POV: Isabelle
I watch Adrian being dragged out of the ballroom, and I feel absolutely nothing.
No satisfaction. No revenge. Just emptiness where love used to live.
"Isabelle?" Marcus touches my arm gently. "Are you okay?"
"I need air."
The crowd parts as I walk toward the balcony. Everyone whispers, but I don't care anymore. Let them talk. Let them judge. I'm done hiding.
Outside, the city sparkles below me. Somewhere out there is the tiny apartment where I wasted three years of my life. Where I clicked around in fake braces, cooking dinner for a man who was laughing about me with my best friend.
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number: "You think you've won? Think again. -V"
Vanessa.
I should be angry. Instead, I laugh. She still doesn't understand that she lost the moment she chose Adrian Kane over basic human decency.
Another text comes through, this time with a photo attachment.
I open it and my blood freezes.
It's a picture of me. Taken three years ago. I'm walking into a hospital—no braces, no limp. The date stamp shows it's from six months into my marriage.
Below the photo: "I've had proof of your fake disability for TWO YEARS. If you destroy Adrian, I'll destroy you. The media will love this story."
My hands shake so badly I nearly drop the phone.
She's been blackmailing me. That's why she stayed close. That's why she played the supportive friend while sleeping with my husband. She had leverage the whole time.
"Isabelle?" Marcus steps onto the balcony. "What's wrong?"
I show him the text.
His face goes deadly calm—the expression that means someone is about to regret being born. "She took this at St. Mary's Hospital. That's where you went for your actual medical checkups."
"She followed me." The realization makes me sick. "For two years, she's been following me, collecting evidence, waiting for the perfect moment to use it."
"She won't get the chance." Marcus takes my phone. "I'm calling our lawyers right now. Blackmail is illegal, and—"
"Wait." Something doesn't add up. "If she had this proof for two years, why didn't she use it before? Why wait until now?"
Marcus frowns. "What do you mean?"
"She could have exposed me anytime. She could have shown Adrian. She could have sold the story to magazines." I pace the balcony. "But she waited. Why?"
My phone rings in Marcus's hand. Unknown number again.
"Don't answer it," he warns.
But I grab the phone and answer anyway. "What do you want, Vanessa?"
"Smart girl." Her voice is cold, nothing like the sweet friend I knew. "I want money. Fifty million dollars, or that photo goes viral."
"Fifty million—"
"You're a billionaire, Izzy. It's pocket change. Pay me, and I disappear forever. Refuse, and the whole world learns that poor, disabled Isabelle Ashford faked everything to trap a man."
"I didn't trap anyone—"
"That's not how the media will see it. They'll call you manipulative. A liar. Poor Adrian will become the victim, and you'll be the crazy rich girl who played sick to test her boyfriend." Vanessa laughs. "Your reputation will be destroyed. Your family's company will suffer. All because you couldn't just let Adrian go."
She's right. The story will twist into something ugly. People will forget Adrian's cheating and focus on my deception.
"I need time to think—"
"You have one hour. Transfer the money to the account I'm texting you, or I send this to every news outlet in the city." She hangs up.
Marcus is already typing on his phone. "I'm getting our security team to track her location. We'll have her arrested before she can—"
"She's not working alone," I say suddenly.
"What?"
"Think about it. Vanessa isn't smart enough to pull this off by herself. The blackmail, the timing, the amount she's asking for—someone else is helping her."
Marcus stops typing. "Who?"
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes with a new message. This time it's a video.
I press play and my world shatters again.
It's Adrian. He's sitting in what looks like a hotel room, talking to someone off-camera.
"How much longer do I have to keep this up?" Adrian asks. His voice sounds tired. Annoyed. "Playing the loving husband to that clingy cripple is exhausting."
The video is dated six months into our marriage.
Six months.
A woman's voice responds—Vanessa's voice: "Just a little longer, baby. Once you're established in the business world, we can get rid of her. But right now, you need the sympathy angle. Everyone loves a man who stays with his disabled wife."
"I just want to be with you," Adrian says, pulling her into frame. They kiss, and I can see both their faces clearly.
The video ends.
My knees give out. Marcus catches me before I hit the ground.
"They planned it," I whisper. "From the beginning. They planned everything."
"Isabelle—"
"I thought I was testing him. I thought I was being clever, hiding my identity to find real love." Tears stream down my face. "But he knew. He knew I was faking, and he used it against me."
"That's impossible. How could he have known—"
My phone rings again. This time I recognize the number.
It's my father's lawyer. The one who helped me stage the fake accident three years ago.
With shaking hands, I answer. "Mr. Peterson?"
"Miss Ashford." His voice sounds strained. "I'm calling because someone broke into my office last night. They stole files. Specifically, they stole the paperwork related to your... arrangement."
The world tilts.
"What arrangement?" Marcus demands.
"The car accident staging. The medical records showing her legs were never damaged. The contracts with actors who played witnesses." Mr. Peterson sounds terrified. "Everything. They have documentation proving the entire disability was planned."
I sink onto a bench. "When did they take it?"
"Three years ago. Right after you got married." He pauses. "Miss Ashford, I think someone has been blackmailing me to stay quiet. I've been receiving payments every month to not report the theft."
"Who?" Marcus growls.
"The payments come from a shell corporation. But I did some digging after the break-in was discovered. The corporation is owned by..." He hesitates. "Adrian Kane's mother."
The phone slips from my hand.
Adrian's mother died five years ago.
Or at least, that's what he told me.
Marcus picks up my phone, his face white with rage. "Mr. Peterson, I need every detail about those payments. Now."
While Marcus talks to the lawyer, my mind races. Adrian told me his mother died in poverty. That he grew up poor, struggling, desperate to escape that life.
But if his mother is alive and running shell corporations...
My phone buzzes with another text. This time from a number I don't recognize at all:
"Hello, daughter-in-law. It's time we finally met. Your husband's success was never about architecture. It was about finding a rich, naive girl stupid enough to fall for his lies. Congratulations—you played your part perfectly. Now pay up, or I'll make sure the world knows exactly what kind of person you really are. You have 30 minutes. -Margaret Kane"
Below the message is an address. A warehouse on the east side of the city.
And a photo of my younger cousin Sophie, bound to a chair, tears streaming down her face.
"Come alone, or she dies."