CHAPTER FOUR
Isabella's footfalls were muffled as she was led down a secret passage that ran through the depths of Drake Tower, far beyond earshot of the glittering central atrium. The writers could really use some light shone on them, but in the meantime, at least you can share the weight of whatever is looking. Her heart fluttered at the tastiness of the air heavy with secrecy. The space fell quiet as a campe guide — an impeccably dressed attendant followed through with a suspicious eye — murmuring instructions. Isabella surveyed the corridor, frowning slightly at the umpteenth surveillance camera tucked into the rich mouldings, small sensors nestled at the back of the expensive draperies. Every unassuming speck of technology, quietly positioned, seemed to be tracking her every step, a sign that nothing until now had come down to chance.
When they reached an office tucked away at the end of a hallway, the attendant paused slightly before a heavy door. He nodded curtly and slipped away without saying anything more. "And Isabella, a little bit curious and a little bit trepidacious, slowly opened the door. Inside, the room was flooded with the soft amber glow of a vintage desk lamp. On a mahogany desk sat an orderly folder embossed with her name on the cover. But there was something ominous about the unmarked folder, pristine amid the gunk of confidential documents.
She rifled through the contents of the folder, her hands shaking. The pages were full of meticulously recorded past performances: dated reviews and audience responses, even clipped newspaper articles. Each paper documented both the public triumphs and the gut-wrenching moments of weakness that had brought her down. Isabella's eyes widened as she saw what had been recorded about her career, detail by detail, with such care. The evidence was stark and disturbing. It made her shiver that anyone had been watching her so closely for 10 years or more.
She breathed shallowly, clutching the folder tight. She felt adrenaline, marinated in a sense of violation, swimming in her veins. Who had set up this elaborate voyeurism? Questions swarmed in her head. What were they going to do with these records? A soft creak of the door broke the quiet of the office. Isabella tensed, heartbeat thumping in her ears as a shadow fell across the threshold. The room seemed to hold its breath, and as the door slowly opened, a low voice added, "Not everything here is as it seems.
They were all caught between fear and curiosity as a glimpse of the figure walking forward made Isabella look at the threshold unable to dismiss the notion that they might be in potential danger right outside the door and serving as foreshadowing of things to come.
Isabella settled into one of the slope-style lounges at the back of Drake Tower: a private escape from the hallway foot traffic. There were plush armchairs and a low, murmurous fountain that created a false sense of calm, all by the voices rocking in his palm, a lure of music drumming the air. But within that tranquil cocoon, Isabella's mind was a whir of torment. She took one hand from the folder and set it still on the table; of the dismaying discovery, how her past had been so closely gathered. Every document was a stab wound, showing where she could possibly be opened up for exploitation by the world;
Her gaze traced the thin line of life extending outwardly from the lines in the thick carpet, finding only comfort in the multi-dimensions of its design. Nothing about the room's soft lighting and lived-in décor could disguise the gnawing sense of betrayal that had burrowed itself deep in her bones. She wondered, with a shiver, whether the invitation was a boon or a bane. She donned her artfully arranged silks as though they were as widely wrinkled as palms — the rewarding surroundings were clouded by the haze that here, in the light, she was on view, a coveted specimen in a glass booth. It was a punishing cycle of the shattered performance, of the sounds of harrowing remarks, of the relentless grief of a mother whose disapproval never ricocheted.
A soft, almost breathy sound caught her attention upward. One reluctant staffer, brow furrowed with concern and eeriness, approached her meekly. "Miss Hartley," he said with a low voice, and there was a warning tone in it, "not everyone here should be trusted." He spoke so briefly that his words were dry enigmas that echoed in the air as a dark omen. The mouth of this man glistened with a venal honesty that belied the buttery luxury surrounding them. Isabella's heart twisted as she processed his message. The idea that treachery lurked behind every smile and every courteous bow was a reproach.
A chill swept over her skin, and she shivered. The air suddenly became dense and heavy with warnings. She looked around the lounge, and what had been an unmistakable face and a casual whisper, now every face had turned inscrutable, every whisper suspicious. Their soft, menacing conversation filled the air, and the babbling of the fountain only amplified her internal disquiet; Isabella's heart raced because the sanctity of this sacred place had been sullied. And that warning from the staff member pierced her fragile hope just enough that she felt herself to be on the cusp of both paranoia and determination.
When they exchanged a final glance, she sensed their wordless request to keep their shared admiration a secret — he turned and melted into the ocean of bodies moving in the same direction and she was left to her own musings and an uneasy clarity that all was not well with Drake Tower.
Somewhere deep in one of the quieter, more concealed corners of Drake Tower's winding hallways, Isabella's tortured psyche fractured when it heard a quiet, earnest voice from someone who felt familiar and warm. Amid the polished surfaces and whispered secrets, Gabriella Sinclair stood out like a beacon — a graceful figure with kind eyes and an empathetic smile. Gabriella, her auburn hair cropped with an almost irreverent thickness to it, and her ability to dress understatedly relaxed Isabella immediately with her quiet confidence. They nodded briefly to each other, and then, in gentle voices at a pitch too low to be heard, Gabriella leaned like she was sharing a secret. "I know what it's like to feel trapped in a maze of secrets," she said, her gaze locking with Isabella's with an understanding mingled with caution.
The conversation came easily as they briskly walked down a less-frequented hallway, away from the denizens of the common areas. So she alluded to the secrets within Drake Tower — the labyrinth of hidden chambers, the surveillance cameras installed in the corners and the alliances forged in whispers that wound through the building like ghosts. "This place runs on a rule of calculated power plays and subtle conspiracies at the hands of invisible forces," she said. Isabella listened excitedly, a little bit relieved but sceptical. Gabriella's revelations only intensified the growing sense that the invitation was the tip of an enormous, sinister conspiracy.
They paused at a side table, set elegantly; Gabriella extracted a small, folded note from her chic leather bag. A survey of her surroundings, a conspiratorial glance around, and she shoved the note in Isabella's hand. "There is more going on here than we realize," Gabriella said, urgency lacing her tone. "You need to learn the true price of redemption." The note, written in crisp, beautiful handwriting and dripping with mystery, promised to reveal the truth behind all manner of secretive truths. Isabella's heart quickened as she clutched the note, the smoothness of the paper anchoring her scattered thoughts.
Their brief moment together was heavy with an electric intimacy, one that soothed and rattled her. Well, the soft conviction that Gabriella offered and the cold hard truth of her reality, but for a moment, Isabella remembered—what it was like, what it felt like to be connected. But with Gabriella's shape fading into the throng, the note she held behaved like a threat: promise and peril. The corridor caved in around her, hearts beating, whispered conversations in the distance; I said, All secrets demand a payment; all allies have their ambitions.