Chapter 2 - By sunrise, Maeve Donnelly no longer existed.There was no record of her employment with the Ashfords.
No apartment lease.
No bank account under her name.
No hospital file connecting her to the brother she had spent her life protecting.
Instead, there was Amelia Rose Ashford.
Twenty-four years old.
Born in Geneva.
Educated in Boston.
Raised partly in London.
The daughter Margaret Ashford had supposedly kept away from Chicago for most of her life.
The story was elegant.
Too elegant.
Maeve knew that immediately.
“Rich people lie differently,” she thought.
“They make lies look expensive.”
She stood in front of a mirror inside a private stylist's suite.
Her dark hair had been cut and reshaped.
Her eyebrows were altered.
A small beauty mark had been painted beside her left eye.
Her clothes had cost more than her entire family's monthly income for a year.
She looked at herself.
Then looked away.
“Am I convincing?”
The stylist smiled.
“Absolutely.”
Maeve almost laughed.
She had spent seven years cleaning rooms for people who could barely remember her face.
Now strangers were being paid to manufacture one.
At ten-thirty, Margaret arrived.
She carried another envelope.
“You meet Elias tonight.”
Maeve's stomach tightened.
“Tonight?”
“He requested that you come immediately.”
“Why?”
“He heard you are my daughter.”
Maeve stared at her.
“He already investigated me.”
“Of course.”
“And?”
Margaret smiled.
“That's why you're still alive.”
Maeve slowly opened the envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
It showed Sienna standing beside Elias.
They looked perfect together.
Beautiful.
Powerful.
Untouchable.
Then Maeve noticed something.
Sienna's fingers were wrapped around Elias's arm.
But Elias wasn't looking at the camera.
He was looking at Sienna.
There was no affection in his eyes.
Only observation.
“Did he ever love her?”
Margaret's face hardened.
“That is irrelevant.”
“It doesn't sound irrelevant.”
“It is when money is at stake.”
Maeve looked up.
“My brother.”
Margaret nodded.
“The surgery remains scheduled.”
“But only if I do this?”
“Only if you succeed.”
Maeve's voice became colder.
“And what exactly counts as success?”
Margaret's eyes met hers.
“You must stay close to Elias.”
“For how long?”
“Until he tells you the truth.”
“What truth?”
Margaret leaned closer.
“The truth about the accident.”
Maeve frowned.
“They said someone tried to kill him.”
“They did.”
“And he survived.”
Margaret said nothing.
“What aren't you telling me?”
Margaret walked away.
“Find out why Elias Marchetti is pretending to be disabled.”
Maeve froze.
“Pretending?”
Margaret didn't turn.
“Yes.”
That evening, the doors of the Marchetti estate opened.
Maeve stepped inside.
The mansion looked less like a home and more like a fortress built by someone who expected war.
Armed guards stood in the corridors.
Cameras followed every movement.
A man in a charcoal suit waited near the entrance.
“Amelia Ashford?”
“Yes.”
“I am Gabriel Ferraro.”
Maeve recognized him instantly.
Security chief.
Former Marine.
The man Elias trusted more than almost anyone.
Gabriel studied her.
Not her clothes.
Not her face.
Her hands.
Maeve noticed.
“You're nervous,” he said.
“Anyone would be.”
“Why?”
“I've never met Elias.”
Gabriel's expression did not change.
“Yes, you have.”
Maeve's blood chilled.
“What?”
“In a photograph.”
He stepped aside.
“Come.”
Maeve entered.
At the end of the hall stood Elias.
Wheelchair.
Black shirt.
No tie.
His right hand rested casually on the armrest.
The black onyx ring caught the light.
Maeve stopped.
For one terrifying second, Elias looked directly into her eyes.
He did not smile.
He did not welcome her.
He simply watched.
Then he said:
“Amelia Ashford.”
Maeve swallowed.
“Yes.”
“You look different.”
She nearly forgot to breathe.
“From what?”
Elias smiled.
A very small smile.
“From the last photograph Margaret sent me.”
Maeve's pulse exploded.
“There are several years between them.”
“I know.”
He gestured toward the chair opposite him.
“Sit.”
She did.
Elias studied her for several seconds.
“You know who I am?”
“Everyone in Chicago knows who you are.”
“That's not what I asked.”
Maeve met his gaze.
“I know the man people are afraid of.”
“And what do you think of him?”
She hesitated.
“I haven't decided.”
Gabriel looked slightly surprised.
Elias laughed quietly.
“That answer may have just saved your life.”
Maeve forced a smile.
“Should I be worried?”
“Yes.”
The room went silent.
Then Elias leaned back.
“Sienna told me you were raised in Europe.”
Maeve's throat tightened.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Geneva.”
“What school?”
She gave the answer Margaret had trained her to remember.
Elias nodded.
“What did you study?”
“Art history.”
“What period?”
“Renaissance.”
“What is your favorite painter?”
Maeve froze.
Margaret had not prepared her for that.
“Caravaggio.”
Elias stared at her.
“Why?”
Maeve remembered a painting she had once seen through the servant entrance of the Ashford house.
“A man once told me that Caravaggio made shadows look honest.”
Elias's expression changed.
Very slightly.
“Who told you that?”
Maeve realized her mistake.
“My… professor.”
Elias's eyes narrowed.
“You don't sound like someone who studied in Geneva.”
Her heartbeat hammered.
“Maybe I'm a bad student.”
“Maybe.”
He moved his wheelchair closer.
Maeve smelled his cologne.
Cedar.
Smoke.
Something colder underneath.
Elias lowered his voice.
“Tell me something true about yourself.”
Maeve stared at him.
“I hate being lied to.”
His eyes sharpened.
“Interesting.”
She smiled.
“Why?”
“Because so does everyone in this house.”
A guard entered.
“Mr. Marchetti.”
Elias looked up.
“Your former fiancée is here.”
Maeve's stomach dropped.
Sienna.
Elias said nothing for several seconds.
Then he looked at Maeve.
“Stay here.”
He wheeled himself toward the doorway.
Maeve watched him go.
The instant the door closed, she touched the hidden recorder beneath her sleeve.
Still running.
But then she noticed something impossible.
A wet footprint.
On the polished marble.
Right beside Elias's chair.
One footprint.
Then another.
Fresh.
Barely visible.
Maeve stood.
She followed them.
They disappeared behind a half-closed door.
Maeve pushed it open.
Empty.
She stared down.
Two dark footprints.
And suddenly she understood.
Elias Marchetti could walk.
The wheelchair was a lie.
Maeve covered her mouth.
Someone spoke behind her.
“You were told to sit.”
She spun around.
Elias was standing.
Not in the wheelchair.
Standing.
Perfectly balanced.
Perfectly still.
The door clicked shut.
Maeve could not speak.
Elias took one slow step toward her.
Then another.
His eyes were no longer cold.
May you like
They were dangerous.
“Now,” he whispered, “tell me who sent you.”
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