POV: Adrian
The footsteps in Marcus's penthouse stop.
Then a voice cuts through the darkness—female, cold, and terrifyingly familiar.
"Hello, Adrian."
My mother.
But that's impossible. My mother is dead. I watched her funeral six years ago. I gave the eulogy. I buried her.
Except I didn't.
The lights flicker back on, and standing in Marcus Ashford's living room, holding a gun pointed directly at Isabelle, is Margaret Kane.
My mother. Alive. And smiling like this is a family reunion instead of a hostage situation.
"Surprised?" She tilts her head. "You should be. After all, you're the one who's been cashing my death benefit checks for six years."
My legs won't move. My brain won't process what I'm seeing.
"Mom?"
"In the flesh." She gestures with the gun. "Though I have to say, Adrian, I'm disappointed. You were supposed to keep the wife happy for at least five years before we made our move. But you got sloppy. Emotional. Weak."
"What are you talking about?" But even as I ask, pieces start clicking into place. The convenient meeting with Isabelle. The way Vanessa appeared right after our wedding. The business contracts that materialized from nowhere.
"Oh, sweetheart." Mom laughs. "Did you really think you met your billionaire wife by accident? I've been setting this up since you were twenty-five years old."
Isabelle backs toward her brother. "Adrian, what is she saying?"
"I don't know—"
"He knows exactly what I'm saying." Mom moves closer, her gun steady. "Six years ago, I faked my death to escape fraud charges. I've been living comfortably in Switzerland, planning the perfect con. And my darling son here was the key to everything."
"No." I shake my head. "I didn't know you were alive. I thought—"
"You thought I died poor and desperate?" She snorts. "Please. I left you instructions before my 'funeral.' Told you exactly which charity events to attend. Which naive heiresses to target. How to play the struggling artist looking for love."
"That's a lie!" But my voice wavers because it's not entirely a lie.
I remember the letter. The one that arrived the day after her funeral. I thought it was her final message, telling me to make something of myself. To find someone who could lift me out of poverty.
But what if it was instructions?
"Check your email, Adrian," Mom says sweetly. "The one from six years ago. Subject line: 'Your Future.' Go ahead. I'll wait."
With shaking hands, I pull out my phone and scroll back. Way back. To right after her funeral.
There it is.
I open the email and my world collapses.
"Dear Adrian, If you're reading this, my death was successful. Don't worry—I'm alive and well. But the world thinks I'm dead, which means I'm free. And so are you. I've identified three potential targets. Rich. Naive. Desperate for real love. Study them. Befriend them. Make one fall for you. I'll handle the rest. In five years, we'll be rich enough to disappear forever. Love, Mom. P.S. The Ashford girl is perfect. She'll test you eventually—they all do. Play along. Be patient. The payoff will be worth it."
Below the message are detailed profiles. Three women, including Isabelle.
Including notes about her personality. Her insecurities. Her desperate need to be loved for herself, not her money.
"Oh God." The phone falls from my hand.
"You set him up," Marcus growls. "You manipulated your own son—"
"I taught him to survive," Mom snaps. "Something his pathetic father never could. And Adrian was doing fine until he forgot the mission and actually fell for the mark."
"I didn't—" But I stop because she's right.
Somewhere along the way, between the fake smiles and the planned romance, I started believing my own lies. I married Isabelle thinking I was playing a part, but I fell for her anyway.
Then I hated myself for it.
Then I hated her for making me feel weak.
"You turned your son into a monster," Isabelle says quietly.
"I turned him into a millionaire. Or I would have, if he'd followed the plan." Mom's eyes narrow. "But instead, he got distracted by a secretary and blew everything."
"Vanessa was your plant," I realize. "You sent her to keep me on track."
"Obviously. And she did her job perfectly—keeping you angry at your wife, reminding you why you were really there. But then you had to go and confess your affair like an idiot, and now look at this mess."
The room spins. "Everything? Everything was fake?"
"Not everything." Mom smiles. "Your architectural talent is real. Which is why I ensured the Ashford family sent you contracts. I built your career, Adrian. Made you look successful so Isabelle would stay married to you long enough for us to drain her accounts."
"But she was already paying for everything—"
"Pennies compared to what we needed." Mom pulls out a tablet. "See this? This is Isabelle's full financial portfolio. Five billion dollars in assets. Properties. Stocks. A trust fund that matures next month." She looks at Isabelle. "And thanks to marriage laws, Adrian gets half of everything if you die before the divorce is finalized."
The words hit me like bullets.
"Die?"
"Well, obviously." Mom sighs like I'm being dense. "The divorce papers were filed today. Which means we have maybe forty-eight hours before the courts process them and Adrian loses his claim to your fortune. So you're going to have a tragic accident tonight. Devastated husband inherits everything. Six months later, Adrian 'dies' too, and I collect as his sole living relative."
"You're insane," Marcus says.
"I'm practical." Mom points the gun at Sophie's photo on the wall. "Speaking of which, where's the youngest Ashford? I sent very specific instructions about her attending that warehouse."
My stomach drops. "What did you do?"
"Insurance. Sophie Ashford is currently tied up in a building rigged to explode if I don't send an all-clear signal every thirty minutes." She checks her watch. "Twenty-seven minutes left, by the way."
"You're bluffing," Isabelle breathes.
Mom pulls out her phone and shows us live video. Sophie, crying, bound to a chair, surrounded by what looks like explosives.
"Oh my God." Isabelle lurches forward, but Marcus catches her.
"Here's what's going to happen," Mom says calmly. "Isabelle, you're going to transfer fifty million dollars to an offshore account right now. Then you're going to come with me quietly. Sign some papers. And have a fatal accident. In exchange, Sophie goes free and everyone lives happily ever after."
"Except Isabelle," Marcus snarls.
"Well, yes. Obviously except Isabelle." Mom shrugs. "But think of it this way—her death saves a seventeen-year-old girl. That's almost heroic."
"I'll do it." Isabelle's voice is steady. "I'll transfer the money. I'll come with you. Just let Sophie go first."
"Isabelle, no—" I start.
"Shut up, Adrian." She won't even look at me. "You've done enough."
Mom smiles victoriously. "Smart girl. I can see why my son almost loved you. Get your phone out and—"
The window explodes inward.
Glass flies everywhere. Something metallic clatters across the floor.
"FBI! Hands up!"
Agents pour through the broken window, through the doors, surrounding us. Mom tries to run, but they tackle her before she moves three feet.
"Margaret Kane, you're under arrest for kidnapping, attempted murder, fraud, and about fifteen other charges," Agent Morrison says, cuffing her. "You have the right to remain silent—"
"This is a mistake!" Mom screams. "Adrian! Tell them! Tell them you were part of this!"
All eyes turn to me.
"Were you?" Agent Morrison asks quietly. "Were you part of the plan to kill your wife?"
I look at Isabelle. She's staring at me with those emerald eyes, waiting for my answer.
Did I know? Did some part of me understand what Mom was planning?
The email. The profiles. The convenient contacts. The way everything fell into place so perfectly.
"I..." My voice cracks. "I didn't know she was alive. I swear I didn't know about the murder plan. But the rest..." I can't finish.
"The rest?" Isabelle whispers.
"The charity event where we met. The struggling artist routine. Meeting you wasn't an accident." The confession burns coming out. "I was following instructions from a dead woman. Or a woman I thought was dead."
Isabelle's face crumbles.
"So everything—our entire relationship—was based on a con?"
"At first. But then I fell for you, and I hated it, and I—" I'm crying now. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
Agent Morrison puts his hand on my shoulder. "Adrian Kane, you're under arrest as a potential accomplice—"
"Wait!" Mom shrieks from the floor. "He doesn't know the best part! Tell them, Adrian! Tell them what I told you the night before your wedding!"
Ice floods my veins. "I don't know what you're—"
"I told you Isabelle's legs were never broken!" Mom's laughing now, hysterical. "I told you she was faking her disability! And you married her anyway because you wanted her money more than you wanted the truth!"
The room goes silent.
Every eye turns to me again.
"Is that true?" Isabelle's voice barely a whisper.
My mouth opens but no sound comes out.
Because it is true.
Mom told me. Three years ago, the night before my wedding, I got a message: "The wife is faking. The braces are props. Play along."
And I did.
I played along because knowing she was rich was worth more than confronting her about the lies.
"You knew," Isabelle says. "This whole time. You knew I was faking, and you still called me useless. You still called me a cripple. You still—" She can't finish.
"I thought if you were faking, you deserved it," I whisper. "I thought you were manipulating me, so I had the right to—"
"To emotionally abuse your wife for three years?" Marcus lunges at me, but agents hold him back.
Agent Morrison's face hardens. "Adrian Kane, you're under arrest for conspiracy to commit fraud and emotional abuse. You have the right to remain silent..."
They're dragging me away, but all I see is Isabelle.
Standing there without her braces.
Looking at me like I'm a stranger.
And I realize, I am.
I don't know who I became. I don't recognize the man who could do these things.
"Isabelle—" I try one last time.
"Don't." She holds up her hand. "I don't ever want to see you again."
The agents push me toward the door, but my mother's voice stops everyone cold.
"Wait! I have one more surprise!" She's laughing, blood running from her lip where they tackled her. "Sophie! Tell them about Sophie!"
Agent Morrison goes pale. "Get a team to that warehouse NOW—"
"Too late," Mom sings. "The timer had a failsafe. If I was arrested, it speeds up. You have five minutes to find her. And good luck—I hid her in one of three identical warehouses across the city."
The room erupts into chaos.
And somewhere, a seventeen-year-old girl is about to die because I fell for a con and became a monster.