“Stop talking,” he mutters, not slowing or sparing me a glance.
There’s no way I’m backing off that easily.
“Please,” I press, looking up at him imploringly. “This has to be some kind of misunderstanding. I’m not supposed to be here. If I could just speak with someone, explain what’s happened–”
“Dammit, Daphne!” he snaps, whirling on me.
I stop cold.
My heart trips over its valves, color draining from my face as I stare up at him. “What did you just call me?” I rasp.
His mouth clamps shut, the words clearly a mistake. “Nothing,” he grunts, turning sharply and resuming his march down the hall.
I have to jog to catch up, my heart pounding and breath coming quicker. “You know my mother?” I ask, grabbing at his sleeve. “How? When?”
“A long time ago,” he mutters, jerking his arm away. He doesn’t slow, but he does flick me a sideways glance. “You look like her.”
The words hit harder than they should. If someone in here knows my mom, then does that mean…
Did she have something to do with this?
The thought is enough to make me physically ill, my gut twisting as bile crawls up my throat.
He unlocks another door at the end of the hall, and we step into the glass-walled corridor overlooking the open atrium below.
I glance down.
Two dozen women move through the space beneath us, all dressed in identical white loungewear. Some sit in clusters, talking quietly. Others read. A few recline on pale sofas like they’re at a spa instead of a holding pen.
No one is crying.
No one is screaming.
They look…peaceful.
A chill crawls up my spine as I scan the crowd, searching their faces for any sign of distress, but I don’t find it. And I’m not sure whether that’s a relief or the most terrifying part of all.
My gaze shifts, catching on three men in suits standing off to the side, separate from the women. One of them looks strangely familiar. Hazel eyes, dark hair, sharp features…
For a moment, I think stress is playing tricks on me. That I’m projecting familiar faces onto strangers because my brain is desperate for something recognizable. Then he looks up, our eyes meeting through the glass.
The resemblance hits me all at once. Ford’s eyes, staring back at me from another face. It’s his brother– the one I saw at the charity gala. Drew.
The air goes thin, like someone’s punched the oxygen out of me. Drew’s lips part slightly, his expression shifting to one of unmistakable surprise.
Caleb nudges me forward, and my feet move, but my thoughts stay behind. They linger on that look in Drew’s eyes, on the way his posture changed the second he saw me.
I risk another glance down, hoping to catch his eye again, but he’s already turned away, back in conversation with the other men like nothing happened.
If he didn’t expect to see me, then maybe the Kings didn’t orchestrate this.
So what is he doing in a place like this?
Is he a buyer? An investor? Just another polished piece of the machine?
Was Gideon alone in setting this up, or was my mother a part of it? Would she even care if I called for help?
The questions pile up faster than I can sort through them, and underneath all of it is an ugly, desperate thought.
