Cleora woke with a start, not in a bathtub, but tangled in the expensive linen sheets of the bed. Her neck ached from tension, not a blow. She groaned, pushing herself up against the cold headboard.
She looked down. On the nightstand, where his notepad had been, sat a single, sterile suture packet, identical to the one she had used from the first-aid kit. It was a message. A reminder of their transaction. And a subtle display of his resources-he had his own private medical supplies.
She stood up and walked to the mirror. The face staring back at her was young, unscarred, and terrified. But as she watched, a faint red blotch began to bloom on her left cheek.
She leaned closer.
It was starting.
In her previous life, this rash had been the beginning of the end. Elena, her stepmother, had spiked her expensive face creams with Urushiol-the oil found in poison ivy. For years, Cleora had been treated for "autoimmune dermatitis," a diagnosis that ruined her confidence and kept her isolated.
"Not this time," she whispered.
She grabbed her toiletry bag. She dumped the La Mer jars, the serums, the toners-thousands of dollars of product-into the toilet. She flushed.
She picked up the room service tablet. Her fingers flew across the screen.
Baking soda. Oatmeal. Antihistamines. Distilled water.
When the items arrived, the bellboy looked confused, but Cleora didn't care. She mixed the baking soda and oatmeal into a thick paste in a crystal glass. She applied it to her face, the cool mixture soothing the itch instantly.
She swallowed two antihistamines dry.
An hour later, the ship's horn blasted. They were docking.
Cleora washed her face. The redness had faded to a barely visible pink. She put on a high-necked dress to hide the non-existent bruise Clemente had left, a phantom ache that served as a reminder of her close call. She tucked the note with his number into her bra.
She walked off the gangway.
Elena and Cristi were waiting by the limousine. Elena was wearing a wide-brimmed hat, looking every inch the concerned matriarch.
"Cleora, darling!" Elena exclaimed, opening her arms. "We were so worried. You didn't come to breakfast."
Cleora stepped sideways, smooth as water. Elena's arms closed on empty air.
"I was unwell," Cleora said. She smoothed her skirt.
Elena's smile faltered for a microsecond before snapping back into place. "Oh, you poor thing. Your skin... is it flaring up again?"
"Actually," Cleora said, looking Elena dead in the eye. "I had a nightmare about a hostile takeover. It was very vivid."
Cristi, who was texting on her phone, looked up. "You look like a ghost."
"Maybe I am," Cleora said.
They got into the car. The leather interior smelled of new money and old secrets.
"We have the Gala tomorrow night," Elena announced as the driver pulled away. "The board will be there. It's important you attend, Cleora. Even if... you aren't feeling your best."
Cleora knew the plan. In the other timeline, she had attended the Gala with a swollen, weeping face. She had been medicated and confused. She had caused a scene. That night, she had been stripped of her position in the foundation.
"I'll be there," Cleora said.
The butler offered her a travel mug of herbal tea.
"Your special blend, Miss," he said.
Cleora took it. She brought it to her lips. The steam carried the distinct, sickly-sweet scent of bitter almonds. Cyanide in trace amounts? Or just heavy sedatives?
She pretended to sip. Then, turning to look out the window, she spat the liquid into her handkerchief.
She crumbled the handkerchief into her pocket.
The car wound its way up the driveway of the Hart estate. It looked like a castle, but Cleora knew better. It was a prison.
She went straight to her room and locked the door. She pulled out her sketchbook. She didn't draw clothes. She drew the floor plan of the ballroom.
She drew a red 'X' over the main stage.
