The lock clicked at noon.
Amelia didn't flinch.
She sat cross-legged on the mattress, spine straight, expression unreadable. The blanket still draped the camera. Her split lip had begun to scab.
Fiona entered in stiletto heels and a perfume so sharp it made Amelia's teeth ache.
Two bodyguards flanked her again—silent, brutal men in tailored suits. The one on the left carried a metal briefcase. The one on the right shut the cellar door behind them.
“You're looking better," Fiona said brightly. “I was worried the first visit left a sour taste."
Amelia didn't respond.
“Still not talking?" Fiona sighed. “Damian always did prefer quiet girls."
She stepped closer.
Click. Her heel echoed like a gunshot.
“I came to say goodbye. Damian's leaving for Geneva. He doesn't know I'm here. But h
