Sophie.
The ride to the Sterling estate was a masterclass in silence. Chase sat across from her in the back of a black Maybach, the city lights sliding over his impassive face. He hadn’t said a word since they left the gala. He just watched her.
She tried to appear tired, emotionally drained from her miraculous return. She let her head rest against the cool leather, her eyes half-closed. But every nerve in her body was on fire. He knew. He didn't have proof, but he knew. The cat named Cinder was a test. A test she had passed through sheer luck and quick thinking. He would not stop testing her.
“Are you alright?” she asked, her voice a soft whisper, forcing herself to play the part.
“Perfectly,” Chase replied, his voice flat. “Just enjoying the quiet.”
The car swept through a set of massive iron gates and up a long, winding driveway. The estate was a monster of stone and glass, a modern fortress lit up against the night sky.
As the car stopped, a butler opened her door. Before she could even step out, the main doors of the house opened and the family began to spill out. Aunt Beatrice was in the lead, her expression a mixture of duty and disdain.
“There you are,” Beatrice said. “We were getting worried. We have your old room prepared.”
“Thank you,” Sophie said, stepping onto the gravel. “That’s very kind.”
“We have so much to talk about,” Cousin Robert boomed, coming up beside Beatrice.
Sophie prepared her warmest, most grateful smile. Before she could deploy it, Chase was at her side. He placed a cool, firm hand on her elbow.
“Ella is exhausted,” he announced to the waiting family. His tone left no room for argument. “The doctors warned that she needs rest. No excitement. I’ll see her to her wing myself.”
Beatrice’s thin lips tightened. “Of course. We wouldn’t want to overwhelm her.”
Chase’s grip was like steel. He guided her into the house, past the concerned faces, into a grand foyer with a soaring ceiling and a chandelier that looked like a frozen explosion of diamonds.
“My room is this way, I believe,” Sophie said, gesturing to the west wing, just as her research indicated.
“A change of plans,” Chase said, steering her down a different corridor. It was darker here, lined with portraits of stern-faced ancestors whose eyes seemed to follow them.
“Where are we going?” she asked, a tremor of real fear in her voice. “Chase, I’m tired.”
“It’s not far.”
He stopped in front of a heavy, windowless door made of dark, polished wood. He pressed his thumb against a small, discreet panel beside the frame. There was a soft electronic beep, followed by a heavy click as a magnetic lock disengaged.
“What is this place?” she asked.
“The library,” he said, pushing the door open and nudging her inside.
The room was circular, lined from floor to ceiling with books. A rolling ladder was attached to a brass rail that ran along the top shelf. There was no fireplace, no cozy reading chairs. Just a large, imposing desk in the center of the room and two severe, straight-backed chairs. It felt less like a library and more like a vault.
He followed her in. The door swung shut behind him with a soft whoosh, followed by another heavy, definitive click. They were locked in.
“Alright, Ella,” Chase said. His voice had changed. The smooth, formal tone he used with the family was gone. This was something else. Colder. Sharper. “The party’s over.”
Sophie turned to face him, forcing a look of weary confusion onto her face. “I don’t understand. What party?”
“The one where you pretend to be a long-lost heiress and I pretend to believe you.”
She let out a small, shaky laugh. “Chase, you’re not making any sense. I am Ella. I know it’s been a long time. I know I’ve changed.”
“You haven’t changed,” he said, taking a slow step toward her. “You’ve been manufactured. You did your homework, I’ll give you that. The favorite lullaby, the financial troubles, even the scar. A nice touch, the scar. Very dramatic.”
Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. “My scar is from a riding accident. I was seven.”
“Ella Sterling was afraid of horses. She never had a riding accident.”
A slip. A tiny, insignificant detail her researchers had missed. Or invented. It was over.
“People’s memories change,” she tried, her voice weak.
“Stop,” he commanded. The word was a slap. “Just stop talking.”
He walked to the desk, his movements calm and deliberate. He reached into the inner pocket of his tuxedo jacket and pulled something out. He tossed it onto the polished surface of the desk.
It skidded across the wood and stopped in a pool of light from the overhead lamp. It was a locket. A silver, heart-shaped locket, tarnished with age and dirt, with a tiny, chipped sapphire in the corner.
Sophie stared at it. It was identical to the one she had commissioned, the one she’d claimed was stolen. But this one was real. It held a history her forgery never could.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, her throat suddenly dry. “Where did you find it?”
“Don’t you recognize it?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft.
“It’s the locket my grandmother gave me,” she said, playing the final, desperate card. “You found it.”
“I did find it,” he agreed. “Right where it was supposed to be.”
He leaned forward, his hands flat on the desk, his grey eyes boring into her. “It was around her neck when I buried her.”
The air left her lungs. Buried her. The words echoed in the silent, sealed room. The real Ella wasn't just missing. She was dead.
“I don’t…” she started, but the words wouldn’t come out.
“You are an excellent liar,” Chase said, his voice a low, chilling monotone. “One of the best I’ve ever seen. But the woman you are pretending to be died ten years ago. I know this for a fact, because I put her in the ground myself.”
He straightened up, his face a mask of cold, absolute certainty.
“So, I’m going to ask you one more time. Who are you? And what do you want?”
Sophie stood frozen, trapped. The lie had shattered. Her entire plan, months of meticulous preparation, had crumbled to dust in a soundproof room with the only man who knew the truth.
He looked at his watch, a slim, elegant piece of steel on his wrist.
“You have ten seconds to give me a reason not to call the police and have you thrown in a hole so deep you’ll never see the sun again.”
He stared at her, his eyes devoid of mercy.
“Ten.”
“Nine.”
“Eight.”
