Chapter 4 4

Ford swallowed hard. His Adam's apple bobbed.

He took an involuntary step forward, his hand reaching out as if to trace the long, pink scar that bisected her shoulder blade.

"What..." he started, his voice rough.

Imogen flinched. She slammed her back against the wall, her eyes wide and feral, like a cornered animal.

"Don't," she hissed.

Ford stopped. His hand hovered in the air for a second before he snatched it back, shoving it into his pocket.

The horror in his eyes hardened instantly into something colder. Defense. Denial.

"Looks like you played rough in there," he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain to cover his discomfort. "Is that your badge of honor?"

Imogen felt a sharp pain in her chest, but it wasn't her heart. It was the death of the last illusion.

"That," she said, her voice steady, "is the receipt for every 'risk mitigation expense' you signed, Ford."

Ford's face darkened,A flush of anger crept up his neck.

He stepped in close, invading her space, looming over her. He smelled of expensive scotch and aggression.

"Don't try to manipulate me," he growled, leaning down so his face was inches from hers. "Don't try to leverage this with a sob story or... whatever this is. I don't deal with damaged goods."

"Leverage this?" Imogen looked him dead in the eye. "I just want to stay away from you."

He grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw. "Remember who you are. You're here to atone. You're not a victim. You're a criminal."

Imogen jerked her face away from his grip. "I served three years. If that's not enough atonement, what do you want? My blood?"

They stared at each other. The air crackled with hatred.

Ford's phone buzzed again. He broke eye contact, checking the screen.

"Bella is waiting," he said, his voice instantly losing its edge. He walked to a hallway closet and pulled out a heavy, white faux-fur stole.

He tossed it at her. It hit her in the chest.

"Put it on," he ordered. "Cover that up. Don't scare the guests."

Imogen caught the fur. It was soft. Warm. It was a muzzle.

She draped it over her shoulders, pulling it tight. The scars disappeared. The warrior disappeared. She looked small again.

"Let's go," Ford said, turning his back on her. "And remember: stay away from Bella. Don't touch her."

Imogen followed him to the elevator. She watched his broad back. She felt nothing. No love. No hate. Just a cold, empty void. Inside, she ran through her checklist. Her son, Leo. Was he safe? The last coded message from her contact inside said he was. She had to trust that for now.

The car ride to the estate was in a stretch limo this time. Ford poured himself a glass of champagne and didn't offer her one.

"If you behave tonight," he said, looking out the window at the passing trees of the estate driveway, "I might consider a monthly allowance. Enough for a studio apartment in Queens."

Imogen didn't look at him. "I don't want your money. I want an independent audit of the Willis Trust."

Ford laughed. It was a sharp, barking sound. "An audit? You think the board will let a felon anywhere near the books? You're delusional."

"The bylaws state my shares grant me that right," she said simply.

"We'll see."

The limo slowed. Through the tinted windows, Imogen saw the flashes. Hundreds of them. The paparazzi were swarming the gates of the Willis estate like locusts.

"Showtime," Ford muttered. "Don't trip."