"Khloe Saleh," the man said, voice low and amused.
I spit at the name because a name can be an accusation. My mouth tasted of dust and old wood. My hands were tied at the wrists, rough rope biting skin. I pushed myself up and the floor complained under me.
"Who tied me up?" I said. My voice was thin but steady. "Who are you?"
He stepped closer. Light from a high window cut across the room and turned him from shadow into a face I should have recognized and didn't want to. He was too calm. Too comfortable standing over me.
"You know my face," he said. "You danced past it in a dozen tabloids. You just never looked at me." He smiled. It wasn't a smile for me. It was a smile for power.
"I don't care who you are," I said. "Untie me."
He laughed like it was a joke that hadn't been told yet. "Untie you? No." He tapped a leather folder on the table. The sound made my teeth ache. "We have things to settle."
I fought the urge to plead. Pleading always made people sharper. I spat again, aimed where he couldn't miss it. It hit his shoe.
He glanced down, annoyed. Then he pulled the folder toward him and opened it with hands that belonged in boardrooms and private jets. He flipped through papers with the boredom of someone sorting receipts.
"Marriage certificate," he said. "Page one."
He
