For one horrible second, I forgot where I was.
The car.
The guards.
The iron gates behind us.
The house in front of me glowing like a secret too old to die.
All of it fell away the moment that man stepped into the doorway.
Because he had my face.
Not exactly.
Not enough to make us twins in some dramatic, impossible way.
But enough to strike something ancient and sick inside me. The shape of the mouth. The dark eyes. The line of the jaw. Features shifted into a masculine version of what I saw in the mirror when I was angry or tired or trying too hard not to cry.
I stopped breathing.
The security guard beside the car was saying something into his earpiece, but I couldn’t hear him.
The man in the doorway could see me.
And he knew exactly what I had recognized.
You could tell by
