Chapter 5 - The Study of Power
The study smelled of old leather, bourbon, and cedarwood.
Shelves lined with heavy, leather-bound books stretched up to a vaulted ceiling lit by a grand iron chandelier. Behind a massive mahogany desk sat Arthur Castellano, nursing a glass of amber whiskey.
When Khloe knocked timidly on the open door and stepped inside, Arthur didn't look up immediately. He let her stand there in the center of the room for a long, agonizing minute, letting the oppressive silence weigh down upon her shoulders.
"Sit," he said finally, gesturing to a velvet armchair opposite his desk.
Khloe sat down, clutching her knees. She had changed into the clothes Mrs. Gable had provided—a soft grey cashmere sweater and black trousers that fit her surprisingly well.
"Mr. Castellano," Khloe started, her voice firming up despite her nerves. "I understand you're upset, but keeping me here against my will is kidnapping. I have a clean record. I’m just trying to survive."
Arthur took a slow sip of his whiskey, setting the crystal glass down with a soft clink. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk, his dark eyes boring into her.
"You think I care about your delivery route, Miss Bennett?" Arthur asked quietly. "You think I give a damn about a fifty-dollar pasta dinner?"
"Then let me go home!"
"Tell me about your mother," Arthur said suddenly.
Khloe blinked, thrown entirely off balance by the abrupt change in subject. "My... my mother? What does she have to do with this? She died when I was seven years old."
"How did she die?"
Khloe’s jaw tightened. A bitter sting of old grief flared in her chest. "She had a weak heart. She collapsed in our kitchen while baking bread. Why are you asking me this?"
Arthur pulled a manila folder from beneath a stack of financial ledgers and slid it across the polished wood toward her.
Khloe hesitated, then pulled it open.
Inside were photographs. Not of her, but of her mother—Sophia Castellano’s twin, or so it seemed at first glance.
Khloe stared down at the pictures in stunned silence. The woman in the photographs had the exact same oval face, the same dark brown hair, the same deep, melancholic brown eyes that Khloe saw in the mirror every single morning.
"That's..." Khloe whispered, her breath catching. "That looks like me. Who is that?"
"That is my wife, Sophia," Arthur said, his voice dropping into a register so thick with pain that it sent a shiver down Khloe’s spine. "She was murdered two years and four months ago on Lake Shore Drive. A hit ordered by the Morozov syndicate. Her car was forced off the road into a concrete pillar."
Khloe looked up from the photographs, her eyes wide with terror and confusion. "I... I don't understand. What does your wife have to do with me? I told you, my mother died when I was seven!"
"Your mother’s name was Elena Bennett," Arthur said, leaning back in his chair. "A woman who supposedly died of heart failure in a small apartment on the South Side twenty-one years ago. Except... Elena Bennett never existed."
Arthur stood up, walking slowly around the desk until he was standing right beside Khloe’s chair.
"Twenty-one years ago," Arthur continued, his voice like gravel grinding on glass, "my wife’s identical twin sister, Elena, vanished from our family estate after a bitter dispute over our father’s syndicate succession. She erased herself. She took a baby girl—her daughter, your supposed sister or cousin—and she hid in the slums of Chicago."
Khloe’s breath hitched. Her hands began to tremble violently.
"You're... you're saying..." Khloe choked out. "You're saying Sophia was my aunt?"
"I’m saying," Arthur whispered, leaning down until his face was inches from hers, "that you share the exact same blood, the exact same face, and the exact same voice cadence as the mother Lily lost two years ago."
May you like
Arthur straightened up, his eyes flashing with a desperate, terrifying light.
"Lily didn't mistake you for a stranger tonight, Miss Bennett. She looked at you, and she saw the ghost she has been crying for every single night since the crash."
