Chapter 2

Isabelle stepped aside, and I walked into the Blackwell Estate on legs that refused to tremble.

The foyer was cathedral-high, cold marble, with a chandelier that dripped crystal tears. Everything in this house was designed to make you feel small.

I wouldn't give them the satisfaction.

"Damien is in the east wing," Isabelle said, trailing behind me like a cat following a mouse. "He doesn't like to be disturbed. He doesn't like noise. He doesn't like questions. And he especially doesn't like surrogates who think they matter."

"Noted," I said.

She grabbed my arm. Her nails bit into my skin.

"You think you're clever," she hissed. "I can see it in your eyes. That little spark. The last girl had it too. Do you know where she is now?"

I met her gaze. "The river. You mentioned."

Her smile faltered. She hadn't expected me to throw it back.

"Mrs. Blackwell." A deep voice echoed from the staircase.

We both turned.

Damien Blackwell descended the stairs like gravity was optional. He wore a black dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms corded with lean muscle. His jaw could cut glass. His eyes were the color of a frozen lake — pale grey, nearly silver, completely empty.

He was beautiful the way a loaded gun is beautiful.

My heart slammed once. Hard. Not attraction. Recognition. The last time I had seen this face, it was on the news, expressing "deep sorrow" over my mother's "tragic accident."

"Leave us," he said to Isabelle. His voice was low, controlled, the kind of voice that never needed to shout.

Isabelle's mask cracked. Jealousy flashed across her perfect features. She released my arm and walked away, her silk robe whispering against the marble like a snake through grass.

Damien stopped three steps from the bottom. He looked down at me.

"Name."

"Ava Davis."

"Age."

"Twenty-four."

"Medical history."

"Clean. Your doctors confirmed it."

He descended the final steps. He circled me slowly. I felt his gaze on my back, my hips, my stomach. He was examining me the way a man examines livestock.

"You're thin," he said.

"I'll eat more," I replied.

"You'll eat what the nutritionist prescribes. You'll sleep when the schedule dictates. You will not leave the estate without escort. You will not contact anyone outside these walls. You will not speak to the staff about your arrangement. And you will not, under any circumstances, enter the west wing."

"What's in the west wing?"

His eyes locked onto mine. For one heartbeat, the ice cracked. Something dark and dangerous swam beneath the surface.

"The last woman who asked that question," he said softly, "is no longer with us."

He turned and walked away. His footsteps echoed through the empty foyer.

I stood there, alone, in the house of the man who murdered my mother.

Phase one was complete. I was inside.

That night, I couldn't sleep. The bedroom they had assigned me was on the second floor, east wing. It was luxurious — a queen bed, Egyptian cotton sheets, an en-suite bathroom with a rainfall shower.

It was also monitored. I counted three cameras in the first ten minutes. One in the ceiling light fixture. One behind the mirror. One in the smoke detector.

I smiled at each one.

At 2 AM, I crept to the window. The estate grounds were dark, patrolled by two security guards with flashlights.

And across the lawn, the west wing glowed with a faint blue light from a single window on the third floor.

Someone was awake in there.

I pressed my hand to my stomach. Three heartbeats fluttered beneath my palm.

"I know, babies," I whispered. "Mommy's scared too."

A floorboard creaked behind my door.

I froze.

A shadow passed beneath the gap — someone standing outside my room, breathing.

Then, a whisper. So faint I almost missed it.

"Run. While you still can."

The shadow disappeared.