Chapter 3 – THE CONTRACT WITH NO EXIT CLAUSE

"You haven't read page forty-two."

James's voice was mild.

Too mild.

Sharon didn't look up immediately. The contract lay open before her - thick cream pages, embossed header, the Laurent crest faintly stamped in silver ink at the top of every sheet.

She had already read thirty-eight pages.

Thirty-eight pages of silence.

Non-disclosure agreements. Identity assumption clauses. Liability waivers. Financial forfeiture penalties. Clauses nested inside clauses that referenced appendices she hadn't yet been given access to.

Page forty-two.

She turned it slowly.

There it was.

Clause 17.3 - Continuity Assurance.

In the event that the Principal is unable to resume public function indefinitely, the Representative shall continue to fulfill identity obligations for a period deemed necessary by the Board of Trustees...

Indefinitely.

Her pulse ticked upward.

"That word," she said quietly. "Indefinitely."

James stood by the fireplace in the private library - though no fire burned. He preferred cold rooms.

"Standard precaution," he replied.

"Precaution for what?"

"For instability."

Sharon looked up at him.

"And if I refuse?"

"You won't."

He said it gently.

Like someone correcting a child's math.

Her stomach tightened.

"You keep saying that."

"Because you misunderstand your leverage."

She closed the contract.

"Explain it to me."

James walked toward her slowly. Not threatening. Not hurried. Just deliberate.

"You signed the preliminary agreement two days ago."

"That was an NDA."

"Yes."

"And?"

"And during those two days," he continued, "you accessed proprietary footage, financial materials, and internal communications."

Her chest constricted.

"You can't-"

"We can," he interrupted softly. "And we will, if necessary."

A thin layer of ice slid under her skin.

"This is coercion."

"This is protection," he corrected.

"For who?"

"For you."

She almost laughed.

"You've structured this so if I walk away, I'm legally ruined."

"Financially," he said.

"And if I talk?"

His eyes sharpened.

"You won't."

Silence filled the space again.

But this time, it felt suffocating.

Sharon stood.

"I thought this was temporary."

"It is."

"That clause says indefinitely."

"That clause anticipates contingencies."

"Like what?"

James met her gaze.

"Like the Principal failing to return."

The words struck heavier than they should have.

Failing to return.

"Is she alive?" Sharon asked suddenly.

A beat.

Then-

"Yes."

It was too quick.

Too measured.

She noticed.

He noticed that she noticed.

Neither of them said it aloud.

Sharon moved back to the table and flipped further into the contract.

Page fifty-one.

Clause 21.8 - Succession Authority.

In circumstances where public continuity is critical to market stability, the Representative may be required to assume executive authority on behalf of the Principal...

She felt the room tilt slightly.

"You want me to run her company."

"Temporarily."

"That's insane."

"It's structured."

"I'm an actress."

"You're adaptable."

She stared at him.

"You're not hiring a stand-in," she said slowly. "You're building a replacement."

James didn't flinch.

"That's an aggressive interpretation."

"It's accurate."

He stepped closer.

"You were selected carefully, Ms. Beckley."

"Why?"

"Because you are competent. Intelligent. And invisible."

The last word lingered.

Invisible.

It wasn't praise.

It was calculation.

"No scandals," he continued. "No powerful connections. No public loyalty base. No one who would dig too hard if you disappeared."

The air left her lungs.

"If I disappeared," she repeated quietly.

James said nothing.

And that silence said everything.

Her eyes dropped back to the contract.

Page sixty-two.

A final clause.

Failure to Comply Provision.

Should the Representative breach confidentiality or abandon identity obligations, the Board reserves the right to pursue legal, financial, and reputational remedies to the fullest extent permitted by law.

Reputational remedies.

That was vague.

Dangerously vague.

"What does that mean?" she asked.

"It means you won't breach."

Her jaw tightened.

"And if something happens to me while I'm playing her?"

"You'll have protection."

"From who?"

"From outside threats."

"And inside?"

He held her gaze.

A flicker.

Gone.

"You're overthinking."

No.

She wasn't.

Her instincts were screaming.

She closed the contract slowly.

The pen lay beside it.

Heavy.

Metal.

Engraved with the Laurent crest.

"You've already trapped me," she said. "Why do you need my signature?"

"Consent legitimizes structure."

"Legally."

"Yes."

"Morally?"

He tilted his head slightly.

"Morality is expensive."

That chilled her more than anything else he'd said.

She picked up the pen.

It felt colder than the room.

Her reflection shimmered faintly in the polished surface of the table.

For a second-

It wasn't her face she saw.

It was Georgia's.

Unsmiling.

Watching.

"If she doesn't come back," Sharon asked quietly, "what happens to her?"

James's expression hardened almost imperceptibly.

"She will."

"That's not what I asked."

A long pause.

Then-

"She will."

He didn't answer the question.

Which meant he couldn't.

Or wouldn't.

Or didn't expect her to.

Her heart pounded.

Five hundred thousand dollars already wired to a trust in her name.

Her mother's hospital invoices paid in full.

Her landlord notified of "unexpected inheritance."

They had moved fast.

Too fast.

She signed.

The ink spread across the page like a wound.

James didn't smile.

He simply took the contract and closed it with quiet finality.

"It's done," he said.

Something inside her whispered:

No. It just began.

A soft knock echoed at the library door.

One of the uniformed women stepped in.

"Sir," she said evenly. "We have a situation."

James's eyes shifted.

"What kind?"

"The Zurich account triggered an alert."

Sharon's pulse spiked.

Zurich.

Offshore.

Murder payments.

James's tone remained steady.

"Explain."

"The Principal attempted access."

The room went very still.

Sharon's throat went dry.

Attempted.

Not accessed.

Attempted.

James's voice dropped.

"When?"

"Six minutes ago."

"Location?"

"Unconfirmed. The signal masked through multiple servers."

James didn't move.

But something in him recalibrated.

Cold calculation sliding into urgency.

"Lock everything," he said. "Activate secondary firewall protocols."

"Yes, sir."

The woman exited.

Sharon stared at him.

"You said she was resting."

"She is."

"Resting people don't hack offshore accounts."

He didn't respond.

"Is she trying to get her money back?" Sharon pressed.

James turned slowly toward her.

"Be careful."

"Of what? The truth?"

His jaw flexed.

"You are not involved in this layer."

"I signed the contract."

"You signed to perform. Not to interfere."

"And what if she comes back?" Sharon asked. "What happens to me?"

He stepped closer again.

This time, his voice lowered.

"If she returns, you will be compensated and released."

"Released."

The word felt wrong.

Like something you say about prisoners.

"And if she doesn't?" Sharon whispered.

His gaze held hers.

Unblinking.

"Then continuity becomes permanent."

Her heart hammered.

"You mean I become her."

He didn't answer.

Because he didn't need to.

A soft chime echoed through the house.

James's phone vibrated.

He glanced at the screen.

His expression changed.

Only slightly.

But enough.

"What?" Sharon demanded.

He locked the phone without showing her.

"Training resumes in thirty minutes."

"What happened?"

He didn't respond.

"James."

He turned toward the door.

"Ms. Beckley," he said evenly, "from this moment forward, you are Georgia Laurent in all controlled environments."

"And uncontrolled ones?"

He paused.

Then-

"There shouldn't be any."

The library lights flickered once.

Brief.

Subtle.

Sharon's phone buzzed again in her pocket.

She didn't take it out immediately.

She waited until James exited the room.

Until the door shut softly behind him.

Then she pulled the phone out.

No signal.

No bars.

But a single message had appeared.

Unknown Sender.

Just three words.

He knows you.

Her breath stilled.

Before she could react-

Another message appeared beneath it.

You're not the first.

The screen went black.

Completely dead.

Battery drained.

Even though it had been fully charged moments ago.

Sharon looked up slowly.

Across the room-

The security camera in the corner rotated.

Directly toward her.

And for the first time since signing-

She understood something with brutal clarity.

The contract didn't have an exit clause.

Because replacements were never meant to leave.

Chapter 4 – BECOMING GEORGIA

"Again."

The word cracked across the studio like a whip.

Sharon inhaled slowly.

Her back ached.

Her jaw throbbed.

Her name was no longer Sharon inside these walls.

"From the top, Ms. Laurent," the voice corrected.

She straightened.

The training suite was mirrored on three sides. Bright white light eliminated shadow. There was no place for weakness to hide.

Across from her stood Eliza Morreau - speech consultant, late forties, immaculate, the kind of woman who probably ironed her silk scarves.

"Investors," Eliza prompted.

Sharon lifted her chin half an inch.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she began smoothly, "Laurent Global Holdings remains structurally sound despite speculative volatility."

"Pause," Eliza snapped.

Sharon stopped mid-breath.

"You over-enunciated 'volatility.' Georgia never overcompensates. She expects the room to keep up."

Sharon nodded.

"No nodding," Eliza said sharply. "Georgia does not seek affirmation."

A pulse of irritation flickered in Sharon's chest.

"I understand," she replied.

"Lower your tone."

She tried again.

"Ladies and gentlemen..."

Better.

"Again."

They had been doing this for four hours.

Cadence correction. Controlled breathing. Micro-expression monitoring.

A large screen behind Eliza replayed public appearances of Georgia Laurent in slow motion - each blink timed, each head tilt measured.

"Georgia blinks less than average," Eliza said clinically. "It signals dominance."

Sharon felt absurd.

But she adjusted.

Blink less. Breathe slower. Hold eye contact longer.

"Again."

The next room held a narrow corridor with motion sensors.

"Walk," instructed the posture consultant - a thin man named Henrik with the emotional warmth of a marble column.

Sharon stepped forward.

A sharp beep.

"Too fast."

She slowed.

Another beep.

"Shoulders."

She corrected them.

Another beep.

"You're protecting your ribcage. Georgia exposes vulnerability strategically. She does not shield herself physically."

Sharon froze.

"Exposes vulnerability?"

"Yes. It disarms."

"Is that why she doesn't smile?" Sharon asked before she could stop herself.

Henrik's expression did not change.

"Georgia smiles when victory is secured."

That sent a chill through her.

She walked again.

Slower.

Measured.

Deliberate.

The sensors remained silent this time.

"Better," Henrik said.

Sharon reached the end of the corridor.

Her reflection stared back at her from a mirrored wall.

For a flicker of a second-

She didn't recognize the posture.

It wasn't defensive.

It wasn't apologetic.

It was commanding.

She swallowed.

"Good," Henrik said. "Now do it without thinking."

They moved her into a study.

A desk.

Heavy ivory paper.

A fountain pen engraved with the Laurent crest.

A stack of original Georgia Laurent signatures lay before her.

Each one identical.

Perfect loops. Minimal flourish. No hesitation.

"Georgia never hesitates on her name," said the handwriting analyst. "Hesitation implies doubt."

Sharon picked up the pen.

Her first attempt wavered.

The analyst circled it in red.

"Unacceptable."

Again.

And again.

And again.

After the twentieth attempt, her hand began to cramp.

"You're rushing the L," he said.

"She signs hundreds of documents a week," Sharon muttered. "How does she maintain this consistency?"

"She practices."

That answer didn't satisfy her.

No one practiced their own signature that obsessively unless-

Unless it needed to withstand scrutiny.

She glanced at the original signatures again.

Every single one was flawless.

Almost too flawless.

"Were these written at the same time?" she asked.

"Yes."

"All of them?"

"Yes."

Her pulse ticked upward.

That wasn't normal.

Unless-

Unless someone was preparing for replication.

"Continue," the analyst ordered.

Evening approached, though Sharon had no real sense of time.

James entered quietly during the final session.

He stood at the back wall, observing.

A recording played - Georgia in a closed-door board meeting.

Her voice was calm. Controlled.

"You mistake silence for weakness," Georgia said in the clip. "That's an expensive error."

Sharon repeated it.

Eliza stopped her.

"You softened 'expensive.' It should sound like a warning."

Sharon tried again.

This time, she let something colder enter her tone.

"You mistake silence for weakness. That's an expensive error."

James's eyes lifted slightly.

Approval.

The smallest nod.

Sharon felt something twist inside her.

Not pride.

Power.

It scared her how natural it felt.

"Again," Eliza said.

Sharon delivered the line a third time.

Perfect.

James stepped forward.

"Good," he said quietly.

She turned toward him.

"How long did she train like this?" Sharon asked.

James didn't answer immediately.

"Georgia was prepared from childhood."

"For what?"

"For succession."

"And fear?"

A shadow passed over his expression.

"You're straying."

"No," Sharon replied softly. "I'm observing."

James approached her slowly.

"You are improving," he said.

"That's not what I asked."

He ignored that.

"Tomorrow," he continued, "you'll review private communications."

"Emails?"

"Yes."

"Personal?"

"Yes."

Her stomach tightened.

"That feels invasive."

"It's necessary."

"To what extent?"

He held her gaze.

"To full immersion."

Silence stretched.

"How many people know I'm not her?" she asked.

"Very few."

"How few?"

"Enough."

That answer chilled her more than a number would have.

They left her alone at the end of the night in a bedroom suite identical to Georgia's public residence.

Same marble fireplace. Same art. Same scent - something floral and sharp.

On the vanity sat a single note:

Introduce yourself.

To who?

There was no one there.

Just her reflection.

She stepped closer.

The woman staring back at her stood straighter than Sharon ever had.

Chin lifted.

Eyes steady.

No visible fear.

"Hello," she whispered.

Her voice sounded wrong.

She adjusted.

Lower.

Slower.

"Good evening."

Better.

She tilted her head slightly.

Reduced blinking.

"Thank you for your concern," she said, practicing Georgia's cadence. "Laurent Global remains secure."

Her own face felt foreign.

Like a mask that had fused to skin.

She leaned closer to the mirror.

And that's when she noticed it.

A faint scratch along the inner edge of the vanity drawer.

Small.

Almost invisible.

She crouched and opened the drawer carefully.

Inside-

Nothing but neatly arranged jewelry.

But along the wood paneling-

Carved into the interior in tiny letters-

RUN.

Her breath stalled.

The word was rough.

Hastily scratched.

Not decorative.

Desperate.

Sharon's pulse pounded.

She traced the indentation lightly with her fingertip.

Fresh.

Not years old.

Recent.

Someone else had stood here.

Someone else had opened this drawer.

Someone else had left a warning.

Her mind raced.

Another impersonator?

Or Georgia herself?

The bedroom door handle turned slowly.

Sharon snapped the drawer shut and stood upright.

James entered.

He looked composed.

Controlled.

Watching.

"How are you adjusting?" he asked.

"Fine."

He stepped further inside.

His gaze swept the room.

Then landed on her.

"You're learning quickly."

"I have a good teacher."

He didn't smile.

"That will serve you."

Silence lingered.

Then-

"You have a dinner tomorrow," he said.

"With the board."

"Yes."

"Am I ready?"

"You don't have a choice."

He turned toward the door.

Then paused.

"One more thing."

Her heart thudded.

"Yes?"

"Do not open drawers you are not instructed to open."

The air left her lungs.

He knew.

He hadn't looked inside.

He didn't need to.

He exited the room quietly.

The lock clicked from the outside.

Sharon stood frozen.

Her eyes slowly moved toward the vanity.

Toward the drawer.

Toward the word carved into wood.

RUN.

Her phone - still technically without signal - vibrated once.

She didn't want to look.

But she did.

The screen flickered on.

A single image appeared.

Grainy security footage.

Timestamped two months ago.

A woman standing in this exact room.

From behind.

Same height.

Same build.

Same hair color.

The woman turned slightly-

Not enough to see her face clearly.

But enough to confirm one thing.

It wasn't Georgia.

And it wasn't Sharon.

The image glitched.

Then vanished.

Replaced by one final message:

You're next.

The bedroom lights flickered.

Once.

Twice.

Then stabilized.

Sharon's reflection stared back at her from the mirror.

But this time-

Her posture wasn't just rehearsed.

It was rigid.

Like prey sensing a trap snapping shut.

Becoming Georgia wasn't about learning how to speak.

Or walk.

Or sign.

It was about erasing the person she used to be.

And someone had already tried.

And failed.

Chapter 5 – THE FIRST APPEARANCE

"Remember," James said quietly as the car slowed, "Georgia never reacts. She calculates."

Sharon didn't look at him.

She stared through the tinted window at the blaze of flashing lights ahead.

The Laurent Foundation Annual Humanitarian Gala.

Five hundred guests. Press barricades. Global livestream.

And tonight-

She wasn't Sharon Beckley.

She was Georgia Laurent.

Her reflection stared back at her in the glass.

Hair sleek and parted precisely as instructed. Makeup understated but deliberate. Diamond earrings from the Laurent vault. A black silk gown cut sharp and controlled.

Her breathing was slow.

Measured.

Blink less. Pause before speaking. Never fill silence.

"You're pale," James observed.

"Georgia doesn't flush under pressure," she replied evenly.

The corner of his mouth shifted.

"Good."

The car stopped.

Outside, photographers surged forward.

Security stepped out first.

Then James.

He opened her door.

For a brief second-

The noise muted.

The world narrowed.

And Sharon made a choice.

She stepped out.

Flashbulbs detonated.

"Georgia! Over here!"

"Ms. Laurent, how are you feeling?"

"Are the rumors true?"

She didn't rush.

Didn't smile.

She turned her head slightly left, giving cameras her strongest angle.

Chin lifted.

Eyes calm.

She offered a small nod.

Controlled acknowledgment.

Not warmth.

The crowd shifted.

The murmurs softened.

It worked.

She felt it working.

Inside the venue, chandeliers spilled gold light across polished marble floors. A string quartet played near the entrance. Champagne floated on silver trays.

Every eye tracked her movement.

Georgia Laurent didn't command attention.

She absorbed it.

"Ms. Laurent," a reporter called from inside the rope line. "Any comment on the restructuring rumors?"

Sharon paused.

Calculated.

Then, evenly:

"Laurent Global remains structurally sound. Speculation is not strategy."

Silence.

Pens stilled.

Phones lifted.

It was the exact line from training.

Delivered flawlessly.

James walked half a step behind her.

Not guiding.

Monitoring.

Inside the ballroom, the board members waited.

She recognized them from footage.

Edgar Howell - silver hair, eyes like frost. Marianne Clarke - sharp, clinical. Victor Dane - smile too polished to trust.

They watched her approach like shareholders inspecting an asset.

"Georgia," Edgar said smoothly, extending his hand.

She accepted it without squeezing too hard.

"Edgar."

Not Mr. Howell.

Never Mr. Howell.

First names signaled dominance.

He studied her face.

One second too long.

"Glad you're... recovered," he said.

"Recovery implies weakness," she replied softly. "I was recalibrating."

Victor Dane let out a faint laugh.

Marianne's eyes narrowed slightly.

Good.

She moved past them toward the head table.

Every step deliberate.

No rush.

No hesitation.

Her pulse thundered beneath the surface.

Dinner began.

Speeches. Polite applause. Carefully measured conversations.

Sharon answered questions with precision.

Minimal details. Maximum authority.

A foreign diplomat leaned toward her.

"You seem different tonight," he observed casually.

"Different how?" she asked.

"Sharper."

She tilted her head slightly.

"Clarity improves after reflection."

He nodded, satisfied.

Across the table, Edgar Howell hadn't stopped watching her.

Not once.

Midway through the second course, he leaned in.

Close enough that only she could hear.

"You look different."

The words were soft.

Almost affectionate.

Her spine stiffened internally.

Externally-

Nothing changed.

"Time alters perception," she replied smoothly.

His gaze sharpened.

"Is that what it is?"

She met his eyes.

Reduced blinking.

Measured breath.

"I trust you're not implying instability," she said quietly.

A beat.

He leaned back.

Smiled faintly.

"Of course not."

But he wasn't convinced.

She felt it.

Dinner concluded with a scheduled speech.

She rose.

Walked to the podium.

The room quieted instantly.

This was the test.

She gripped the podium lightly.

Not tightly.

Never tightly.

"Tonight," she began, voice steady, "we gather not to celebrate wealth, but responsibility."

She let silence sit between phrases.

Controlled.

Intentional.

She saw it in their faces.

Belief.

Confidence.

Stability restored.

She was doing it.

She was becoming her.

And then-

From the back of the room-

A glass shattered.

Heads turned.

Security shifted.

A man stood near the exit.

Uninvited.

Unfamiliar.

His clothes were rumpled.

His expression frantic.

"That's not her!" he shouted.

The room froze.

Security moved immediately.

But he pointed directly at Sharon.

"That's not Georgia Laurent!"

The words echoed through the ballroom.

Her heartbeat slammed into her throat.

Do not react.

Calculate.

She tilted her head slightly.

Blink less.

"Remove him," Edgar ordered calmly.

Security grabbed the man's arms.

"He's lying!" the man shouted desperately. "I worked for her! She wouldn't-"

A hand clamped over his mouth.

He struggled.

"Georgia," Marianne said softly, eyes fixed on Sharon. "Do you know this man?"

Every gaze in the room locked onto her.

This was the moment.

React wrong-

And everything collapses.

She inhaled slowly.

Let her expression shift-not to fear.

To disappointment.

"I don't recognize him," she said evenly. "But I recognize instability when I see it."

A few uncomfortable laughs.

Security dragged the man toward the exit.

He broke free for half a second.

Locked eyes with her.

And shouted-

"She told me about Zurich!"

The word hit like a gunshot.

Zurich.

Offshore.

Murder payments.

Her pulse surged-

But she didn't blink.

Security slammed him into the doors.

He disappeared.

The room buzzed with uneasy murmurs.

Sharon stepped back to the microphone.

"Security will review the incident," she said calmly. "Now, as I was saying..."

And she finished the speech.

Flawlessly.

Applause rose.

Stronger than before.

They believed her.

Dinner resumed.

But Edgar Howell didn't clap.

He simply watched.

Later, near the coat check, he approached her again.

No cameras.

No audience.

"Impressive recovery," he murmured.

"Recovery implies mistake," she replied.

His smile didn't reach his eyes.

"You're not as fragile as we anticipated."

Her stomach tightened.

Anticipated?

"I'm precisely who I've always been," she said.

He leaned closer.

Close enough that she could smell the faint scent of cigar smoke on his collar.

"You look different," he whispered again.

This time-

It wasn't curiosity.

It was accusation.

Her pulse hammered.

"People change," she replied.

He studied her face.

Then leaned even closer.

"So do signatures."

Ice shot through her veins.

"What do you mean?" she asked carefully.

He smiled.

"Nothing."

He stepped away.

James appeared at her side instantly.

"What did he say?" he asked quietly.

"Nothing," she replied.

He didn't believe her.

The car ride back was silent.

Once inside the mansion, James stopped her before she reached the stairs.

"Zurich," he said.

It wasn't a question.

She met his gaze.

"I didn't react."

"That's not what I asked."

"Someone else knows."

His jaw tightened.

"Yes."

"Who was he?"

"Former compliance officer."

"Former?"

"Terminated."

"Before or after Georgia tried accessing the account?"

His eyes flashed.

"You're overstepping."

"I'm surviving."

A beat of silence.

Then-

James's phone vibrated.

He checked it.

His expression shifted.

Cold.

Calculated.

"What?" she demanded.

He looked up at her slowly.

"That man was found dead in the alley behind the hotel."

Her breath caught.

"What?"

"Apparent overdose."

"That's impossible. He was shouting."

"It appears," James said evenly, "he was unstable."

Her stomach twisted violently.

"That's too fast," she whispered. "That's not coincidence."

He stepped closer.

"You did well tonight."

"He's dead."

"Focus."

She stared at him.

"Did you-"

"Careful."

The warning was sharp now.

Her phone buzzed inside her clutch.

She froze.

Slowly, she pulled it out.

No signal.

But a photo loaded automatically.

Taken inside the ballroom.

Zoomed in.

On her face.

Timestamped minutes ago.

Beneath it-

A single message.

He was going to expose the payment trail.

Her throat tightened.

Another message followed.

You're standing on blood.

The screen flickered.

Then a final line appeared:

Next time, they won't remove the witness.

Her breath turned shallow.

James was watching her.

"What is it?" he asked.

She locked the screen.

Met his gaze.

Nothing in her expression shifted.

"Nothing," she said.

Upstairs, alone in Georgia's bedroom, Sharon stood in front of the mirror.

The gala makeup still perfect. The diamonds still glittering.

Her eyes-

Not Sharon's anymore.

Harder.

Colder.

Calculating.

She had performed flawlessly.

She had survived public scrutiny.

But someone had died because a single word slipped out.

Zurich.

She touched the vanity drawer lightly.

RUN.

Her reflection stared back.

Unsmiling.

For the first time-

It didn't feel like acting.

It felt like evolution.

Her phone vibrated once more.

A live video request.

Unknown sender.

Against her better judgment-

She accepted.

The screen filled with static.

Then-

A dimly lit room.

A woman tied to a chair.

Head lowered.

Dark hair obscuring her face.

Sharon's heart stopped.

The woman slowly lifted her head.

Bruised.

Exhausted.

And identical to her.

The video glitched.

But not before the woman whispered-

"Help me."

The screen went black.

Sharon stood frozen.

Her pulse roaring in her ears.

There was only one explanation.

Either she was losing her mind-

Or Georgia Laurent was still alive.

And trapped.