8. Isabel #2
The sound of footsteps returning grows louder, heavier now, before stopping just outside the door. For a second, I wonder if he’s had a change of heart, but then I remember the emptiness in his gaze. A man with no soul can’t grow a conscience.
A red folder slides under the door.
“Read it. We’ll talk about it when I return in a few hours.”
“A few hours? You said an hour.” I push myself off the floor, anger sharpening my voice. “You can’t leave me in here with these dead bodies for a few hours.”
“I can, and I am.”
His footsteps fade as he walks away.
“Read it,” he calls back. “Maybe you’ll learn something about the people who’ve been lying to you your entire life.”
I drag the folder closer and pick it up. It’s heavier than I expected. When I glance down, my name is printed on a white sticker on the tab.
How long has he had a folder on me? The weight alone tells me this isn’t something thrown together overnight. We met late on Sunday afternoon, hardly twenty-four hours ago.
There’s no way he put this together in such a short time.
Which means whatever’s in here was planned long before I stepped into that lift.
A well-crafted lie.
Does he really think I’m that stupid? What kind of fucking game is he playing?
I fling the folder, sending papers flying as they slam into the wall and drift to the floor. I’m not letting this bastard tell me what to do. His opinions. Not my reality.
His truth can suck it.
Closing my eyes, I try to clear my mind and block out the death surrounding me.
It doesn’t work.
The stench grows stronger the longer I sit here. I know it’s all in my head. A body doesn’t decay that fast. But my mind won’t let it go. It fixates. On the smell. On the bodies.
On the damn folder Rurik shoved under the door.
Which is why he did it.
He put me in here, knowing it would wear me down. That I’d do just about anything to escape this and focus on something else.
He’s playing a waiting game. Counting on my curiosity, that nagging itch for answers… to win.
I seriously hate him right now.
Fucking prick.
Peeking through half-open eyes, I notice a chaotic array of papers strewn across the floor in front of me. Irritation flares, and I kick my leg out, sending them shifting even farther. Most landed upside down.
One didn’t.
Just the corner of it is enough to catch my attention.
Sitting up, I lean forward, fingers brushing against the smooth surface before tugging it free. It’s a photo.
Tears stream down my cheeks as I lift it and her face comes into view. It always hurts to see her.
My mother was a beautiful woman. When I look at her, I see myself. A few minor differences stand out. Her skin is lighter than mine. I’ve always believed my complexion came from my father, King Ramon. The same as my siblings.
Now doubt creeps in, sharp and unwelcome.
Anger surges. I grab a stack of papers and crush them in my fist. I’m seconds away from throwing them across the room when a single word distracts me.
I drop the ball to the floor and smooth the page flat with unsteady hands, pressing until the creases disappear and the words come into focus.
Once they are, my breath catches as my hands shake.
The heading reads: Official Adoption Papers.
“What the actual fuck?” I whisper to myself.
My name is listed as the adoptee. No last name. Just Isabel Sofia.
It seems odd, but it’s not like I’ve seen documents like this before.
The next line is where my biological father’s name should be, but instead of a name, it reads unknown.
Unknown?
I don’t bother reading the rest. My attention goes straight to the last line. That’s the line where the person requesting the adoption is listed.
King Ramon Esteban Reyes.
Below the printed name is a signature with the official seal of the King stamped beside it.
I know that seal. I’ve seen it several times before. My brother has his own seal. It’s slightly different, because each king creates his own.
And this one is the one my father used to sign all official Hermosa Islas documents.
Meaning, this isn’t fake. Only one man can administer the official seal. The king.
My chest tightens until it hurts to breathe as my entire life turns bitter, and I face the brutal truth.
I’m not a Reyes.
If Rurik was able to discover this, who else knew? I sure as hell didn’t. It’s one of the best-kept secrets ever. Something like this doesn’t stay buried without effort.
So how did it?
Nausea hits me once more, but this time it has nothing to do with the bodies surrounding me. It’s triggered by a sudden realization.
If King Ramon adopted me and it was to be a secret only the king knew, then when my brother Antonio became king… he also became aware of it, right?
And he chose to keep me in the dark.
Who else in my family knows? Did my grandparents?
I’m pretty sure they did. That explains so much about my grandmother’s recent revelations. Her failing mind made it impossible for her to keep it locked down.
What other secrets are in this folder? Do I even want to know?
I’m in the process of gathering them when the door to my room flies open, startling me.
It’s a woman.
She stares at me like she can’t believe what she’s seeing, then turns away and speaks to someone behind her in Russian. Her words are lost on me, but as she finishes, two men appear, grabbing my arms and hauling me up, forcing me to walk or be dragged as they follow her.
I assume it’s to get me out of this room.
When they shove me into another room just down the hall—one without two dead bodies—I know I’m right.
They toss me to the ground and leave; the door locking behind them before I can say a word or learn her identity.
“Thank you!” I scream in the most sarcastic voice I can muster.