Chapter 2

At exactly nine o’clock the next morning, three men in black suits appeared outside my apartment.

Not movers.

Men.

There was a difference.

Movers showed up in company T-shirts and complained about stairs.

These men arrived in two black SUVs, wore earpieces, and addressed me as Miss Bennett.

I stared at them through the narrow opening of my front door.

“No.”

The man standing closest to me blinked.

He was probably forty, broad-shouldered, with the exhausted expression of someone who had already been warned I might be difficult.

“Miss Bennett—”

“No.”

“Mr. Vale instructed us to—”

“I know exactly what Mr. Vale instructed you to do.”

I opened the door another inch.

“You can tell Mr. Vale that normal people call before sending a private militia to someone’s apartment.”

The man’s mouth tightened.

I couldn’t tell if he was trying not to laugh.

“Mr. Vale said you were expecting us.”

“Mr. Vale says a lot of things.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

That sounded suspiciously like agreement.

I looked past him.

Two more men waited beside the elevators.

One held several empty garment bags.

Apparently Lucian intended to kidnap my wardrobe too.

“Are you security?”

“Yes.”

“Does he think my shoes are dangerous?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then why are there three of you?”

This time I definitely saw the smile.

It disappeared almost immediately.

“We’re also here to transport you safely to the residence.”

“The residence.”

“Yes.”

I hated that everyone around Lucian spoke as though he lived in Buckingham Palace.

I opened the door.

“Fine. But nobody touches anything until I tell them what goes.”

“Of course.”

“And we’re not taking everything.”

He hesitated.

“Mr. Vale requested—”

“I don’t care.”

The hesitation lasted another second.

Then he nodded.

“Understood.”

Small victory.

I stepped aside.

My apartment suddenly looked painfully ordinary with three of Lucian Vale’s security guards standing inside it.

It wasn’t terrible.

Just small.

One bedroom. One bathroom. A kitchen designed for someone who didn’t own more than two pans.

The building was old enough that the radiator clanged in winter and the elevator occasionally trapped people between floors.

But it was mine.

At least for now.

I walked into the bedroom and pulled a suitcase from beneath my bed.

“How long am I packing for?”

The security guard appeared in the doorway.

“Indefinitely.”

I looked at him.

He immediately corrected himself.

“For the duration of the marriage.”

“That is not what indefinitely means.”

“No, ma’am.”

I threw a pair of jeans into the suitcase harder than necessary.

“What’s your name?”

“Daniel.”

“Daniel, I’m going to need you to stop calling me ma’am. I’m twenty-eight.”

Another almost-smile.

“Yes, Miss Bennett.”

“That’s not much better.”

“I’ll work on it.”

I decided I liked Daniel.

Which probably meant Lucian would fire him.

It took forty-five minutes to pack what I considered necessities.

Lucian’s men apparently had a different definition.

While I packed clothes, they quietly collected shoes, toiletries, books, jewelry, coats and enough miscellaneous belongings to make it look as though I were being evicted.

When one of them reached for the framed photograph on my nightstand, I stopped him.

“Not that.”

He immediately lowered his hand.

I picked it up myself.

My mother stood beside me in the photograph, both of us squinting into the sun.

Cape Cod.

Three summers before she died.

Her hair was blowing across her face, and I was laughing at something I couldn’t remember anymore.

That bothered me.

Not the photograph.

The fact that I couldn’t remember.

Grief was cruel that way.

First you lost the person.

Then, slowly, you started losing tiny pieces of them too.

The sound of their laugh.

The exact way they said your name.

The jokes that had once made perfect sense.

I wrapped the frame in one of my sweaters and placed it carefully inside my suitcase.

When I looked up, Daniel had turned away.

I appreciated that.

“Okay,” I said. “I’m ready.”

⸻

Lucian Vale did not live in an apartment.

He lived in a fortress pretending to be a townhouse.

The SUV stopped in front of a limestone mansion on the Upper East Side that occupied enough Manhattan real estate to make me vaguely nauseous.

I stared through the window.

“You’re kidding.”

Daniel opened my door.

“No.”

“One person lives here?”

“Mr. Vale.”

“That’s obscene.”

“I don’t disagree.”

I looked at him.

He stared straight ahead.

Definitely liked him.

The front doors opened before we reached them.

A woman in her late fifties stepped outside.

She wore black trousers, a cream blouse and the kind of expression that suggested absolutely nothing happened inside this house without her knowing about it.

“Miss Bennett.”

“Please don’t say Mr. Vale is expecting me.”

Her mouth curved.

“No. Mr. Vale is at the office.”

“Oh.”

I shouldn’t have been disappointed.

I wasn’t disappointed.

I was relieved.

Obviously.

“I’m Margaret Ellis. I manage the household.”

“Evelyn.”

“I know.”

Of course she did.

Everyone knew everything about me apparently.

Margaret stepped aside.

“Welcome home.”

Home.

The word landed strangely.

I walked inside.

The foyer alone was larger than my apartment.

Black-and-white marble floors stretched beneath a sweeping staircase. Enormous windows overlooked a private courtyard at the rear of the house.

Everything was expensive.

Not flashy.

That somehow made it worse.

There weren’t gold statues or crystal chandeliers screaming billionaire.

Instead there were paintings that probably belonged in museums and furniture that looked simple until you realized each chair likely cost more than your car.

It was beautiful.

And completely devoid of warmth.

“Mr. Vale purchased the property six years ago,” Margaret said.

“Does he actually use all of it?”

“No.”

I laughed.

Margaret didn’t.

“Oh. You’re serious.”

“Mr. Vale primarily uses the library, his office, the dining room and his bedroom.”

“Then why does he need…” I gestured around us. “All this?”

Margaret gave me a look that suggested she had asked herself the same question.

“You’d have to ask him.”

“I’ve noticed people say that a lot.”

She led me upstairs.

My luggage disappeared somewhere behind us.

I counted six doors before we reached the end of the hall.

Margaret stopped.

“This is your room.”

I looked at her.

“My room?”

“Yes.”

Not our room.

Mine.

Some of the tension left my shoulders.

She opened the door.

And I stopped breathing.

The room was beautiful.

That wasn’t the problem.

The walls were painted a soft cream. Pale blue curtains framed enormous windows overlooking the garden. An upholstered bed sat against the far wall beneath an antique landscape painting.

There were bookshelves.

A reading chair.

Fresh flowers.

A small writing desk near the window.

Nothing about it looked like Lucian.

Everything about it looked like me.

I stepped inside slowly.

“What is this?”

“Your bedroom.”

“I can see that.”

Margaret remained near the door.

I walked toward the shelves.

Jane Austen.

The Brontës.

Daphne du Maurier.

Agatha Christie.

Several modern thrillers.

A battered-looking copy of Rebecca.

I pulled it from the shelf.

It wasn’t decorative.

Someone had deliberately selected these books.

I turned.

“Who chose these?”

Margaret’s expression didn’t change.

“Mr. Vale.”

My stomach tightened.

“He reads Austen?”

“No.”

“Brontë?”

“No.”

“Agatha Christie?”

“I’ve never seen him.”

I looked back at the shelf.

Maybe he’d asked someone to research me.

That was reasonable.

Well.

Reasonable by Lucian standards.

I set Rebecca back.

Then I saw the flowers.

White peonies.

My favorite.

I walked toward them.

“Who picked these?”

Margaret hesitated.

That was enough.

“Lucian?”

“Yes.”

I stared at the flowers.

It could have been coincidence.

Peonies weren’t exactly rare.

I touched one of the petals.

“Does he normally keep these in the house?”

“No.”

Of course not.

I moved toward the closet.

The doors opened automatically.

I nearly screamed.

Margaret remained completely unfazed.

Inside hung dresses.

Dozens of them.

Not wedding dresses.

Clothes.

Cream.

Blue.

Green.

Black.

Silk.

Cashmere.

Labels I recognized and labels I couldn’t afford to recognize.

Shoes lined the bottom shelves.

My size.

I picked one up.

Thirty-four.

My pulse changed.

“Margaret.”

“Yes?”

“When were these delivered?”

“Some yesterday.”

Some.

I slowly lowered the shoe.

“And the others?”

Silence.

I turned around.

Margaret’s face had changed.

Only slightly.

But enough.

“Margaret.”

“I think that’s something you should discuss with Mr. Vale.”

There it was again.

“How long have these clothes been here?”

“I don’t know.”

That was a lie.

A careful one.

I could feel it.

I stepped deeper into the closet.

There were sweaters folded in drawers.

Pajamas.

Lingerie.

I immediately closed that drawer.

Nope.

Not touching that psychological nightmare yet.

Then something caught my eye.

A scarf.

Silk.

Cream with tiny blue flowers.

I reached for it.

My fingers stopped inches away.

No.

Impossible.

I knew that scarf.

I had owned one exactly like it.

My mother gave it to me for my twenty-first birthday.

I’d lost it years ago.

I picked it up.

The fabric slid through my fingers.

There was a tiny pull near the corner.

My heart stopped.

I remembered that pull.

It happened when the scarf caught on the zipper of my purse.

I turned it over.

My initials were embroidered along the inside hem.

E.B.

The room tilted.

“Margaret.”

My voice sounded strange.

She stepped closer.

I held up the scarf.

“Where did this come from?”

Her face went pale.

Not dramatically.

But enough.

“Miss Bennett—”

“This is mine.”

Margaret said nothing.

“I lost this seven years ago.”

Still nothing.

I walked toward her.

“Why is it in Lucian Vale’s house?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I don’t.”

“Then call him.”

“He’s in a meeting.”

“I don’t care.”

I pulled out my phone.

I didn’t have Lucian’s number.

Of course I didn’t.

Apparently I was allowed to marry the man without being able to text him.

“Give me his number.”

Margaret hesitated.

“Now.”

She recited it.

I called.

It rang once.

“Evelyn.”

No hello.

No question.

Just my name.

My anger sharpened instantly.

“Why do you have my scarf?”

Silence.

Not confusion.

Not What scarf?

Silence.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Another pause.

Then his voice changed.

Lower.

“Where are you?”

I laughed in disbelief.

“Where do you think I am? In the bedroom you apparently decorated using information you shouldn’t have.”

“Evelyn.”

“The books. The flowers. My clothing size. And now something I lost seven years ago.”

Margaret quietly left the room.

Smart woman.

I tightened my grip on the phone.

“Tell me why you have it.”

“I’ll explain tonight.”

“No. You’ll explain now.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t or you won’t?”

“Both.”

My heart hammered.

I looked at the scarf in my hand.

Seven years.

Seven years ago, I had been twenty-one.

I hadn’t known Lucian.

At least I didn’t think I had.

“Have you been watching me?”

The silence on the other end became unbearable.

“Lucian.”

“No.”

I closed my eyes.

“You’re lying.”

“I told you yesterday. I rarely lie.”

“Then explain this.”

“I will.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

I wanted to throw the phone.

Instead, I forced myself to breathe.

“What happens tonight?”

“I’m taking you to dinner.”

I stared at the wall.

“You think I’m going to dinner with you?”

“Yes.”

“You have my property in your house and you’re asking me on a date?”

“It’s not a date.”

“Fantastic. That makes everything normal.”

“Evelyn.”

“What?”

His voice went quiet.

“Lock the bedroom door.”

Every hair on my arms rose.

I looked toward the open doorway.

“Why?”

“Do it.”

The anger disappeared.

“Lucian.”

“Lock the door.”

I crossed the room and shut it.

Turned the lock.

“Done.”

For several seconds, all I could hear was his breathing.

Then—

“Open the top drawer of the desk.”

I looked toward the writing desk.

“What?”

“Open it.”

I should have hung up.

Instead, I walked across the room.

The drawer slid open.

Empty.

Except for an envelope.

My name was written across the front.

Not typed.

Written.

Evelyn.

I picked it up.

“There’s an envelope.”

“I know.”

“Did you put this here?”

“No.”

My stomach dropped.

“What do you mean, no?”

“Don’t open it.”

Too late.

I slid my finger beneath the flap.

“Evelyn.”

I pulled out a photograph.

And forgot how to breathe.

It was me.

Twenty-one years old.

Standing outside a coffee shop.

The same cream-and-blue scarf wrapped around my neck.

I stared at the picture.

There was someone behind me.

A man.

Only part of his face was visible.

But I recognized him.

Younger.

No gray at his temples.

No tailored suit.

No billionaire photographs plastered across financial magazines.

Lucian.

Standing twenty feet behind me.

Watching me.

My fingers went numb.

“Lucian…”

He said nothing.

I turned the photograph over.

There were four words written on the back.

Four words that made my blood run cold.

HE FOUND HER AGAIN.

I couldn’t speak.

Then Lucian’s voice came through the phone.

For the first time since I’d met him, he didn’t sound controlled.

He sounded afraid.

“Evelyn, listen to me very carefully.”

I stared at the locked bedroom door.

“What?”

“Do not leave that room.”

A floorboard creaked in the hallway.

I stopped breathing.

Lucian heard it through the phone.

His voice changed instantly.

“Get away from the door.”

Another creak.

Closer.

I backed toward the bed.

“Lucian—”

“I’m coming.”

The doorknob moved.

Once.

Slowly.

Someone was trying to get in.

And then a man’s voice came quietly from the other side of the door.

“Evelyn?”

I covered my mouth.

Because the voice wasn’t Lucian’s.

And somehow—

he knew my name too.