Chapter 3
I couldn't shake the feeling that Ryder's betrayal wasn't just a coincidence. The timing was too perfect—right when we were about to put down a deposit on our condo. Something larger was at play here.
"Marcus Chen," I said into my phone, pacing the length of my childhood bedroom. "I need your help."
The private investigator's voice was calm, professional. "What can I do for you, Ms. Cunningham?"
"I need everything you can find on someone named Oaklynn Bailey." I twisted the silver ring on my finger—the one Ryder had given me years ago. "I want to know who she really is."
"Consider it done," Marcus replied. "I'll have something for you within 48 hours."
I hung up and stared at my reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back at me wasn't the same one who'd left this house five years ago. That girl had been naive, trusting. This woman had been broken, but was now piecing herself back together with sharp edges.
---
"You were right to be suspicious," Marcus said two days later, sliding a thick folder across the desk in his downtown office. "This woman isn't who she claims to be."
I opened the folder with steady hands. Inside were photographs, financial records, and a detailed timeline of Oaklynn Bailey's activities.
"Her real name is Olivia Bennett," Marcus explained. "She's been working various cons across the country for years. She targets wealthy men, builds relationships, then disappears with whatever she can get."
I flipped through the pages, my stomach churning as I saw the pattern. "How many?"
"Four that I've confirmed. There are likely more."
One photograph showed Oaklynn with a man I didn't recognize—her arm draped possessively around his neck, a diamond bracelet glittering on her wrist. The same bracelet Ryder had given her.
"There's more," Marcus said, his voice lowering. "She's been in contact with someone from your family."
My head snapped up. "What?"
He slid another document across the desk—phone records showing frequent calls between Oaklynn and a number I recognized immediately.
"That's the main line at the Cunningham estate," I whispered.
"Yes. And the calls started months ago—long before you discovered the affair."
I felt the room spin slightly as the implications hit me. This wasn't just about Ryder. This was about me. About my family.
---
That night, I couldn't sleep. The revelations about Oaklynn kept racing through my mind. I tossed and turned until finally giving up and padding downstairs to make tea.
As I passed Dad's study, a light flickered from beneath the door. Had he forgotten to turn it off?
I pushed the door open and froze. The room wasn't empty—a woman sat at Dad's desk, her fingers flying over the keyboard of his computer.
"Who are you?" I demanded.
She jumped, spinning around. For a moment, I thought she might be another ghost from my past. But then I recognized her—the investigator I'd hired months ago.
"Ms. Cunningham," she gasped. "I didn't expect you back."
"What are you doing in my father's office?" I asked, advancing toward her.
She closed the laptop quickly. "I was just finishing up some work."
Something about her demeanor set off alarm bells. I reached for the laptop, but she pulled it away.
"Wait," I said, studying her face. "I know you. You're the investigator I hired to look into Ryder's strange behavior."
Her eyes widened slightly—just enough to confirm my suspicion.
"You're Oaklynn," I whispered, the pieces clicking into place.
She didn't deny it. Instead, she smiled—a cold, calculating smile that never reached her eyes.
"You should be more careful who you hire," she said, standing. "But then again, you should also be more careful who you love."
---
The next morning, I returned to Dad's study with a purpose. If Oaklynn had been accessing his computer, there might be something there—something she didn't want me to find.
I settled behind the massive oak desk and began searching through the financial records of Cunningham Enterprises. Hours passed as I combed through spreadsheets and contracts, my eyes burning from strain.
Then I found it—a series of transfers from company accounts to offshore holdings. Small enough to be overlooked individually, but collectively amounting to millions.
I dug deeper, tracing the money trail back to its source. The evidence led to one person: Lawson.
The contracts had been altered—numbers changed, signatures forged. It was a sophisticated scheme, but not sophisticated enough to escape detection if someone was looking for it.
As I stared at the evidence of my stepbrother's betrayal, I heard footsteps approaching. I quickly minimized the screen and pretended to be organizing papers.
The door opened, and Lawson strode in, his expression darkening when he saw me.
"What are you doing in here?" he demanded.
I met his gaze steadily. "Looking for answers," I replied. "And I think I've found them."
His eyes darted to the computer screen, then back to me. For just a moment, I saw something flash across his face—something that looked remarkably like fear.