The sound of the lock clicking in the door of Mrs. Grant's dressing room didn't signal freedom; it signaled the tightening of a noose. I didn't move for several minutes, my back pressed against the wardrobe, the word Chimamanda still ringing in my ears like a death knell.
They knew.
They hadn't just looked at a file; they had bought the identity I had buried with such agonizing care. The threat wasn't a warning; it was a certainty: I was a fugitive, and Mrs. Grant held the arrest warrant.
My hands were still shaking, but I forced myself to retrieve my phone. I had to complete Ethan's mission, even if the intelligence was now tainted by my capture. His blind, arrogant faith in me was my only temporary shield. With stiff, mechanical movements, I sent the photos of the personal ledger keys to him.
[10:45 AM] Sasha: [3 photos attached]
His reply was instantaneous, celebratory, and devastating in its oblivion.
[10:46 AM] Ethan: Perfect. You did it. That's a huge win. You're incredible. We're one step closer.
You're incredible. The compliment felt like a lie spat in my face. He was celebrating a victory won with compromised intelligence, completely blind to the fact that his agent was now owned by his enemy.
His trust, once intoxicating, was now just a fresh, deep layer of betrayal. He was still operating under the assumption that I was his, and I couldn't tell him the truth without handing my own life over to the police.
I spent the next hour cleaning, scrubbing every surface until my knuckles were raw, trying to cleanse the shame and fear from my skin.
I didn't hear from Mrs. Grant, but the silence was worse than her wrath. It meant she was planning.
The summons came not via text, but through a junior maid who whispered, "Mrs. Grant wants you in the Blue Parlor. Bring the silver tea set."
The Blue Parlor was a small, cold room in the west wing, far from the main traffic. I set the heavy silver down, my hands steady now — a skill I had perfected in Africa: maintaining stillness in the face of absolute terror.
Mrs. Grant was sitting upright on a silk-upholstered chair. She didn't offer me tea. She simply looked at me, a cold, total satisfaction in her eyes.
"We have a new arrangement, Sasha," she stated, using my false name like a leash. "My grandson is under the mistaken impression that he is a revolutionary. He is not. He is a spoiled child who is attempting to sabotage his grandfather's legacy."
She picked up a delicate porcelain teacup, turning it slowly between her fingers.
"You are his eyes and ears. That makes you valuable to me."
She set the cup down with a soft click.
"Your new function is simple. I want to know what he is up to. I want his schedule, his calls, who he meets with, and what documents he asks you to search for next. I want to know his plans for this foolish coup before he executes them."
She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a low, chilling purr.
"Starting tonight, you will pay attention to his movements. I want to know what time he leaves the house and what time he returns. You will use your phone to text me this information, and you will delete the messages immediately after."
The task was simple observation, a return to my original role as an invisible ghost, but now the direction of my loyalty was reversed. I was to spy on the man who had just kissed me and who believed I had saved his coup. The act of looking for things for her enemy was the ultimate betrayal.
"If you give me bad information," she continued, her voice hardening, "if you lie to me, or if he succeeds in causing trouble, I will make sure the appropriate papers are filed with the immigration office. You know what happens then, Chimamanda."
I stared at the intricate pattern on the rug. The casual mention of my true name, the threat of arrest, left me paralyzed. I had to betray Ethan to survive arrest, and I had to lie to Mrs. Grant to avoid being used against him immediately.
"I understand, ma'am," I finally managed, the words hollow.
She smiled, a cold, triumphant curve of her lips.
"Good. Then you may go. And remember this, Sasha. The truth is never the price of loyalty. The price is survival. And I am the only one in this house who can guarantee yours."
I pushed the heavy tea cart out of the room, my body stiff with a cold, absolute dread. I was a double agent, my heart divided between the man who demanded my passion and the woman who owned my life. My next text message would not be a request for data, but a lie designed to protect my neck. The terrible weight of my new, compromised existence settled over me, heavy and suffocating.