Nora.
I stared at the green dress. It was a mockery. A costume for a play I never auditioned for. The soup Maria had left was probably cold by now. I hadn’t touched it. I couldn’t swallow past the lump of fear in my throat.
I paced the room, my bare feet silent on the thick rug. I went from the locked door to the barred windows and back again. A gilded cage. A beautiful, terrifying cage.
I was tracing the pattern on the wallpaper when I heard it again. The sound that made my blood run cold. The definite, metallic click of a key turning in the lock.
I scrambled backward, pressing myself against the far wall as the heavy door swung open.
He wasn't like the men in the car, or the woman, Maria. They were just pieces in the game. He was the whole board. Tall and broad in a perfectly tailored black suit that seemed to absorb the light in the room, he filled the doorway with a presence that was suffocating.
His hair was dark, his jaw was sharp, and his face was a masterpiece of cold, brutal beauty. But his eyes, his eyes were the most frightening thing about him. They were dark, almost black, and completely devoid of emotion as they swept over the room and landed on me.
He stepped inside, the door closing with a soft thud behind him. He didn’t speak. He just watched me, his stillness more unnerving than any threat.
“Isabella,” he said finally. His voice was low, a deep rumble that vibrated through the floor. It wasn't a question.
“That’s not my name,” I whispered, my voice trembling.
A flicker of something, maybe annoyance, crossed his face. “I don’t have time for games. Your father’s little stunt has caused a great deal of trouble.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know you. I don’t know my father. I mean, I did, but he’s dead.” My words tumbled out, a panicked, jumbled mess.
He took a slow step forward. “He is not dead. And his decision to hide you away is about to cost him everything.”
“No, you don’t understand.” I pushed myself off the wall, taking a hesitant step toward him. It was like approaching a wolf. “My name is Nora Voss. My father was Marco Voss. He died almost a year ago from a heart attack. He managed a hardware store.”
The man’s face remained a mask of stone. “Your performance is admirable. But unnecessary.”
“It’s not a performance!” My voice cracked. “Why won’t you listen to me? You have the wrong person. Your men, they made a mistake.”
He was closer now, only a few feet away. I could smell the faint, expensive scent of his cologne, something clean and sharp, like winter air.
“My men do not make mistakes,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
He closed the remaining distance between us in a single, fluid motion. I flinched back, but there was nowhere to go. My back hit the wall with a dull thud.
He reached out, and I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for a blow. But he didn’t hit me. His hand, large and surprisingly warm, cupped my chin. He tilted my head up, forcing me to look at him.
My eyes flew open. Up close, he was devastating. A small, white scar cut through his left eyebrow, the only mar on his perfect, cruel face. A jolt, hot and electric, shot through me at his touch. It was terrifying.
“Look at me when I speak to you,” he commanded softly.
I couldn’t have looked away if I tried. His thumb stroked lightly over my jaw, a gesture that might have been gentle from another person. From him, it felt like a brand.
“Your father has been a thorn in my side for a long time,” he said, his dark eyes searching mine. “Did you think I wouldn’t find you?”
“I’m not her,” I pleaded, tears welling in my eyes. “I swear. I’m a nursing student. I work at St. Jude’s. You can call them. Ask for Sarah Jenkins in the ER. She’s my friend. She’ll tell you.”
“A clever backstory. Did you rehearse it on your way here?”
“No! It’s the truth!” I was desperate, a frantic edge to my voice. “I work sixteen-hour shifts to pay off my father’s gambling debts. He owed money to loan sharks. Bad people.”
His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
“Does Isabella Soriano wait for the midnight bus in the pouring rain because her 2012 Honda Civic broke down for the third time this month? Does she have a student loan statement for sixty-two thousand dollars sitting on her kitchen table?”
His grip on my chin tightened for a second, then relaxed slightly. The mask was still there, but I saw something in his eyes. A flicker of uncertainty.
“I was on the phone right before your men grabbed me,” I pushed on, sensing the tiny crack in his certainty. “It wasn’t my powerful father. It was a debt collector from a company called Vantage Financial. He told me I had until midnight to make a payment I don’t have.”
He stared at me, his gaze intense, analytical. He was studying every feature on my face, from my eyes to my mouth, as if looking for the lie.
“What color are your eyes?” he asked, the question so unexpected it threw me off.
“What?”
“Your eyes. What color are they?” His voice was sharp, impatient.
“They’re brown,” I stammered. “Just… brown.”
He said nothing. His thumb traced the line of my jaw again, slower this time. The terrifying shock of his touch was starting to mix with something else, something warm and confusing that spread through my veins.
I hated it. I hated him for making me feel it.
“Please,” I whispered, the fight draining out of me, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. “Just let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I didn’t see anything. I just want to go home.”
He held my gaze for a moment longer, a silent battle of wills passing between us. I felt like he could see every secret I had, every fear, every pathetic little hope.
Then, without a word, he dropped his hand. The absence of his touch left my skin feeling cold.
He turned on his heel and walked toward the door. He didn’t look back.
“Wait,” I called out, my voice small. “Are you… are you going to let me go?”
He paused with his hand on the doorknob but didn’t turn around. “You will stay here.”
“But you believe me, don’t you? I can see it. You know I’m not her.”
He was silent for a long moment.
“It doesn’t matter what I believe,” he said, his voice flat and final. He opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.
The lock clicked into place, the sound sealing my fate once more. I slid down the wall until I was huddled on the floor, my body trembling. He was gone. And I was still a prisoner. But a single, fragile thought took root in the terror.
He had hesitated. For just a second, the Reaper had hesitated.
