Lucas had told me he’d be leaving town for a quick business trip.
“Only two days,” he’d murmured, pressing a kiss to my forehead like the devoted husband he pretended to be. “I’ll miss you.”
I smiled, played along, and waved goodbye. The second his car disappeared down the driveway, I put my plan into motion.
For days, I had been memorizing his patterns, noting where he kept the things he guarded most. It didn’t take long to find the safe, hidden behind a framed painting in his office.
The passcode? Child’s play. Celeste Veyron’s birthday.
The lock gave way on my first try.
Inside was everything I had been looking for.
The first stack of documents stopped me cold: hospital contracts, organ donation approvals, surgical records—all confirming that Lucas had authorized my mother’s organ to be transplanted into Celeste’s sister.
Tears pricked my eyes, but I swallowed them back.
Next came the financial records. Wire transfers made out to Julian Sterling—my former fiancé. Officially, the paperwork listed them as business transactions. But I wasn’t naive anymore.
My hands shook as I dug deeper. Jewelry receipts, designer brands, luxury getaways. Each one labeled as “corporate expenses,” but every single item had been for Celeste.
Then I uncovered a second set of receipts—the ones meant for me. Necklaces, rings, dresses. I had once thought them extravagant, symbols of his affection. But compared to Celeste’s treasures, they were scraps.
The truth slammed into me like a blow. I had never been his choice. I was simply the stand-in. A convenient cover for his obsession.
I sank onto the office floor, surrounded by his lies. The tears finally fell—scalding, bitter. But only for a moment.
Then I clenched my fists. Enough.
I pulled out my phone and began documenting everything. The hospital files, the transactions, the receipts—I photographed every page.
At the very bottom of the safe lay a folder marked Future Assets. Inside were property deeds, insurance policies, investment portfolios. I copied those too.
When I was finished, I returned everything exactly as I had found it, shut the safe, and walked out.
No hesitation. No glance back.
My next stop: my lawyer’s office.
“Mrs. Rosenthal,” he said, startled as I stepped through the door without an appointment. “I wasn’t expecting—”
“I need divorce papers,” I cut him off, my tone calm and steady.
He blinked. “Does Mr. Rosenthal—”
“He doesn’t know,” I interrupted sharply. “And I’d like to keep it that way. For now.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “We already have a draft prepared. Just your signature is missing.”
He slid the documents toward me. I skimmed them quickly. Everything was in order.
With a steady hand, I signed at the bottom.
“Send them to him after I’m gone,” I instructed. “Not before.”
“Gone?” he echoed, puzzled.
I offered no explanation. I simply left.
The next place was hidden in a forgotten alley, its faded sign nearly illegible.
An underground agency. The kind that specialized in erasing people.
The air reeked of smoke and damp paper when I stepped inside. Behind the counter sat a man in a hood, his face shadowed.
“You lost?” he asked lazily.
“No,” I said, my voice firm. “I need your help.”
His eyes narrowed. “What kind of help?”
“I need to disappear. Completely.”
He leaned back, scrutinizing me. “You even know what that means?”
“Yes.”
A slow smirk tugged at his lips. “And why should I believe I can do that for you?”
I pulled a thick stack of crisp, unmarked cash from my bag and laid it on the counter.
His smirk widened. “Now we’re speaking the same language.”
He gestured for me to follow him into a back room humming with machinery, walls lined with glowing monitors.
“Here’s how it works,” he explained. “We’ll fake your death. Could be a car accident, a drowning, whatever fits. Once it’s done, you’ll get new papers, a new identity. No one will ever trace you.”
My resolve didn’t waver. I nodded.
“I want it staged as a suicide,” I said evenly. “Something believable. No unfinished threads.”
He handed me a clipboard. “Fill this out. We’ll take care of the rest.”
