The Heiress and the Hitman

Chapter Two: TRAPPED IN LIES

My heart thunders against my rib cage. My ears are filled with the same ringing I'd heard three months ago, the one that still wakes me some nights, and suddenly I’m back in my Family's mansion at the Hamptons smelling cordite and my father’s cologne mixed with blood.

He’d been laughing. Actually laughing at something I’d said about my boots when the first shot cracked the air. I remember the way his body jerked, the way his hand reached for me even as he folded. I remember dropping to my knees beside him, screaming his name while the security men swarmed in too late. My father looked up at me with eyes that were already distant, already leaving, and whispered something I still can’t make out. Then nothing. Just the wet rasp of his last breath and the cold concrete under my palms as the security men pulled me away.

That same dread is back now. Low in my gut, cold and spreading like someone poured ice water down my spine. Except this time there’s no crowd, no security detail, no escape route. Just me, barefoot in a silk nightgown that revealed more than it hid, and of course him. The man who had come to end me.

I lunge for the hidden security alert I'd had installed in various corners of the house. Fingers slamming the emergency button because thirty seconds was all it took for my security guards downstairs to come up. thirty seconds and I’m safe.

The security panel blinks green. Then red.

An automated female voice says, “Lockdown security procedure engaged successfully."

The shutters crash down. Lights drop to blood-red emergency glow. The front door seals with a pneumatic hiss that feels like a guillotine. My blood runs cold. In my panic I had hit the first red button I saw. The actual security alert button was right next to the one I pushed. It now blinked with a steady red light in an almost mocking manner. I hit the alert button but it's too late.

Twelve hours... Trapped in. With him. My chances of survival were slim to begin with but now. I was dead meat for sure.

I stare at the solid steel where my exit used to be, breath ragged, wine sticky on my feet. Mother’s voice slides in like poison: "You're always so impulsive, Aria. So stupid..." She was right.

I just locked the killer inside with me. And now there’s nowhere to run.

I back away till my back presses painfully against the marble island. The steel shutters had finished their descent fifteen seconds ago, maybe twenty. I'd subconsciously counted every mechanical click.

He still hadn't moved. Most of his features were obscured in the poor lighting but I could swear he tilted his head slightly in an almost amused manner. Perhaps it was the first time his victim made his work easier by locking themselves in.

He stands at the exact spot, his hands loose at his sides, shoulders relaxed the way only people who’ve done this before can manage. No fidgeting. His eyes, hidden by the shadows seemed dark and unreadable. He looks like he could wait all night. Like the locked doors are a courtesy, not a cage.

My heart is currently trying to punch its way out of my ribs.

He takes one step. Just one. Slow. Deliberate. The sole of his boot makes almost no sound on the marble, which is somehow worse than if he’d stomped. I notice everything: the faint crease in his black jacket where it pulls across his chest, the absolute lack of urgency in his body language. He was a predator and I was his prey, now helplessly locked in with him.

Another step.The knife glints in his steady hand.

My fingers grip the marble island behind me until the jagged edge bites my palm. A thin line of blood wells up, warm and immediate. Good. Pain is information. Pain means I’m still here. And as stupid as my choices may have been so far, I wasn't going down without a fight.

He reaches inside his jacket.

I stop breathing.

No words. No threats. Just that calm, certain motion. The silence stretches so thin I can hear the blood rushing in my ears.

I move before my brain fully decides to.

I lunge sideways, snatching the heavy marble coaster from the counter. It's heavier than it looks. I hurl it at his head. It spins through the air like a clumsy discus. He doesn’t even duck. Just tilts his shoulder a fraction and the coaster bounces off his arm, cracking against the far wall. The sound is shockingly loud.

I’m already grabbing for the wine bottle itself, the 2010 Château Margaux, still half full on the island. My other hand fumbles for my phone. “Override lockdown emergency services!" My words come out hoarse.

The system doesn’t answer. Of course it doesn’t. I set the protocol myself. Full isolation. No overrides for twelve hours once triggered. Genius, Aria. Absolute genius...

He’s on me before I finish the sentence in my head.

His hand closes around my wrist, the one holding the bottle. The grip is warm. Not crushing, just inescapable. Skin against skin. I feel the calluses on his palm, the steady pulse beneath. He’s real. Not some shadow, not a monster from a boardroom nightmare. A man. Flesh and breath and quiet competence that terrifies me more than rage ever could.

I twist hard, driving my knee up toward his groin. He turns his hip at the last second and my knee hits solid muscle. The bottle slips from my fingers and explodes between us, red wine spraying across the marble like arterial blood.

He doesn’t speak. He just pivots, using my own momentum to pull me off balance. My bare feet slide in the wine. I go down hard on one knee, my nightgown soaking through instantly. Cold marble. Warm liquid. The contrast is nauseating.

I shove upward with everything I have, both hands slamming into his chest. He’s solid. God, he’s solid but the floor is slick now. His boot lands wrong. I see the exact moment it happens: the micro-shift in his weight, the way his ankle rolls just enough. His eyes widen a fraction. Not fear, just recognition of the physics.

Time stretches. He tries to correct. Too late.

His head snaps back as his feet leave the ground. He tumbles down the stairs. The crack when his skull meets the ground is sickening.

For three full heartbeats I just stare, chest heaving, wine dripping from my hair. He doesn’t move. His left arm is flung out in an unnatural position. A thin line of blood slides from beneath his dark hair, tracing the curve of his ear, pooling on the floor in a slow, perfect circle. Is he dead?

I didn’t mean to kill him. I didn’t want any of this.

My legs shake as I stand. I should call someone. But the security system shuts out all mobile reception within the apartment. What exactly was I thinking when I installed the darn thing. My steps feel heavy as I descend the short flight of stairs.

I edge closer and crouch beside him carefully. His face is turned slightly away, I finally get a proper look at him. His jaw is relaxed in a way that makes him look younger. Late twenties, maybe thirty. He was attractive in a rugged kind of way. Without the blank killer mask, he was just a man... Just a man who slipped on my spilled wine and cracked his skull open in my living room.

I reach out before I can stop myself. My fingers brush his shoulder. Warm. Solid. Alive... I hope not but at the same time I don't want him dead? Fear seems to be messing with my emotions.

I shake him gently. Nothing. I shake him harder. A low groan escapes him. Raw and guttural.

His chest rises sharply. He sucks in air like a drowning man breaking the surface. His right hand flies up on pure instinct, reaching for something that isn’t there anymore. The knife probably. The one that skidded under the sofa during the fall. His fingers close on empty air. Panic sets in me again. The Assassin was back.

His eyes open. They find the ceiling first. Then me. I back away carefully.

There's no reaction from him. None. Just blank, searching confusion, the way you look at a stranger who’s suddenly standing over your hospital bed. He blinks slowly. Touches the back of his head. Winces. Blood coats his fingertips when he pulls them away. There's a nasty gash from the impact of his fall.

He sits up carefully like the world might tilt if he moves too fast. Still no words. I hold my breath, frozen in place by fear. His gaze travels over the penthouse, the shattered glass, the wine, the shutters, me... like he’s seeing it all for the first time. His hand drifts to his jacket pocket automatically, checking for something. Muscle memory without context. His eyes return to me again, taking me in slowly, darkening slightly as his gaze drops to my nightgown. The semi-transparent silk barely covered anything. I'd worn it to tease Marcus. Now I wished I'd just slipped on my granny pyjamas.

He blinks once then twice. Then he speaks. The first words he’s spoken since he stepped through the shadows.

“Who are you?” Not angry. Not accusing. Just quiet confusion, like he’s asking the universe itself.

My mind races so fast the thoughts blur. He could be pretending. Trying to get me to let down my guard. I study him carefully. The confusion in his eyes doesn't seem fake though. Either he's a really good actor or fate just intervened in its own twisted way. The way he’s studying my face like he’s trying to place me. What if He really doesn't remember... What a strange turn of events. What do I do? What do I say? Oh Me? I'm nobody... You were kinda sent to kill me but now that you don't remember perhaps you'd reconsider?

Oh God... I was stuck with him for twelve hours. Twelve hours till the lockdown ends and the guards get here.

Seconds. I have seconds. Think Aria! He was still staring at me in that same puzzled manner. My survival instinct clicks into a different gear. I just need to get through the next twelve hours...

“I’m your wife.” I say gently. The words drop into the silence like a stone into black water. No ripple at first. Just the slow, spreading weight of them.

He doesn’t blink... His eyes stay locked on mine, searching, like he’s waiting for the lie to crack open and show him the truth underneath.

I hold his gaze. I don’t smile and I don’t look away.

The lie settles between us like a key turning in a lock I can never unturn.

Because if he believes me right now. If even a single thread of that confusion weaves itself into memory... then I’ve just chained myself to the man who came here to kill me.

And the part that makes my stomach twist isn’t the danger.

It’s how badly I already want him to believe it.

How badly I want him to look at me like I’m the only thing he’s ever been sure of.

The shutters are still down.The blood is still wet on the marble.

And neither of us has anywhere else to go...