’t give any of them the satisfaction of knowing how scared I am.

The smile that plucks at his lips calls my bluff. He’s younger than Roman, but the resemblance is uncanny. They must be family if not brothers.

“Food for the princess,” he says, his upper lip curling as he runs a gaze over me.

I don’t say thank you because gratitude would be misplaced.

He cocks a brow. “Hungry? You should be starving, seeing that you missed your engagement dinner.”

As I don’t know what the right answer is, I keep my mouth shut.

“Is a sandwich not good enough for you?” he asks, taking a step that puts the tips of his boots against my toes. “I’m sure it doesn’t compare to a fancy meal of caviar, oysters, and champagne, but it’s more than you deserve.”

Craning my neck, I stand my ground and meet his gaze squarely. Showing fear is a weakness men like him and Bell love to exploit. I know their type.

At his failure of getting a rise out of me, his nostrils flare. He grabs the plate from the tray and tosses it at my feet. The porcelain shatters on the floor and the bread falls open with the buttered sides up. Other than the flinch I can’t control, I don’t move a muscle, but inside my chest, my heart is thumping with a wild rhythm.

He’s on me so fast, I don’t see it coming. Grabbing my hair, he forces me to my knees. Hairpins drop with pings around me. The curls that took the stylist hours to fix fall around my shoulders.

“You can eat it from the floor,” he says through thin lips, holding me in place with his grip in my hair. “You should be eating it from a cell floor. If I had my way, you wouldn’t eat at all.”