CHAPTER 2 - FOR FIVE MILLION DOLLARS?

ABEL

"Um, no,"

Her voice was soft. A little musical. And so painfully familiar.

"I'm Olivia." She extended a trembling, wet hand toward him. "Olivia Delaney. I'm here for the interview."

Abel looked at her hand. Then at her face. Then at her hand again.

How could this be!?

He saw the flames eat her with his own eyes. Held the urn that contained her ashes. And yet here she stood, looking at him with those hazel eyes that haunt his dreams every night.

"Olivia?" Abel repeated the name like it was the wrong answer. "Is that what they told you to say?"

The woman blinked and took a nervous step back, her hand tightening around her umbrella.

"I... I don't understand," she stammered, her voice trembling. "I… I’m Olivia Delaney. I’m here for a contract job you listed. The agency sent me."

Abel stepped in closer, invading her personal space and towering over her. ‎"Is this a joke?" His voice cracked. He glanced around the room as if expecting to find hidden cameras. "Who sent you? Was it Maria? How much did it cost to make you look like a dead woman?"

"I don't know what you’re talking about," Olivia’s voice trembled. She took another step back, accidentally bumping into the door. "Please, you're scaring me."

"Stop… acting," Abel gritted through his teeth and grabbed her wrist.

Her skin was warm. Fever warm. And the sensation of her pulse beneath his thumb made his chest tighten till he couldn't pull in another breath.

He wasn't hallucinating her. Ghosts, after all, don't have a heartbeat.

"Mr. Lamb, let go of me!” Olivia gasped, pulling her hand away. “I think there's been a mistake. I should leave."

But Abel didn't let go. Instead, he pulled her closer, dragging her under the light of the chandelier and staring at her face. There had to be a scar. A sign of surgery. Contact lenses. A mask. Anything!

"You're hurting me!" Olivia cried.

Then Abel stared into her eyes and something inside him broke. Her eyes were wide again, with tears prickling at the corners. The same expression Helen held last time he saw her screaming from a burning balcony.

Suddenly, the smell of smoke filled his nostrils and he could feel the heat burning building again.

He let go of her hand sharply and Olivia stumbled back, rubbing her wrist before turning back to him. She looked at the door, then back at him, then back at the door once more.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I really thought... I really thought I needed this job. But I can't do this."

She turned to leave.

"Wait."

The word escaped his lips almost involuntarily. He didn't want to stop her. He wanted to banish this ghost from his sight. But the ache in his chest was stronger than his logic. He couldn't just let her walk out that door. Not with that face he couldn't.

"Sit down," Abel ordered, his voice rough. "And let's have that job interview."

He watched her hand hover over the door handle. She looked down at her worn shoes, then at the storm raging outside. Whatever fear he stirred in her, it wasn’t stronger than her need for this job.

Slowly, she turned back. She crossed the room and sat at the table, careful not to touch anything, her hands folded tightly in her lap.

Abel took the seat opposite her.

Up close, the illusion held steady. But soon, cracks began to show. Not in her face. Her face was a perfect, agonizing mirror of the woman he once loved. But when it came to the way she occupied the space. Helen had owned every room she entered. She sprawled, laughed, and took up air. This woman tried her best to disappear. She hunched her shoulders, trying to make herself smaller.

"Drink," Abel said firmly, pointing to the glass of water on the table.

"I'm not thirsty," Olivia flinched.

"I didn't ask if you were thirsty. I told you to drink." Abel picked up his own glass of whiskey and swirled it in his hand. "It calms the nerves. And you don't really look calm."

She hesitated first then reached for her drink. Her trembling hands rippled the liquid as she brought it to her lips and took a small sip.

‎Abel forced himself back into his chair. He folded his hands on the table, fingers interlaced so tightly his knuckles went white. ‎

"Let’s see how well you’ve memorized your script," Abel muttered to himself inaudibly. He didn't look at her resume. Didn't care about her work history or typing speed. All he needed to know was who,or what,she was.

‎"Where did you grow up?" His voice came out clipped, controlled. The voice he used in hostile boardroom negotiations.

‎"Chicago," Olivia answered softly, setting the glass down with trembling hands. "The south side."

"And your parents?"

"Both my parents are deceased."

‎Too convenient, Abel thought darkly. Every detail of her story felt designed to prevent verification.

“Have you ever been to California before?”

“No.”

"What was the name of your high school?"

Olivia blinked, startled. "Lincoln Park High. Chicago."

"And your childhood pet?" Abel pressed, leaning closer. "Every little girl has a pet. What was yours?"

"I... I didn't have one," she stammered, shrinking back against her chair.

Abel narrowed his eyes and watched her pupils, looking for the flicker of deception, but all he saw was fear and confusion. She wasn't cracking. If Maria had coached her, she had done a terrifyingly perfect job.

"Who was your first kiss?"

"Mr. Lamb, I don't see how this is rele—"

"Answer the question!"

"I– I don't remember" she blurted out, her cheeks flushing. “And even if I could, I wouldn't tell."

Abel clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached. He was getting nowhere with this. Every answer she gave felt genuine. And yet, she sat there wearing a dead woman’s face. The disconnection between his logic and his eyes was driving him to the brink of madness. He needed her to slip up. He needed her to say something that proved she was a fraud.

He decided to switch tactics. He would ask something visceral. Something a scriptwriter wouldn't think to include.

"You look like my late wife," Abel dropped the words like a bomb. Like stones into still water.

He watched her with the intensity of a predator, cataloging every micro-expression. Waiting for her to flinch. To feign surprise. To reveal the crack in her performance. ‎Olivia went completely still. Her face drained of what little color it had. When she finally looked up and met his eyes directly for the first time since sitting down, all he saw was genuine shock,and something that looked almost like horror.

‎"Oh my God," she breathed. "I... I didn't know. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry." ‎Her hand went to her mouth, and for a moment, she looked like she might cry.

‎Either she was the best actress Abel had ever seen, or she truly had no idea. ‎He couldn't decide which possibility terrified him more.

"Don't be." Abel took a sip of whisky, the burn of the alcohol grounding him. "She's gone.” He paused before he continued. “And that brings us to you. Your job is to solve that problem."

“Excuse me?” Olivia gasped.

"The contract job,” Abel said, shifting his weight on his seat. "The contract lasts one year," He continued, listing the terms. "You will live as my wife for a year, attending all public functions. Publicly, we're a devoted couple. Privately, we're strangers.

Separate bedrooms. No intimacy or emotional involvement. You stay out of my personal affairs, and I stay out of yours. At year's end, we divorce, and you receive a large compensation."

Olivia glanced at Abel. "I don't understand," she said slowly, as if speaking to someone unstable. "The agency told me this was an interview for a personal assistant position. With an unconventional scope, yes, but..." She shook her head. "They didn't say anything about marriage. About pretending to be someone's wife." ‎Her voice rose slightly, the first spark of something other than fear showing through.

‎"I came here because I desperately need the bonus they mentioned. But this? This is insane. This isn't a job,it's... I don't even know what this is." ‎She stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. "This feels wrong. I should go."

Abel watched as Olivia stood, and reached for her umbrella to leave.

Let her go, Abel thought, his jaw tightening. If she wasn't Helen, she was nothing to him. She was just a waste of time. He had no use for a stranger wearing a dead woman's face, nor did he have the patience to entertain a cheap counterfeit.

He stared at the empty glass in front of him, fully intending to let her disappear back into the rain. But then, the silence of the room grew too loud, filling his mind with questions he would never get an answer to if he let her walk out now.

"Two million dollars."

The number sucked the air out of the room. Olivia froze halfway out of her chair, suspended between her dignity and her desperation.

"What?" she breathed, her hand gripping the side of the table.

"Two million dollars," I repeated, leaning back until the leather chair creaked. "That’s the bonus you came here for, isn't it? Deposited into any account of your choosing upon successful completion of the contract.

Abel pulled a thick envelope from his inside jacket pocket and tossed it to her side of the table. "The terms are in there," he said and leaned back. "That’s roughly thirteen thousand dollars a day to wear a ring and smile when I tell you to."

Olivia turned fully to face him. Her face was pale, water dripping off her coat onto the floor. And he could see the conflict warring behind her eyes.

‎"I... I can't." Olivia's voice shook. She looked at the envelope, then back at his face,at the intensity burning in his eyes that bordered on obsession. "This isn't right. Whatever this is, whatever you're really asking me to do... I don't want to be part of it." ‎She pushed herself out of her seat and grabbed her broken umbrella with trembling hands.

‎"Five million dollars." Abel's voice cut through the room like a blade. "Walk out that door, and the offer dies with it. You'll never see me or this money again." ‎He was lying. He knew it even as the words left his mouth. He wouldn't let this die. He couldn't. Not now. Not after seeing her face.

‎Olivia hesitated. ‎He watched her internal war play out across her features,pride versus desperation, dignity versus survival. She looked at the storm raging outside through the rain-streaked windows. Looked at the envelope on the table. Looked at him with something that might have been pity. ‎

Then, in a sudden, frantic movement, she snatched the envelope up and clutched it to her chest like a shield.

‎"I need to think about it," she whispered. ‎And then she ran, actually ran, toward the exit, her broken umbrella forgotten on the floor. ‎The door slammed shut behind her with a finality that echoed through the private room. ‎

Abel sat alone in the sudden, suffocating silence. The fireplace crackled. Rain hammered against the windows.

‎He stared at the door she'd disappeared through, then at the empty chair where a ghost had been sitting. ‎One question clawed at his chest, sharp and relentless... ‎Would she return to sign the contract? ‎Or had he just watched the ghost of his wife vanish into the rain for good?