He Chose Her, So I Faked My Death novel · Chapter 14 of 32

Chapter 14: Live on Air

Imogen's POV

At seven in the morning I walked onto live television with a stitched man beside me and my sleeve pushed to the elbow.

The host dropped her cue cards.

On the sofa across from her sat Lydia Harcourt, in cream silk, with a box of tissues on her knee.

She had been booked for a tribute to the late Imogen Ames.

Nobody had told her the late Imogen Ames would be arriving by the side door.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," I said, and I sat down in the empty chair. "I was told I was dead."

The studio went silent.

Lydia's mouth opened and nothing came out.

"My name is Imogen Radcliffe Ames," I said to the camera. "Five years ago I married Preston Ames. Ten days ago he let the world bury me."

"Ms. Ames," the host said faintly. "Where have you been?"

"Hiding from my husband."

I laid my left forearm on the glass table so the lights found the scar.

"I got this in a workshop fire in my first year with Ames Jewels. I was designing Ember. I am Ember."

Lydia made a thin laughing sound.

"She's unwell," she said to the host. "Everyone knows she was unwell. Preston told me."

"Then ask me anything about Lifeline," I said.

The host looked at the producer through the glass.

The producer nodded frantically.

I took the marker from the host's desk and drew one line across the table in a single stroke, up, down, up, the shape of a heartbeat.

"That's the first thing I drew," I said. "The rose diamonds follow it. At the back of the clasp, you'll find my initials. Lydia, you read them out loud at the gala and you couldn't."

"A lucky guess," Lydia said.

"Draw the second line."

She stared at the marker.

"Go on. Draw the earring."

Her hand came up and trembled and fell.

"I don't have to do this," she said. "This is a trap."

"There's a second thing," I said, and I set a printed black and white photo on the table. "This is my baby. Ten weeks. Your fiance's baby."

The host covered her mouth.

"And this is the day," I said, turning to Lydia, "that you came to my hotel suite and told me you were twelve weeks pregnant with Preston's child. My dates, Lydia. You stole my dates off a hospital bill."

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