The car was the same as the night before, but the morning light transformed it. It was no longer an intimate cave, but a glass cell that transported me through the city I thought I knew. The New York of my days was one of crowded subways and potholed sidewalks. This New York, seen through the dark windows of a limousine, was a flat and silent scene, as if I were watching a silent film of my own life.
The driver, who introduced himself as Gregor, made no attempt at conversation. The radio was off. The only sound was the almost imperceptible hum of the air conditioning and the restless tapping of my fingers against the leather seat.
The lawyer's office was on Fifth Avenue, in a historic building with a stone facade that seemed to whisper "you don't belong here". An assistant in an impeccable suit led me through silent rooms, past dark wood doors with polished brass plates, to a meeting room overlooking Central Park.
The lawyer wasn't the decrepit old man I'd expected. He was a man in his forties, with thin-rimmed glasses and a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He stood when I entered.
"Mrs. Vance," he said, extending his hand. "A pleasure. I'm Jonathan Thorne, Mr. Vance's personal lawyer for fifteen years."
The name "Mrs. Vance" still made me shudder inside. I shook his hand, cold and dry.
"Isabella, please," I replied, sitting in the leather chair he indicated.
"As you prefer," he nodded, returning to his side of the immense mahogany desk. "Mr. Vance has asked me to handle some legal aspects of your… integration. Identity documents, records, updating beneficiaries in certain policies. Bureaucratic things."
He opened a thin folder. Inside, there was a stack of forms, all bearing the discreet logo of a law firm.
"Let's start with the basics. Full maiden name, date of birth, social security number…"
I answered, one question at a time, while he filled in the fields with tiny, precise handwriting. It was surreal. He was selling my name, my date of birth, my legal identity, as if it were a package of stock.
"Now," he said, placing the pen on the table and bringing his fingertips together, "Mr. Vance has asked me to ask some questions of a more… personal nature. To compile a confidential file. It's standard practice in high-level agreements, for risk management."
A knot formed in my stomach. "Risk management?"
"Yes. Past relationships, associations that could represent a future embarrassment, legal issues, undisclosed health matters," he listed, without blinking. "Everything will be kept absolutely confidential, of course. Only Mr. Vance and I will have access."
I felt violated even before he asked the first question. Alexander didn't just want my present. He wanted to dig into my past.
"I have nothing to hide," I lied, keeping my voice steady.
"Excellent," Jonathan said, and this time his smile was a little wider, sharper. "Then you'll have no problem answering. Let's start with the serious romantic relationships of the last five years."
There was only one. Daniel. Two and a half years that ended in ashes and debt, when he decided that gambling was more interesting than me. But talking about Daniel, here, in that place, felt like a profanation. An admission that I had been foolish enough to love someone who destroyed me.
"There haven't been any serious relationships," I replied, staring at a painting on the wall, an abstract lithograph of crossed red lines.
Jonathan said nothing for a moment. The silence weighed heavily. He picked up his pen again and made a note. I couldn't see what he wrote.
"And associations… let's say, problematic ones?" Family members or friends involved in illegal activities or who might attract negative media attention?
My mother. Sick, frail, but with a brother—my uncle Marco—who had a special talent for getting involved in shady schemes. He had never been convicted, but the shadows followed him. And the debts… the debts that brought me here had his fingerprints all over them.
—My family is small and… private—I chose my words carefully.—There's nothing that could interest the media.
Another note. The sound of the pen on the paper was loud as thunder.
—Legal matters? Lawsuits, even minor ones?
The hospital lawsuit. The eviction notice from my old apartment that I managed to postpone at the last minute. The vague threat from a loan shark my uncle owed money to. Each one was a knife pointed at my throat.
—None—I whispered, my hands trembling under the table.
Jonathan looked at me over his glasses. His eyes were clear, intelligent, and completely devoid of empathy. He knew I was lying. He could feel it.
"Mrs. Vance," he said, closing the folder gently. "Let me be frankly". Mr. Vance is a man who controls every aspect of your life. He hates surprises. This file isn't about exposing you. It's about protecting you. Anything you omit now… if it comes to light later, it will be considered a breach of good faith of the contract. The penalties, as you must remember, are severe.
I gasped for air. The penalties. The exorbitant fine that I could never pay, that would put me and my mother out on the street.
"I… need some time," I said, struggling to maintain my composure. "To remember everything."
"Of course," he nodded, as if he had expected it. "The file can be updated. But don't take too long. Mr. Vance is patient, but not indefinitely."
The meeting ended shortly afterward, with a few more innocuous forms to sign. As I left the office, my legs were weak. The sunlight, once golden, now seemed harsh and hostile.
On the way back, the phone Alexander had given me vibrated. A message. An unknown number, but the tone was unmistakable:
"Jonathan informed me that the meeting was productive. The Vance Foundation benefit dinner is on Friday. A long dress. Black. We'll arrive together. – A."
Productive. The word was a stab in the heart. He knew. He knew I had things to hide. And now, he had a lawyer to dig them up.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. I got the credit card, signed more papers at a bank, went back to the penthouse. The place was still empty and silent.
That night, sitting on my bedroom terrace, wrapped in a soft robe, I looked out at the city. Somewhere down there, my old life continued, without me. Up here, I was a porcelain doll on a glass shelf, with a confidential file and a man who controlled even the shadows of my past.
My bedroom door remained unlocked. But now, the idea of Alexander breaking through didn't give me a dangerous thrill. It scared me. Because if he could do that with a lawyer in one morning, what else would he be able to find out? And what would he do with what he found?
On Friday, I put on the long black dress he had demanded. It was stunning and funereal. When I left the room, Alexander was already in the living room, in a tuxedo. He looked at me, and for the first time, I didn't see assessment or calculation in his gaze. I saw something like… genuine appreciation. But then he came closer, and his whisper close to my ear froze the blood in my veins: "You look beautiful. Too bad beauty often hides the cracks, isn't it, Isabella? Your Uncle Marco called on the intercom today. He seems eager to speak with the new Mrs. Vance." How did he know? Terror mingled with desire as his hand rested on the curve of my back. "Let's go," he said. "Our audience awaits us." And I realized: the game wasn't just about the future. It was about who controlled the ghosts of the past.