Prologue
I never anticipated, nor considered, how it would feel to look into my reflection and not see myself. It twists my intestines, clogs my stomach, spins my brain. The monumental stained glass window that usually gives Mr. Bradford a fancy view of London instead gives me a ghastly view of what I have become. A stranger, even to myself. Chocolate hair bleached into a platinum blonde, grey irises concealed behind brown contacts, black rim spectacles traded for a fragile wiry pair. Even the aged scar on my right cheek and the distinctive freckle under my right eye are gone – erased by the magic of makeup.
But who even was I before, anyway?
On a brighter side, I’ve put on a few pounds and no longer look like a reanimated corpse.
My body flinches when the door clicks open, and my eyes dart in its direction. Mr. Bradford greets me with a diplomatic smile – the kind that seems cheery on the surface, but becomes artificial and rehearsed upon closer inspection. It makes me feel like a customer that he’s greeting, which I’m not. If anything, we’re business partners.
“I apologise for the wait, dearest Isobel,” he says after he has closed the door and begun traipsing towards his desk chair on the other side of his lavish marble desk from me, “my accountant had some urgent matters to discuss.”
I allow my eyes to stray from him for a second as I check the tall cuckoo clock that stands in a corner of the room. Twenty minutes have passed since I was led into the office. Twenty minutes which felt like a single one.
“It was no trouble, sir,” I respond – rather smoothly, if I may say so myself – as I put on a close-lipped smile.
“You seem much recovered since I saw you last,” Mr. Bradford continues as he takes his seat, leaning placidly against the backrest while his arms come to rest atop the desk, right hand resting atop the left.
“I feel much better, sir. All thanks to you.”
“That is excellent news, dearest.” Mr. Bradford deals out another smile. “I trust that you feel fit to proceed with our arrangement?”
My stomach clenches.
No!
“Yes, sir, I do.” I return the smile.
“Excellent,” Mr. Bradford repeats. He opens a drawer on his desk and retrieves a manila envelope, which he slides towards me. “Inside you will find all the details of your enrolment. Classes begin on the seventh of September.”
Yes – if I don’t get found out and wiped off the board first.
My pulse jolts, yet I force my lips to remain curved upwards.
“Thank you, sir.” I swallow hard in an attempt to clear my airways when my voice comes out flatter than I’d wanted it to. “I’m excited.”
Mr. Bradford’s brow softens in what would be a touching display of tenderness if his sky-coloured eyes didn’t remain plain and distant. “I assure you, dearest, that you will be safe with us. You have been given a new life. Embrace it!”
I’m pretty sure that half of those words have come out of the ads for the pharmaceutical division of his company, but I know better than to call him out on it. His smile casts a light on the room. An artificial light – cold and sterile – but luminous nonetheless. He’s the perfect salesman. Quite the performer. A master at persuading the heart before the brain can catch up.
Unfortunately for me, my brain has caught up. But a deal is a deal, and I can’t back away now that he has made good on his half of it.
“I will, sir,” I answer as I recover my smiley mask and slap it back atop my face. “Thank you for everyth–”
The door slams open.
I jump out of my seat to distance myself while snatching a pen, which I hold up as if it could do more than draw a grumpy face on the intruder’s forehead.
My eyes collide with an ocean-blue pair, which flick up and down my figure above a scrunched up nose.
“James!” Mr. Bradford barks. “You are meant to knock!”
Oh, so this is James. Live in the flesh.
I set down the pen without removing my stare from him.
He’s not foul-looking in the slightest, though his current image doesn’t quite hold a candle to the photographs I saw on Google; but I guess Photoshop will do that to a person.
“And you are meant to be running a company, not playing cupid!” James barks back.
He has his father’s aquiline nose and square jaw-line, but his lips are fuller, his eyebrows thinner, his cheekbones higher, and his figure is more athletic. Also, his hair is light brown rather than grey, but that’s to be expected.
“Sit down, James,” Mr. Bradford grits out, “I trust that you are capable of holding an adult conversation.”
James simply crosses his arms over his chest and taps his right foot.
Mr. Bradford huffs, and aims his stare at me, another artificial smile curving his lips as he gestures towards the chair I recently jumped out off. “Please, dearest. Sit down. You will have to excuse the petulant child that is my son.”
“Father?!” James raises his voice in a screechy whine, making me flinch again.
I think I’ve had more than my fair share of fully-grown men who act like ‘petulant children’ – but, like I said, it’s too late to back out. So, while cutting short a sigh that might’ve given away my reluctance, I sit back down, still not fully removing my stare from James.
Mr. Bradford would’ve hurt me already if he harboured those intentions. On the other hand, I don’t know what to expect from James.
“Dearest Bella, meet my son, James Bradford.”
I nearly wince at how smoothly my fake name rolls off Mr. Bradford’s tongue. While I don’t dislike the sound of it, I haven’t been able to scribble it down, never mind pronounce it. Just because doing so will make it seem more alive whilst hammering in the final nail in the coffin for Isobel Hansen.
“James, meet Bella Holmes. Your future bride.”
I opt out of reacting. If my expression or body language communicate anything, it isn’t voluntary.
James, on the other hand, clenches his jaw and narrows his eyes on me as he growls, “You filthy gold-digger.”
I wish that’s all I was.
And though it isn’t a pleasant phrase to hear, Mr. Bradford did warn me that James wouldn’t go into this arrangement without a fight, so it’s not an unexpected comment in the slightest.
“James!” Mr. Bradford raises his voice and makes me flinch.
I wish my body would stop doing that.
James steps closer to me, so I lean away.
“Do you deny it?” he demands. “You’re in this for the money.”
“James–”
“Obviously,” I respond as I put on a smirk and cross my right leg over the left. “Why else would anyone want to marry you?”
I hear Mr. Bradford humorously choke on a laugh, but I keep my eyes on James, whose skin acquires a red hue as his jaw tenses further and a vein pops out on his forehead.
“Excuse me?”
“I know you heard me.”
I’m so going to get backhanded across the face …
To my surprise, however, James casts his glare on Mr. Bradford as he whines once more – “Father!”
Mr. Bradford’s lips twitch for a moment before he successfully reels back his amusement and leans forward on the desk while letting out a long exhale. “I apologise for saying it so bluntly, James, but Bella is not wrong.”
“Father!”
It’s my turn to choke on a laugh, and I slap a hand over my mouth to try to cover up the fact.
Then a chill assaults my spine – did Mr. Bradford set everything up just so I would marry his son?
No. That’s insane. The operation was far too complicated and risky. He could’ve found a broke college student anywhere and offered a similar deal – minus all the splashed blood, and blazing guns, and spilled guts. I’m just a residue that he’s manipulating to his advantage.
“You must fix your act, James,” Mr. Bradford continues calmly, “and your image. Marrying Bella is a start to that.”
James’s eyes widen. “Father–!”
Mr. Bradford raises a finger, and James instantly quiets with a click of his tongue and a heavy roll of his eyes.
“This is how it will be if you wish to inherit the company,” Mr. Bradford declares.
The strain of their relationship hovers in the thickening air of the office, so tense that it could asphyxiate the whole building if it’s not allowed to dissipate soon.
James turns to face me. I straighten up and raise my eyebrows.
“You will back out of this arrangement if you know what’s good for you,” he demands.
I wish that I could, but I desperately need Mr. Bradford’s protection. So I respond with a plain, “No.”
James huffs. “No?”
“Nope.”
He lays his hands on the backrest of the chair that stands beside mine and fists it so tightly that I think I hear a few stitches pop. “Then I promise to make your life a living hell.”
“James!” Mr. Bradford protests again.
I smirk once more. Little does James know, I’ve already been to hell, and I know all of its ins and outs. “Two can play that game.”
James smacks his feet on the wooden floorboards and stomps out of the room. I follow him with my stare, keeping my expression as neutral as I can, until he disappears past the door. Then I return my attention to Mr. Bradford, who sighs deeply.
“You did well, Isobel. I promise that he will ease up if you give him a chance.”
I force a smile as I assure him, “I can handle difficult men, sir.”
“He is not like the men you were used to,” he declares – though I can’t be sure of how performative or not his confidence is. “He would not lay a hand on you.”
“Good to know, sir.”
