Toxic - Zoe Blake Page 0,3

riding instead of endless chatter, internet scrolling, and stress. Covering my ears, I pressed my hands against my head and rocked back and forth trying to block out all the horns, shouts, and sounds of modern life.

The car slowed. We were near the British museum. I was almost home to the tiny little flat I shared with Jane. I wasn’t sure if I could trust Jane, but I had no choice; she was my only friend in London. Our shared flat, my only home.

Then the driver turned right instead of left.

Alarmed, I leaned forward and banged on the tinted glass divider that separated me from the driver. The window rolled smoothly down.

“Where are we going?”

“Miss?”

“Where are we going?” I shouted in a panic; leaning over, I tried the door handle.

It was locked.

“Unlock this door,” I demanded as I continued to yank on the handle.

“Miss, I can’t, we’re still moving.”

“Where are you taking me?” I shouted once more.

“My instructions were to take you to your home.”

“My home is off Fleet Street.”

“Those weren’t my instructions.”

Icy fear gripped me. I knew it. I knew Richard wouldn’t just let me go. This was just another one of his games. A way to torture me by letting me think I was safe once I reached London. This was just his way of showing me I wasn’t safe anywhere, not from him.

The car stopped before a tall, imposing building with a neo-Egyptian, art deco vibe.

A dull thrum echoed over the silent interior of the car as the doors unlocked.

The driver got out of the car and swiftly opened the door for me. Hitching up my now hopelessly wrinkled taffeta skirts, I stepped out.

Gesturing toward the series of black tinted doors that made up the front facade of the building, the driver said, “Your friend is waiting for you in flat 8C on the eighth floor.”

My friend?

Jane?

Or was it Richard?

I hesitated, strangely not wanting to leave the familiarity of the car. This must be what a captive felt like when they were first coaxed away from their cage. The barred interior might have been horrific, but at least it was familiar. A sick, twisted comfort as opposed to the unknown.

Swallowing the bitter taste in my mouth, I knew, deep down, I had no choice but to play this out. I was a pawn in Richard’s twisted game. I could try to make a run for it down the street, but I knew he would only find another way to manipulate me into doing his bidding. I might as well obey the rules of my game piece and enter the building. It was, after all, what Richard wanted of me.

Clenching my stomach to stop my body from trembling, I took a few steps forward. Several people cast strange looks at me as they passed, before quickly forgetting all about me and my odd Victorian attire as they continued on with their lives.

The glass door swung open and a tall gentleman impeccably dressed in a Dolce & Gabbana black cashmere polo and double-pleated trousers stepped through.

My heart stopped as I willed my eyes to look up past his shoulders… into a pair of lackluster brown eyes.

It wasn’t Richard.

My traitorous heart sank.

Forcing the feeling away, I shyly nodded my thanks as he held the door open. Crossing over the threshold, I felt the clammy chill of air conditioning as I walked into the spacious lobby. The interior was very modern. Decorated with black wrought-iron and accents of white and yellow.

A slim woman with white-blonde hair pulled relentlessly back into a tight bun at her nape descended the black spiral staircase to the right. Her eyes traced my appearance from head to toe. Her lips tightened with disapproval before she asked in sharp, clipped tones, “May I help you?”

Self-consciously grabbing the knotted ends of my hair and twisting them into order over my shoulder, I cleared my throat before saying, “I’m here to see a friend in flat 8C.”

Without taking her cold, grey eyes off me, she raised one unnaturally thin arm and gestured to the right. “The lifts are over there. Press in the code 461 to gain access to the eighth floor.”

Smoothing the front of my bodice down with my right hand, I forgot I was still clutching the letter opener from my altercation with Richard. The woman’s narrow, pencil-drawn eyebrow raised as her eyes caught sight of the sharp, tarnished object.

Defiantly tilting my chin up, I breezed past her. Unfortunately, I ruined the effect when I stumbled over