I glance at Laird, Jessy, and Matthew with silent hope.This is already humiliating enough for Alan, and I don’t wanna make it worse.
“Oh, yeah, say hi to your mom for me.Actually, I just wanted to invite you.”
“Invite me?”I frown, holding my breath.
God.Every time Alan invites me somewhere, it’s a trap.The Sexy Cat studio, the new car, Mallory—everything with him comes with strings.This one won’t be any different.
“Yes.January second’s Amy’s birthday.”He pauses, like he’s not sure he should say it.
“Oh…” I take a deep breath when I hear that name.My mouth presses into a thin line, holding myself back from scrambling on the floor screaming.It’s getting real.
“I know you had issues with her, but let’s keep it in the past.I’ll pick you up at eight next week.Do you understand?”
I frown at his tone, like a boss talking down to an employee, but I have no choice.I just need to end this call.
“Sure,” I say softly.
* * *
I keep exhaling, trying to calm my nerves.Mom told me to be confident.Laird told me not to be afraid and to face this for the sake of our goal.Easy for them to say.
Am I the only one terrified at the thought of facing the ghosts from my past again?It’s January second, and I’m about to see Amy Schmidt—correction, Amy Morgan.I thought my mission was done after getting Alan’s credit card info, but our investigation isn’t over.
Malcolm Golden and his team are still digging into Alan’s accounts, trying to link them to Peter Morgan or Amy.So far, nothing concrete.If they move too soon, they’ll catch Alan but miss the real mastermind.Their network’s meticulous, backed by Irish mobs who make sure every trace disappears.
So here I am, back undercover as Alan’s fiancée.My new mission: steal the phones of Alan, Amy, and Peter.Can I even do it?I don’t know Peter at all—and Amy, that queen of snakes, will never let her guard down.
Malcolm still hopes I can grab their phones, even for a few minutes.I just need to plug each one into a special device, let the FBI’s phone duplication process finish, and return them without getting caught.
He said the device was foolproof—plug, wait, and done.Even an amateur could handle it.All of that while smiling and pretending everything’s fine.
Why me, though?Shouldn’t actual FBI agents be better at undercover work and data retrieval?Isn’t this technically illegal?Ugh, they just don’t wanna get their hands dirty.Easier to let someone else take the risk.
“Fenella, calm down, sweetheart.”Alan’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts.I turn from the window to his face, all charm and confidence.He takes my hand and gives it a light squeeze.
“Yes.Of course.I just don’t get how you’ve managed to live with Amy and Chris this long,” I say, exhaling hard.I squeeze his hand back politely before pulling away.
“I had to stick it out to get what I want.And I will get it,” he says, flashing that calculated smile.
Just like him, I’ve dressed my best today—if I’m facing Amy, she needs to see I’ve changed.I’m not the same girl she used to bully.
My makeup is flawless, soft and expensive-looking.Using my mocha mousse palette, I could pass for one of those doll-filter influencers online.My hair’s smooth and straight, falling perfectly over my chest.I top it all off with a set of diamond jewelry Alan gave me last week as an engagement gift.
A red satin gown with a low neckline and a high slit that runs up my thigh, paired with a white faux fur coat for elegance and glittering red heels to finish the look.All to make me fit into their circle.
I turn back to the window as the car slows into the upscale neighborhood of Andover.Huge houses with wide lawns and golden gates line the street.
We pull into a long driveway.The mansion ahead is so massive it could pass for a castle.Just counting the windows, I can tell it’s at least three stories with two side wings.
If I didn’t know where their money came from, I might’ve admired the place.But I do.Families lose their homes under crushing taxes while people like them turn that money into palaces.Ugh, the thought makes me sick.
“How do I look?”Alan asks, facing me now.
I study him—always perfectly put together.His hair’s slicked back with a few curls falling over his temples, his confident smile rehearsed.The dark blue three-piece suit fits like it were tailored for sin, and his polished shoes gleam like glass.
He’s nothing like Clark.No red bowtie, no pale skin.Just a salon tan and a new kind of arrogance.
“You look hot,” I say with a small laugh.
