Page 7 of The Rebel Billionaire

I’ve clearly watched too many spy thrillers.

Turning the handle, I push open my new front door and step inside, surprised by the contrast with the dingy hallway. Natural light floods the space, and the air smells of fresh polish, as though someone has recently cleaned.

Pulling my case behind me, I close the door, flicking the lock into place.

I move into the room, taking in my new surroundings. An open-plan kitchen sits in an alcove off the main living area. It’s small, but neat. Two sash windows overlook the street and the building opposite. The main area contains a table and two chairs, a comfortable-looking sofa, a TV, and a coffee table. It appears to have been newly decorated.

Throwing my bag and jacket onto one of the chairs, I move past the TV and sofa towards a narrow hallway leading to the bedroom and bathroom.

Dropping onto the edge of the large double bed, I study the room where I’ll be sleeping for the foreseeable future. A wardrobe unit stands against the interior wall, providing shelving and a small amount of hanging space. I think of the enormous walk-in wardrobe I have at home, full of all my beautiful clothes, shoes, and bags.

Another lifetime.

I bounce slightly, testing the mattress. Firm yet soft.

I stand and turn before smoothing out the dent I’ve made in the covers. Across the hallway is another door. Pushing it open, I step into the bathroom. I flick on the light. A bath with an overhead shower and a clear screen occupies the far wall. The washbasin sits on top of a storage cupboard beside the toilet. The tiles are grey and white. At least it’s clean.

You’ve got this, Harper!

Stepping back into the hallway, I return to the living area and move towards the small bank of cupboards that constitute my new kitchen. Opening each door, I peer inside. Cups, plates, and bowls fill one space. The next is full of tins and packets of various kinds. Soup, beans, tomatoes, including several I semi-recognise. Another contains pots and pans. Time to dust off those rusty cooking skills. I’m sure I can magic something up. I pull open the fridge and stare wide-eyed at the amount of food inside.

“Not creepy at all,” I say, picking up a bottle of my favourite juice.

I move a few things, finding the drawers stocked with a variety of fresh fruit and vegetables.

How many people do they think are living here?

Not that I’m ungrateful, but I’m not sure I can get through all this, and I detest waste.

I snag an apple and close the fridge door before rinsing it and taking a bite. Closing my eyes, I imagine myself back in Mum’s kitchen. The sharp, fresh taste explodes on my tongue. I open my eyes and back away, sinking onto the sofa, as the truth settles over me. My heart races as I take in the compact, functional living space and think of The Seamstress and her dictate.

Welcome to my new reality. This isn’t a week-long holiday. It’s home, at least until they can unravel the shitshow that has become my life. I close my eyes and swallow against the tight ache in my throat.

Fuck!

After I finish the apple, I throw the core into the bin before moving to the door and checking the peephole. There were cameras in the hallway. I shielded my face from their view on my way up. Not that anyone would expect to find me here. Harper Frazer has always frequented the best hotels and attended the most exclusive parties. But isn’t that the point?

Hiding in plain sight.

There’s no movement at the doorway opposite. Are they even in there?

I spin around. Are they watching me? Do they have cameras inside the apartment?

Scanning my surroundings, I inspect the few accent pieces that have been clearly added for decoration, turning each one over in my hands. I pull over a chair and check the lights and the air-conditioning unit. Nothing seems amiss, but then, I don’t really know what to check for. It’s been years since Elijah went over this stuff, and I’m sure technology has changed.

Only after I’ve gone over every inch of the place do I finally sit down and open my bag, pulling out the phone Pen gave me. How did The Seamstress know about it? At least she didn’t confiscate it.

I fire off a message on the family chat Pen set up before I left.

ME:

I’ve arrived.

I snap a couple of photos out of habit, then delete them the moment I remember her warning. Incognito Harper. I close my eyes and exhale. Besides, what are they going to say? Looks lovely, Harps.

Even the apartment Caleb built for April in the rafters of her dance studio is bigger than this.

No one replies. Shit, it’s the middle of the night.