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He stared at her. “You know, I never saw my father that way.”

“That’s because you have no idea how the rest of us live.

Tyler doesn’t care what’s legal. Do you think he ended up living in a place like this, with his massive fortune, by following the bloody rules?

His father and mother were both indies, for God’s sake.

He dragged himself up to where he is now.

While your father obeys the law, people like George Tyler play the system.

Of course he hits me – and he’ll do the same to you, and worse, if you don’t do what he says. ”

“I honestly don’t care.” He shrugged.

“I know, and that’s why I’m here.” She took his face between her hands and looked into his eyes. “I’m frightened for you. I care about you. I’d do anything to help you. ”

“I’ll pass on that, thanks, considering who the offer comes from.” He jerked his head away.

“I thought you’d say that, but the offer stands anyway.”

“You do know he’s watching all this?” He gestured at the wall.

“Yes, but I’m used to that. He’s been watching us alone together for years now.” She got up and walked to the door. “Please, Alex, for your own sake – do what he says and don’t antagonise him. Please.”

“One thing,” he said as she opened the door.

She glanced back.

“Did you know what he was planning to do to me? Did you know this was the endgame? Being his whore to be pimped out to sweeten his deals?”

She shook her head vehemently. “No. He didn’t share his plans with me.

At first, my orders were to get close to you and pump you for information that he could use against you.

Later, I thought that maybe he was intending to steal your designs and cause a rift between you and your father.

I had no idea he envisaged doing this. If I had… ”

“What?” Alex demanded. “What would you have done, Solange? What could you have done?”

“I don’t know, but I did try to warn you, Alex.

I told you to stop trying to win the affection of father figures.

I wanted you to walk away from Tyler and be your own person, but you couldn’t do that.

You wanted his approval too much – and look where it’s got you.

” Giving him one last, sad smile, she turned and left.

He ventured out later that day to explore his surroundings. He was smart – if there was any weakness in Tyler’s security, he was sure he’d find it. Then what? Escape? First things first…

His door wasn’t locked, but the tall thin guard with the scarred face fell into step behind him the moment he exited his bedroom.

He walked to the lift, but found it could only be opened by the retina scan of one of the guards.

Access to the stairwell was similarly restricted, and there were no other exits.

The guard followed him the whole time, without comment on his expedition, and he soon realised that nobody was stopping him because there was no point; there was no way out.

Returning to his room, he threw himself back on the bed.

Outside, the sun was setting, bathing the lost zone in an eerie orange glow. Placing his finger over the chip in his wrist, he wondered if he’d ever get used to how it felt, pulsing under his skin. Finally, exhausted by the day’s events, he fell asleep.

He was woken at 8a.m. by a small plump man wearing a pair of white trousers that were far too tight and a flamboyant top in shades of orange and green so bright they hurt.

“Morning, darling! I’m Lorenzo, your personal stylist,” he said in an extravagant Italian accent. My, you’re just as beautiful in person as you were onscreen! Alexander, my love, it’s going to be a pleasure working with you.”

Lorenzo bundled him into the shower, fussing and cooing.

When he emerged, the stylist was waiting outside, ready to shave him with a cut-throat razor.

“Come on, my love, and let me give you a proper shave,” he said, seating Alex at the dressing table.

“I want your skin to be as smooth as a baby’s bottom. ”

Alex made a face into the mirror.

Lorenzo laughed at him. “Don’t mind me, I like to talk. I’ll shave you once on ordinary days, and twice if you’re receiving guests in the evening – unless those particular guests would prefer you looking rakish, sweetheart.” He lathered Alex’s chin and began his task.

Alex wondered what it would be like to move his head a fraction and feel the sharp blade of the razor slip into his jugular.

“I’m an expert on Mr Tyler’s guests,” Lorenzo told him as he worked. “I research them all, so I can create precisely the right look to appeal to them, because, as I always say?—”

“What’s your real name?” Alex demanded.

“What, dear?”

“All your camp bullshit is wasted on me, sweetheart . I’ve been in more gay bars and slept with more queens than you’ve had manicures.” He glanced contemptuously at the man’s impeccably polished fingernails. “What’s your real name? It’s sure as hell not Lorenzo.”

“My real name’s Brian, and I’m from Braintree. Does that make you feel better, love?” Lorenzo replied in a harder tone.

“No. Does it make you feel better to pretend you’re some hotshot Italian stylist?”

“Listen, handsome, I’m an IS just like you.

” Lorenzo gestured at his identity tag. “But unlike you, I didn’t steal a truckload of money from my own father to end up this way.

I have a proper contract that entitles me to, amongst other things, walk out of that door without a guard trailing me everywhere I go.

Yeah, I could have held on to my freedom and be working in an army shop, but I wanted more.

I may not be dressing Hollywood stars, but by swallowing my pride and taking Mr Tyler’s ID tag, I get to work with the next best thing – and in this country, right now, that’s you.

There isn’t a stylist in Britain that doesn’t want to be dressing you, but that honour goes to me.

So you’ll have to learn to suck it up, big boy. ”

Alex stared at him in the mirror and then broke into a wide grin.

Lorenzo stared back haughtily for a second, and then joined in.

“We’re going to get along just fine, Alexander, my love, trust me,” he told him with a wink.

He finished shaving Alex and then pulled some clothes from the wardrobe.

“I want to try out some different looks on you, darling, so we know what to go for, depending on who we’re entertaining.

You must have a repertoire – just like Solange.

Luckily, you’re incredibly versatile. See, you can be an innocent young lad…

” He flattened Alex’s hair down and pressed a tie up to his neck, making him look like a fresh-faced schoolboy.

“Or a debauched sex god.” He ruffled his hair into a just-got-fucked tousle and held a scarlet shirt under his chin.

“You’re wonderful – so many looks, such great bone structure.

You’ll be a joy to work with, just like our beautiful Solange. ”

Alex had no interest in different “looks”, especially as none of them corresponded with his own style.

But his bohemian clothes, loose hair, and stubbled jaw were gone; when Lorenzo was finished with him, he was a clean-shaven, beautifully dressed mannequin, his hair artfully styled into waves with handfuls of product.

“Now, don’t you look beautiful,” the stylist exclaimed.

“I don’t look like me,” Alex said, trying to find some trace of himself in his reflection.

“Psh! What was so good about being you, hmm?” Lorenzo asked, patting his shoulder kindly. “We all want to be someone else, really, don’t we, sweetie?”

Clearly, this was all part of Tyler’s plan to erase Alexander Lytton and construct the perfect IS in his place.

But Alex refused to be erased. As he gazed at himself in the mirror, he decided that he would seek out some trace of himself every day, even if it was just a sardonic smile or ironically raised eyebrow.

He saw it now – beneath the hair product and unfamiliar clothing, there was a glimmer of his real self in the contemptuous curl of his lip.

He exhaled. He was still here. The day he couldn’t see any sign of himself would be the day George Tyler had won.

After the styling session, he was escorted to the kitchen. The chef, who appeared to have no name other than “Chef”, placed a plate of eggs and toast and then a bowl of fruit and yoghurt in front of him. It smelled and tasted delicious, but he wasn’t hungry; he barely managed a couple of mouthfuls.

After breakfast, Chef spent a couple of hours going through the foods he liked and disliked, and any food allergies and intolerances, making copious notes.

Chef was a small dark energetic man with a heavy French accent; like everyone else Alex encountered, he was wearing an ID tag.

Alex wondered if he was a refugee – plenty of people had fled the warlords in Central Europe to sign a rich person’s IS contract in Britain.

It guaranteed they’d be fed and clothed, if nothing else.

When Chef was finished, Alex was escorted to the gym and introduced to his personal trainer. Mason was a short man with unfeasibly huge muscles, and a moustache that sat on his upper lip like a fat brown slug.

Alex had always found anything to do with fitness utterly tedious, after hours spent listening to his mother and Charles discussing training regimes over the breakfast table. Mason didn’t look as if he was going to make the subject any more interesting.

First, he was made to run on a treadmill attached to a heart monitor. Then he was taken through various strength, speed, and agility trials that were both boring and exhausting.

“You’re in appalling shape for a man your age. It’ll take months to get you to where you should be,” Mason complained, and set to work devising a personal fitness programme that sounded like nothing short of torture.