Surviving George's Obsession

The crystal tumbler shattered against the wall as George hurled it across his office. I watched through the security feed Luke had somehow obtained—watched as he tore through his immaculate space like a man possessed.

"Find me everything on Ellis Freeman," he snarled into his phone, loosening his tie with savage jerks. "Birth records, school documents, medical history—all of it."

His fingers trembled as he poured another whiskey, downing it in one gulp. Dark circles shadowed his eyes—eyes that had once looked through me rather than at me.

"Sir," his head of security responded cautiously, "we've already investigated the Freeman family extensively. There's nothing suspicious about—"

"Then investigate harder!" George roared, slamming his fist onto his desk. "She's not who she claims to be!"

I turned away from the monitor, my heart hammering against my ribs. Luke squeezed my shoulder gently. "You don't have to watch this."

"Yes, I do," I whispered.

On screen, George pulled up files on his computer—files I recognized with sickening clarity. My files. Lucille Hart's training records, medical reports, photographs from the ring.

"Zoom in on her ears," George commanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Compare them to the gala photos."

I touched my earlobe unconsciously, remembering how Luke had suggested subtle cosmetic alterations—just enough to change the shape slightly. But not enough, apparently.

"And here," George continued, pointing to a scar on my shoulder blade visible in one of the blurry society photos. "Enhance this area."

The technician worked silently as George paced behind him, drinking steadily. "There's a three-year gap in Ellis Freeman's history," George muttered. "Three years of nothing—right when Lucille Hart died."

He stopped abruptly, his eyes fixed on the screen. "What if she didn't die?"

---

The bookstore was my sanctuary—a place where Ellis Freeman could exist peacefully among leather-bound volumes and rare first editions. I ran my fingers along the spines, savoring the quiet afternoon light filtering through tall windows.

"Miss Freeman?"

I froze at the sound of his voice. George stood by the poetry section, impeccably dressed but somehow wild-eyed.

"I prefer Ellis," I said coolly, though my body had already tensed for flight.

He moved toward me with deliberate slowness. "You always loved poetry. Especially Dickinson."

The door chimed as the last customer exited. Then came the decisive click of a lock engaging.

"What are you doing?" I asked, fighting to keep my voice steady.

"I needed privacy for this conversation." George's hand trembled slightly as he set a leather-bound book on the counter. "I've built something for you."

I edged away as he opened it—a scrapbook filled with newspaper clippings about my "death," photographs of the burned car, pages of handwritten notes.

"I've regretted everything," he said, his voice breaking. "Ruby means nothing. She never did."

He reached for my face, his fingers hovering just inches from my skin. "Let me touch you. Let me prove I've changed."

The memory crashed over me—his hands on my throat before a fight, whispering that I belonged to him, that pain was necessary to keep me sharp.

"No," I gasped, stumbling backward.

"Ellis!" Luke's security chief, Marcus Reid, burst through the door with a key card. "Are you hurt?"

George's face contorted with rage as Marcus positioned himself between us. "You've poisoned her against me," he spat. "The Freemans have brainwashed her!"

I pressed myself against the bookshelf, trembling violently. George's eyes softened with something worse than anger—pity.

"Look at you," he said softly. "Cowering behind a hired thug. Is this the life you chose?"

---

The charity luncheon had been Elliot's idea—a way to establish Ellis Freeman's philanthropic reputation. I'd survived the speeches and photographs, the practiced smiles and polite conversations.

As I stepped into the courtyard for fresh air, a familiar voice stopped me cold.

"One million dollars, or I tell George you're alive."

My biological father stood before me—older, grayer, but with the same calculating eyes that had once appraised me as merchandise.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, though my voice betrayed me.

"Don't play games with me, girl." He leaned closer, his breath reeking of cheap whiskey. "I sold you once. I'll do it again."

Shame burned through me—not for who I was now, but for the child who had believed she was worthless enough to be sold.

"You should have stayed dead," he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. "George Hoffman pays handsomely for information about his precious Lucille."

I straightened my spine, meeting his gaze directly. "I am Ellis Freeman. And I won't pay you a cent."

His lips curled into a smirk as he stepped back, pulling out his phone. "Have it your way."

I watched him walk away, knowing what would happen next. He dialed the Hoffman private line—the number I still knew by heart.

As the call connected, I realized with sudden clarity that George had never needed my father's confirmation. He had known all along.

The game was just beginning.