Illusions: A prequel novella to Mirage by Alice Tribue Page A

the kind of woman who would take a baseball bat to your knees if you even tried. I’ve developed a low tolerance for bullshit over the years because I’ve seen it all. Trust me; I’ve seen it all. Living in a city like New York, there’s not much that you don’t see. But there are things that I haven’t witnessed just as a spectator, and I’ve actually lived them. I’m not new to pain, betrayal, hurt, violence; I’m not new to a shitload of things and because of this, I’ll do what I have to do to protect myself, my interests, and the people I care for. There is no shame or guilt in that; it’s what makes me who I am.
    I stride down the brightly lit hallway feeling a dangerous combination of anger and fearlessness. All the while, I’m wondering why some people (particularly rich people) feel like they can get away with just about anything. I wonder why they think that there are no consequences for behaving badly. After the condition I found Macy in yesterday, I’m in the mood to make someone pay.
    I didn’t come from money—never had anything handed to me on a silver platter—because I worked my ass off for my wealth. Were my methods unconventional? Sure. A little outside the boundaries of the law? Possibly—but I never, NEVER go out of my way to hurt people, and if my choices are wrong, if I’m destined for hell, then I’m positive that assholes like Conrad Roberts are going right along with me. On that thought, I steel my spine, cock my head to the side, and knock on the front door.
    “Victoria, what are you doing here? How did you get up here?” he questions with a false look of astonishment on his face.
    “Hello, Mr. Roberts. I’m sorry to have shown up unannounced. Your doorman must have been on break. May I come in? We need to talk,” I say pushing past him. He isn’t much of a man; he’s long-limbed and thin with absolutely no muscle tone. He combs his thinning brown hair over, making him appear years older than he is, and his skin is scarily pale. I can understand why he would use my services because he’s not the kind of man who has his choice of women. Rumor has it that his wife only married him for his money; her father, whose own business was failing, pushed her into it.
    “How dare you show up at my apartment like this? What if my wife would have been here?”
    I wave him off as if his statement is ridiculous. “Don’t you worry; I waited until I was sure that she was gone.”
    His body tenses, and his face contorts in anger; clearly, Mr. Roberts needs to work on masking his emotions. “You did what? Have you been watching my house?”
    “I have,” I confirm, giving him the sweetest smile I can muster. “I have, Mr. Roberts, because, unlike you, I actually abide by the terms of the contract that we entered into, the same one you signed.” This is where I start speaking to him as if though he was a goddamned toddler who I’m trying to reason with. “I would never abuse my clients’ trust in me; I would never ever make my clients doubt my integrity. You, on the other hand, crossed a line last night, and I came here to see that you understand what that means.”
    “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
    “You don’t? Hmm, that’s odd.”
    “Can you just get to the reason why you’re here so that you can leave?”
    “I received a very distressing phone call from one of my employees last night; the very same employee that I sent to see you yesterday. You see, when she called, she was clearly upset, frightened even, so I, being her employer, went to make sure that she was all right. Do you know what I found, Mr. Roberts?”
    “I have no idea,” he answers, his tone annoyed. There’s no guilt on his face, no regret in his features, no remorse to be found anywhere on his body. He stands arrogantly, glaring at me as if I’m disturbing him, and it makes me angry. It makes me want to punch him in the frickin’ throat.
    “I’ll tell you what I found,” I say,