The panic room had given her clues, yes, but not the whole picture. The ledger, the offshore accounts, the coded instructions - they were all numbers, lines, abstractions.

She wanted something tangible. Something human.

Her fingers trailed along the bookshelves in Georgia's private study. She moved deliberately, scanning for anything out of place.

A leather-bound photo album caught her eye.

She pulled it from the shelf. Dust rose in faint clouds. She opened the first page.

Images of Georgia Laurent smiling at events. Perfect. Controlled. Unblemished.

Then, near the middle of the album, something made her pause.

A photograph from three months ago. Georgia, at a private retreat, arm draped in a sleeve of cream silk.

But the sleeve was slightly pulled up.

Beneath it - a large, purplish bruise along the forearm.

Sharon's stomach twisted.

She flipped to the next photo. Another injury, this one on Georgia's shoulder, partially hidden under a jacket.

And another, on her thigh, visible only when the skirt slit shifted in the wind.

The bruises were varied. Fresh. Old. Patterned.

Someone had been hurting Georgia.

And judging by the timing, it wasn't accidental.

Sharon leaned back in the chair, flipping through more photographs.

These weren't just injuries. They were warnings. Signals. Marks of control.

Her mind raced.

The gala. The penthouse attack. The offshore ledgers.

The man at the donor dinner whispering threats.

Every move Georgia made had been orchestrated.

And Georgia herself - the real one - was a survivor. Hiding in plain sight. Enduring something Sharon was only beginning to comprehend.

Sharon's fingers traced one photo. A bruise on the forearm, partially healed.

"Who did this?" she whispered to herself.

The room answered with silence.

But there was a sound behind her.

A creak of the floorboards.

Sharon froze.

Someone was in the apartment.

Not James. Not a guest. Not a security camera.

She reached slowly for the drawer beneath the desk - the one she had found the notebooks in.

Her hand brushed against something cold.

A small envelope, unmarked, tucked into the corner.

She opened it.

Inside, a single photograph.

A close-up of Georgia's arm - the bruise beneath the sleeve, exactly like the one she had seen before. But this time, written in tiny letters on the back:

"Help me before he notices you too."

Sharon's heart stopped.

The message wasn't from James.

It wasn't from any board member.

It was from Georgia herself.

Alive.

And in danger.

Sharon's phone buzzed. Unknown number.

She hesitated.

Then the message appeared.

"Stop looking. Or this will be you next."

Her pulse surged.

The apartment suddenly felt smaller. Claustrophobic. Every shadow a potential threat.

Sharon's mind raced.

The man at the donor dinner. The sniper. The offshore network. James' warnings.

All of it pointed to one horrifying truth:

She wasn't just impersonating Georgia Laurent.

She was walking in the footsteps of someone marked for death.

And now... she could see it. She could see the pattern.

Someone wanted the real Georgia dead. And they were using her - Sharon - as the perfect cover.

A noise at the window made her jump.

A shadow passed outside.

No reflection. No sound of movement on the street below.

But the feeling of eyes... watching... never left.

Sharon gripped the envelope with the photo.

The bruises weren't just evidence.

They were a warning.

And Sharon knew, with chilling certainty:

If she stayed in this city, in this penthouse, under this identity...

She would be next.

The envelope slipped from her hands.

It hit the floor with a soft thud.

A whisper came from the corner of the room.

"Welcome to my world."

Sharon spun around.

Nothing.

But the cold certainty settled in her chest:

Somebody had been here. Watching. Waiting.

And they knew she had discovered the bruises.

Chapter 10 The Bruise Beneath the Sleeve

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