Chapter 3 3

The alarm clock screamed at 6:00 AM. Elodie woke with a gasp, her head pounding. The mattress in the penthouse's sterile guest room was firm and unforgiving, a deliberate contrast to the master suite she was no longer welcome in. She'd slipped back in late last night, a ghost in her own gilded cage, just to satisfy his need for control.

She stood in front of the vast, marble bathroom mirror. Dark circles bruised the skin under her eyes. She splashed cold water on her face, trying to shock herself awake.

Today was the day she started clawing back her autonomy.

She picked up her phone. She typed a message to Braxton. Her fingers hovered over the keys. She had to sound pathetic. Weak. Non-threatening.

Braxton, I've come down with something severe. Fever, chills. Doctor says it's contagious. I need to quarantine for a few days. I can't see you.

Send.

She held her breath. The bubble didn't appear. No typing indication. Just... Delivered.

The silence was worse than a refusal. It was a vacuum. Was he angry? Was he indifferent? Was he sending a driver to drag her out of bed?

She forced herself to put the phone down. She couldn't control his reaction. She could only control her next move.

She slipped out of the penthouse before the staff arrived and took the subway to the small, pre-war studio apartment she secretly kept, the last remnant of her independence. There, she dressed in the only suit she had left from her former life-a black Armani pant suit that she had tailored three years ago. It was a little loose now, hanging off her thinner frame, but it still screamed money.

She took the subway to Midtown. The translation agency was located in a glass tower that smelled of floor wax and ambition. The receptionist looked bored until Elodie handed over her resume.

"Swiss boarding school?" The HR manager, a woman named Linda with sharp glasses, raised an eyebrow. "Fluent in French, Spanish, and Italian?"

"Yes," Elodie said, sitting straight. "I grew up traveling."

Linda scanned the paper. "Sinclair... any relation to the..."

"No," Elodie lied smoothly. "It's a common name." She held her breath. It was a calculated risk. Using a fake name was too complicated, too easy to expose. Hiding in plain sight, hoping the shame of her family's fall would make people assume she was a distant, unimportant relative, was the only card she had to play.

Linda didn't press. She pushed a contract across the desk. "We have a high-profile client in town for the week. Requires absolute discretion. The pay is triple the standard rate because of the NDA. You sign, you work. You speak, we sue you for everything you'll ever earn."

Elodie looked at the figure on the page. It was enough to cover two months of her mother's care.

"Who is the client?" Elodie asked.

"Blind contract," Linda said. "You'll find out when you get to the location."

Elodie hesitated. The silence from her phone in her purse felt heavy. Braxton hadn't replied. If he found out she was working...

But the debt. The looming threat of her mother being evicted from the facility.

She picked up the pen and signed.

"Good," Linda said, snatching the paper back. "Location is the Pierre Hotel. 9:00 AM sharp. Don't be late."

Elodie walked out of the building. She checked her phone. Still nothing from Braxton.

She walked to a coffee cart and bought a black coffee. The bitter liquid burned her tongue. She tried to convince herself that his silence was a good thing. Maybe he was too busy with the engagement press tour. Maybe he was relieved to have a break from her.

She walked past a newsstand. Braxton's face was on the cover of the Post. THE BILLION DOLLAR MERGER: KENSINGTON & VANDERBILT.

She looked away, her stomach twisting.

Her phone buzzed. She nearly dropped the coffee.

It wasn't him. It was the agency.

Location confirmed: Suite 402. The Pierre.

She took a deep breath. She could do this. She was Elodie Sinclair. She used to run galas. She used to host diplomats. She could handle one VIP client.

She walked toward the hotel, her heels clicking on the pavement. She didn't know that she was walking straight into a trap.