Chapter 3 - The Oceanfront Illusion
The Maybach sped down the coastal highway toward La Jolla, but Adrian didn't direct Marcus to the mansion. He directed him straight to Savannah’s oceanfront apartment complex.
He needed stability. He needed someone who hadn't betrayed him. He needed the sweet, adoring comfort of the woman who was carrying his child—the son who would replace the family that had just stabbed him in the back.
He didn't use his key this time. He hammered his fist against the heavy mahogany door of unit 402.
“Savannah! Open up! It’s me!”
A moment later, the lock clicked. The door swung open.
Savannah stood there wearing a silk designer robe, her hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders. But the adoring, fragile smile he was used to seeing was completely gone.
Instead, she looked annoyed—the look of a tenant whose lease had just been canceled.
“Adrian,” she sighed, leaning against the doorframe. “Why are you banging on the door like a lunatic? The neighbors are staring.”
Adrian pushed past her into the apartment, his chest heaving. “My house is gone. My company is gone. Claire seized everything.”
Savannah didn't gasp. She didn't drop her coffee cup. She simply walked over to the kitchen island, picked up her phone, and tapped the screen.
“I know,” she said casually.
Adrian stopped dead in his tracks. “What do you mean, you know?”
Savannah turned around, crossing her arms over her silk robe. The gentle, round curve of her stomach beneath the fabric looked slightly unnatural as she shifted her weight. She reached down, pulled a small, folded silicone prosthetic bump from beneath her robe, and tossed it carelessly onto the marble countertop. It landed with a dull, hollow thud.
Adrian stared at it, his brain refusing to process what his eyes were seeing.
“What… what is that?” he whispered.
“It’s a prop, Adrian,” Savannah said, her voice dripping with bored indifference. “Do you honestly think a twenty-four-year-old fashion consultant with expensive taste was going to ruin her body and her twenties having a baby with a mid-tier corporate climber who didn't even buy her a real penthouse?”
The room seemed to tilt sideways.
“You… you aren’t pregnant?”
“Of course not,” Savannah laughed, a sharp, metallic sound. “The morning sickness stories? The cravings? All scripted by your lovely wife’s private investigators, who conveniently introduced us at that venture conference eighteen months ago.”
Adrian grabbed the edge of the kitchen island, his knuckles turning white. “What are you talking about?”
“Who do you think funded this apartment, Adrian?” Savannah asked, stepping closer to him with a cruel smirk. “Who do you think paid my lease, my luxury car notes, and my boutique shopping sprees? You thought you were being a clever sugar daddy sneaking around behind your quiet wife’s back.”
She tapped her phone screen and held it up to his face.
An email confirmation from Whitmore Family Office, dated two years ago: “Subject: Retention Agreement - Project Siren. Monthly stipend funded in full. Objective: Infiltrate target’s personal life, document all financial indiscretions, and ensure complete domestic destabilization upon command.”
Adrian felt the blood drain entirely from his face.
“Claire…” he choked out. “Claire hired you?”
“She didn't even have to try hard,” Savannah said, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “You walked right into every single trap like a starving dog chasing a steak. And now that the game is over, my contract has been paid out in full, and I’m catching a flight to Paris this afternoon.”
May you like
She walked toward the front door and pulled it wide open.
“Get out, Adrian. Your credit cards are canceled, and your name isn't on the lease anymore. You’re completely broke.”
