Page 62 of Reign

The alias proves nothing. The answers do.

Choice.

Of course.

The woman who accused me within minutes of meeting me of making women believe they were choosing has placed choice at the center of her request. Then she attempted to conceal herself by removing one letter from her first name and reducing her last name to an initial.

A quiet laugh leaves me.

Bold in person. Catastrophic at espionage.

Then again, this could be anyone.

It isn’t anyone.

My gaze drops to the locked drawer on the right side of my desk.

The linen from the bathroom is folded inside, the stain darkened to rust over the last three months.

I haven’t taken it out since I put it there.

That’s a lie.

I look back at the screen. I could forward the inquiry to membership and let someone else handle it.

I don’t.

Instead, I open the tab I’ve left untouched for three days.

Elena Amato.

Her information fills the screen with the kind of neat organization I prefer. School records. Travel history. Public appearances. Family connections. Business courses. Fashion design work. Social accounts collected and categorized with more precision than strictly necessary.

Twenty-one.

Still in school.

California address.

A world away.

This Lena A. would need to be in Florida if she’s seeking membership.

The distinction should matter.

It doesn’t matter enough.

I open her social accounts.

Fashion fills the screen first. Fabric, sketches, shoes, color palettes, dresses cut in clean lines and dramatic silhouettes. Elena appears between them like she belongs to the same language: polished, bright, impossible to ignore.

Pretty girl.

Sharp eyes. Dangerous mouth.

I scroll.

Once becomes twice before I decide to count.