The dining room has floor-to-ceiling bay windows overlooking manicured gardens, which are accessible by double doors. A rectangular, glass-topped dining table sits majestically in the middle of the room, surrounded by eight white leather and dark wood dining chairs. Built-in cabinets line one wall, and antique sconces light up the room.

I start when Adrian appears beside me, holding a long, red scarf in his hairy hands.

“Tie her legs together,” Damien orders.

“You must be kidding.” My body locks with rage as I glare at both of them.

“Not at all, rosebud.” Damien buries his hands in his pocket. “I need to do what’s necessary to keep you safe, remember? What are you waiting for, Adrian?”

I make it hard for Adrian to get the job done, kicking my legs so he can’t get a firm hold. In the end, he’s stronger, helped along by Damien, who holds me down by the shoulders.

Once his job is done, Adrian moves to stand by the door. He doesn’t meet my eyes.

“Give us some time, Adrian. I need to be alone with my wife.”

Once Adrian leaves, Damien pulls out the chair to my right and pours us both a glass of wine. I ignore mine.

“You look beautiful tonight. I hope you like the clothes I bought for you.”

The walk-in wardrobe is filled with all kinds of designer clothes and shoes. In my normal life I gravitate toward jeans and t-shirts, wanting to forget my past life as a model. I hated having to dress up for shoots and events.

Still, I have to admit that he has great taste. The black-and-white evening gown I’m wearing would be perfect for the red carpet. It has a beaded black bodice, a scoop neckline with a slit down the middle that ends at a flat bow band at the waist, and a sleek A-line skirt. The type of dress I would have chosen for a formal dinner.

Before I can respond, a pair of double doors on the far side of the room opens, and Hanna enters, followed by two other women. They exchange greetings with “Mr. Steel” and lay out covered silver serving dishes on our end of the table, around the candelabras.

Before she leaves the room, Hanna glances at my bound legs, then nods at Damien and walks out. The doors close behind her.

“Perfect.” Damien uncovers one of the dishes—herb-coated beef tenderloin steaks in a bed of mushrooms.

I’m horrified when my stomach groans audibly.

He looks up with a raised eyebrow. “I’m glad you’re hungry.” He opens another dish—chicken cordon bleu.

By the time all the food is on display—including roasted and mashed potatoes, sautéed vegetables, and brown rice—the room is a cornucopia of delicious aromas, and my mouth is watering.

He reaches for my plate and serves me some of each dish. During the meal, we don’t talk. But once Hanna and her helpers have cleared the table, Damien rests his elbows on the table and clasps his hands. The intensity in his gaze holds me in place.

For the first time, I notice a small barcode tattoo on his inner wrist, with numbers below the vertical lines. A date, perhaps. The numbers are too small for me to read. I don’t recall seeing it when I visited him in prison.

“I think it’s time we have a serious conversation.” At his suggestion, my attention drifts away from the tattoo. “I’m surprised you never asked how I got to you—how I managed to get you into my car that day.”

“It doesn’t help me at this point, does it?” I do my best to divert my focus from the itch on my ankle, where the scarf is tied too tight over the bracelet.

“No. No, it doesn’t. What’s important is that you’re here with me.” He reaches for my hand, but before his skin meets mine, I move it away. “I don’t know how long you want to play this game. But that’s okay. I welcome a good challenge.” He withdraws his hand and takes a drink of wine. “Anyway, I want to tell you.”

I shift in my chair and fold my arms.

“I didn’t do it alone.”

“Obviously,” I mumble. You were locked up, I want to add, but I bite my tongue.

He ignores my remark and continues. “A few people helped me along the way. One of them was Adrian, my right-hand man. You’ll probably be surprised to know that the other person was Milton Weiss.”

His revelation is a hand that closes around my neck, cutting off my breath. Brittle silence descends between us.

“No.” I shake my head. “Not Milton.” He was playing me the whole time?

“I’m afraid it’s the truth. Sometimes we don’t know people as well as we think we do.” Damien sighs. “It wasn’t an easy feat to get him on board. He actually did have feelings for you. But I offered to pay him twenty thousand dollars to spy on you, and eventually lead you to me. When I say I, I mean Adrian, who was acting on my behalf. Milton could have had reservations if he found out I was involved. Or rather, Judson Devereux.”

“You… you… How dare you?” I shout at him, my shock yielding to anger. How could Milton do that to me?

“Don’t blame yourself for not seeing through Milton. It’s hard to know who to trust these days. Don’t be mad at the kid. He acted the way any greedy person would. He took the cash and ran.”

I swallow the lump in my throat with difficulty. “You won’t get away with this. Someone will find me eventually. Then you’ll go back to prison where you belong. I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you rot in there.”

“Stop holding on to false hope, Ivy. No one will come looking for you. As far as they’re concerned, you’re dead.” He stands, walks over to the cabinets, and opens one. Keeping his eyes on mine, he pulls out a black folder and returns to the table. He places the folder in front of me. The cover is monogrammed with a gold letter S. Below it are the words Steel Enterprises Inc.

“Have a quick look inside.”

My mouth is dry as I open the folder. Sensing bad news, I long to down the glass of wine that has been standing in front of me the entire meal. But pouring alcohol into my system could be a bad idea.

A black-and-white photo of me is the first thing I see. It’s part of a newspaper article. My throat closes up as I register the headline: Former Model Ivy Hollifield Dies Young. Above the headline is a single word that makes my blood run cold: Obituary.

Damien clears his throat and takes the folder from my hands. “You don’t have to read the whole thing. I’ll summarize it for you.” He takes the folder back to the cabinet, then comes to stand behind me. His hands are hot on my shoulders, but I don’t move.

“The day after you came into my life, there was a tragic bus accident in Boston. A bus blew up in flames on a highway. There were no survivors, and the bodies were burned beyond recognition. As soon as I read about that horrible, horrible tragedy, I thought of you and saw an opportunity. As far as everyone is concerned, you were one of the passengers.” He runs a finger down the side of my face. “You’re dead and gone, Ivy, and soon to be forgotten. Except by me, of course.”

A single tear drops from my eye onto the glass table.