Chapter 2 TEARS AND SHADOWS
~Lola~
I yanked the fringe wig off my head as we got into the company van parked outside the hotel, joining the rest of the team, Jake, Bianca and Jacob, as they worked on sending the clips to the client.
I brushed out my brown wavy hair using my fingers, then I grabbed a wipe from the console box, wiping the makeup off my face.
Disguises were important in this line of business, which is why I always went with different looks and different personalities for every job.
With some solid makeup and a versatile wardrobe, I became anything and anyone: rich heiress, vengeful ex, mistress, fiancée, billionaire’s baby mama, executive assistant, stripper. The list goes on.
I also never used my real name. And thanks to all these measures, no one knew precisely what I looked like. Among the elites, I was simply known as the woman who could sell a lie, so I was able to avoid the irritating risk of being recognised.
I got ready for my next job, and just like she always did, Sky put together a new look for me.
She wasn't just my best friend, she was my personal assistant, stylist, and make-up artist. She was the brain behind every look I embodied, and she provided every prop I needed for the job.
By the time we finished up with the last job for the day, it was almost midnight.
My driver, James, dropped me off in my personal vehicle at the parking lot of my residential condo where most of the city's elite dwelled. Then I took the elevator up to the 4th floor, inputting the passcode on my door lock.
Thanks to my high-profile clients I could afford high-end fashion brands, a luxury car, an upscale condo overlooking the city…and also keep my mom on life support.
I walked in, heading into my mom's bedroom just in time to see the caregiver giving her a bath using a wash cloth.
“You're home,” she said, a smile lighting up her middle-aged face.
I set my handbag down on the dresser and walked up to the adjustable hospital bed, placing my hand on her shoulder. “I'll take it from here.”
She beamed, handing me the washcloth and the bowl containing water before rising from the chair.
I took the seat, placing my mom's frail hand on my palm. “Thank you for today, Camilla. See you same time tomorrow.”
Camilla nodded, exiting the room.
Hot tears welled up in my eyes as I began to clean my mom up, my heart aching for her all over again as I glanced from the beeping monitor, to the ventilator, and the feeding tube connected to her motionless body. At first glance one would confuse this master bedroom for a mini-intensive care unit, thanks to all the medical equipment here.
My mom, Sloane, has been on life support for 3 years. She got involved in a ghastly hit and run on my 25th birthday, leaving her in a prolonged coma. The perpetrator hasn't been caught until now.
Two years ago, the doctors had advised that I pull the plug, stating that her brain injury wasn't getting any better. In their words, ‘she was beyond recovery.’ I couldn't do it. How on earth was I supposed to just give up on her when she was the only one I had left in this world? I was an only child. My dad died from cancer when I was 7 years old because despite catching his condition early we couldn't afford chemo. I moved her home instead and placed five people on a payroll—the physician who comes to check in on her from time to time, the three nurses who work day shifts, and the caregiver.
I had it tough growing up. I founded my company, LIAR FOR HIRE after my mom's accident because with a regular job I couldn't afford to pay for her treatment. Before that, I used to be the girl who walked around with worn-out clothes patched down with different colours of thread. But now that that life was behind me, here she was, unable to witness all of the bliss.
But I wasn't going to give up. Not when I hadn't tried everything in the books. The world was evolving everyday and so was the health sector. Innovations could come in a few years.
International clinical trials, experimental stem-cell treatments, cutting-edge neurorehabilitation centres. There were endless possibilities.
I know I sound crazy and delusional. I know it sounds impossible, but I'd give anything—even my soul—for a miracle that could make these eyes open. I'd take a day, or even 30 minutes. I just wanted to see her smile at me again.
Till then, I'd keep living like my life was perfect. I refuse to wallow in self-pity and drown in grief. That wasn't the kind of life I wanted for myself. And mom wouldn't want that for me either. Instead, I was going to work really hard so that when that time finally comes, I'd be financially ready enough.
There was nothing money couldn't solve, right? I just had to keep her alive long enough for a breakthrough to come through.
I finished up with her bath, brushed her hair, moisturized her lips, gave her a forehead kiss, and tucked her underneath the quilt, before heading over to my room.
20 minutes and a hot shower later, I stepped out with a towel wrapped around my chest, my hand raised as I dusted off the remnants of water on my damp hair using another towel.
My eyes wandered to the cracks of my slightly open bedroom door, and right then, I caught a glimpse of a shadow bolting through the fog of my dimly lit living room. It was so fleeting—it happened so fast, that I wondered if my eyes were playing tricks on me.
My hand froze on my hair, chills crawling up my skin like blood sucking leeches. I tossed the towel slowly on the bed, yanking out a golf club from the dusty, abandoned bag.
Golf was something I'd picked up on a job where I was hired to seduce a golf-loving 52-year-old billionaire and trap him in a mistress scandal. The sport bore me, so I dumped the clubs after the job ended. But today it came in handy. Precautionary measures. Just in case I was dealing with an intruder.
I dashed for my bedroom door, yanking it open with precise force. I emerged into the living room and my hands hastily found the switch on the wall, brighter lights filling the quiet space.
“Camilla?” I called out, anxiety burning in my chest as my eyes swept through every inch of the living room and the entrance of the far-off kitchen, but there was no one in sight, and zero signs of forceful entry.
I was certain it couldn't have been Camilla. The caregiver had clocked out for the day hours ago. But who else could it possibly be? It definitely wasn't my mom for obvious reasons. Camilla was the only other person who knew the passcode of this condo.
Could this be…?
My skin crawled, the realization dawning on me.
It was happening again.
This was just like that night.
