"Something is wrong," Sterling's voice drifted through the crack in the door. It was a hushed whisper.

"Speak," Arnulfo replied. Then came the sound of a lighter flicking.

"I reviewed Verity Guy's medical files before the marriage," Sterling said. "Routine check. She has a clean history. A broken arm from skiing when she was twelve. Some cosmetic work on her nose. That's it."

A pause. Smoke exhaled.

"But that woman in there..." Sterling continued. "Those scars on her back are at least ten years old. The burns? Those are from childhood. That body has been through a war, Arnulfo. That is not the skin of a pampered socialite."

Erline's heart hammered against her ribs. He knows.

"Are you saying I married a fake?" Arnulfo's voice was dangerous, low and vibrating with threat.

"Or the Guy family has secrets," Sterling said. "You know these old money families. Their closets are full of skeletons. Maybe Verity was the punching bag."

"Interesting," Arnulfo said. "Dig deeper. I want to know everything about her past twenty years. Every doctor visit. Every school report."

"I'm on it."

Footsteps faded. Then, the door pushed open.

Arnulfo walked back in. He smelled of tobacco.

Erline kept her eyes closed, regulating her breathing. In. Out. Slow.

He didn't say anything. He walked to the bed. She felt the mattress dip as he sat down. He was close.

"Stop pretending to be asleep," he said.

Erline stiffened. She opened her eyes slowly.

Arnulfo was holding a tube of ointment. He tossed a white dress shirt onto the bed. It was his.

"Doctor says you need to rest. Put that on."

Erline sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest. She grabbed the shirt. She turned away to pull it on, her fingers fumbling with the buttons. It was huge on her, hitting mid-thigh. It smelled like him-clean, sharp, masculine.

She turned back. Arnulfo was watching her.

"Did you like playing with fire when you were a child?" he asked suddenly.

It was a trap. The cigarette burns.

Erline looked at him, keeping her face blank. She tilted her head, confusion knitting her brows. She pointed to her throat, then her ear, and shrugged. I don't understand.

She was playing the fool.

Arnulfo stood up. He loomed over her, planting a hand on the mattress on either side of her hips, trapping her.

"I don't care who you are," he whispered, his face inches from hers. "You walked through my door. Your life is mine."

He grabbed the ointment and tossed it into her lap.

"Apply the rest yourself. I'm not your nurse."

He straightened up and walked into the bathroom.

Erline let out a breath she had been holding for five minutes. He suspected, but he didn't know. Not yet.

She looked at the bathroom door. She had to move fast. Tonight. While he slept. She had to get into his study.

The digital clock on the bedside table read 2:00 AM.

Arnulfo was asleep. His breathing was deep and rhythmic. He lay on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes.

Erline slid out from under the duvet. She moved like a ghost. Her bare feet made no sound on the carpet.

She crept toward the bedroom door. Her target was the study down the hall.

"Going somewhere?"

The voice stopped her heart.

She spun around.

Arnulfo wasn't asleep. He was propped up on one elbow, watching her. His chest was bare, muscles defined in the moonlight.

"The bathroom is that way," he said, pointing to the ensuite.

Erline froze. She pointed to the door, then mimed drinking water.

Arnulfo threw the covers off. He wore only silk pajama bottoms. He walked toward her.

"The kitchen is closed. And there is water on the nightstand."

He stepped into her personal space. "You weren't going for water. You were going to the study. Or the front door."

Erline backed up. She hit the antique dresser.

Arnulfo reached for her shoulder. "Stop moving."

Instinct took over. The memory of being grabbed in the dark. Erline panicked. She grabbed the heavy brass lamp on the dresser and swung it.

CRASH.

The base of the lamp connected with Arnulfo's forearm as he blocked the blow. The metal gouged his skin. Blood welled up instantly.

Arnulfo hissed. His eyes went black with rage.

He lunged. His hand wrapped around her throat. He slammed her back against the dresser.

"You dare touch me?" he snarled.

His grip tightened. Erline clawed at his wrist, her legs kicking uselessly. She couldn't breathe. Black spots danced in her vision.

She looked at him. She didn't look angry. She looked terrified. Her eyes were wide, pleading, filled with the resignation of someone who expects to die.

It was the look of a prey animal.

Arnulfo saw it. It pierced through his anger. This wasn't the look of an assassin or a spy. It was the look of a victim. He felt a flicker of something other than rage-a cold, possessive curiosity. This broken thing was far more interesting than the vapid socialite he'd been expecting.

He let go.

Erline slid down the front of the dresser, gasping, coughing violently. She rubbed her throat.

Arnulfo looked at his bleeding arm. Then he looked at the red marks forming on her neck. His fingerprints.

He turned and walked into the bathroom.

Erline curled into a ball, waiting for him to come back with a weapon.

He returned with a wet towel and the first aid kit.

He crouched in front of her. He grabbed her hand, pulling it away from her neck.

"Let me see."

She flinched.

"Stop it," he ordered.

He dabbed the cool towel against her neck. His touch was rough, but precise. He applied a soothing gel to the red marks. He wasn't being gentle; he was documenting the damage, his mind cataloging the fragility of his new acquisition.

"I don't like disobedience," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. "But I don't kill pets."

He finished with her neck. Then he wiped the blood from his own arm, wincing slightly.

"Remember how this feels," he said, looking her in the eye. "Next time you try to leave this room at night, I won't stop squeezing."

He stood up and scooped her into his arms. She was light.

He carried her back to the bed and dropped her onto the mattress.

"Sleep," he commanded. "Beside me. If you move, I'll know."

He lay down and pulled the duvet up.

Erline lay rigid next to the monster, listening to his heart slow down, wondering if she would survive the night.

Erline woke up alone. The sheets beside her were rumpled and still warm.

She sat up, rubbing her neck. It was tender.

She saw the balcony doors open. Arnulfo was standing outside, leaning against the stone railing, looking out over the estate. The morning mist clung to the grounds.

She walked out. The air was cool.

Arnulfo didn't turn around. "Come here."

She stepped up beside him, keeping a safe distance.

He pointed to a modern glass building nestled in the trees about half a mile away.

"That is the gallery," he said. "It houses the portraits of my first eight fiancées."

Erline shivered. It wasn't from the cold.

"Some were greedy," Arnulfo said, his voice distant. "Some were stupid. Some wanted my money. Some wanted my sperm to secure an alimony check."

He turned to look at her. His eyes were searching.

"What do you want? Erline? Verity? Whatever your name is."

The question hung in the air.

What did she want? She wanted to save Aunt Meredith. She wanted to be free of her father and sister. She wanted to not be afraid.

She looked at him. Her eyes filled with tears. Not fake tears. Real, exhausted, hopeless tears.

One slid down her cheek.

Arnulfo reached out. He caught the tear on the pad of his thumb.

He brought his thumb to his mouth and tasted it.

"Salty," he murmured.

He looked at her with a strange expression. "Crocodile tears have no taste. You're real."

It was a bizarre, twisted logic, but he seemed to believe it. He wiped his hand on his pants.

"Stop crying. You look ugly."

A low rumble came from the driveway below.

A black Rolls Royce swept around the fountain and came to a halt.

Arnulfo's posture changed instantly. His shoulders tensed. The arrogance vanished, replaced by a sharp, alert tension.

"Damn it," he hissed. " The Matriarch."

He grabbed Erline's wrist. His grip was hard.

"Listen to me," he said, pulling her toward the bedroom. "I don't care what game you were playing before. For the next hour, you need to be the best actress in the world."

"If my grandmother suspects you are a stand-in, or if she finds you lacking..."

He stopped. He looked genuinely worried.

"She will chew you up and spit you out. Literally."

Erline felt his fear. It was contagious. If the monster was afraid, what was coming through that door?

"Change," Arnulfo ordered, pushing her toward the closet. "Wear the navy dress. High collar. Hide the bruises."

Erline scrambled. She realized suddenly that the dynamic had shifted. They were no longer enemies. They were accomplices.