Chapter 8: The voice note

12:01 a.m.

Ava’s phone buzzed.

Blocked number.

No name.

Just a single voice note.

She sat up slowly, the blue glow of the screen casting eerie shadows across the bedroom walls. Her heart thrummed not from fear exactly, but from that gut-deep knowing. That sick pull in her stomach that whispered:

Nothing good comes after midnight.

Her finger hovered over the play button.

Then, she tapped it.

“They’re setting you up, Ava.

The envelope was just the beginning.

Check Grayson’s second phone.

The black one. Top drawer. Behind the sweaters.”

The voice was scrambled, digitized like something out of a crime thriller. Male. Cold. Distorted beyond recognition.

But chillingly certain.

She blinked, trying to breathe. Second phone? Sweaters?

Without thinking, she tossed the duvet aside and padded to the door barefoot.

The Wolfe estate was swallowed in silence. The long hallway stretched out like a tunnel of secrets, dimly lit by antique sconces that flickered with every shift of the night wind.

Grayson’s bedroom was at the far end door cracked open, just slightly.

She stepped inside.

There he was.

Asleep beneath dark gray silk sheets, bare-chested, one arm slung across the pillow like he didn’t have a care in the world. Like he wasn’t hiding things. Like he hadn’t pulled her into a fake marriage wrapped in lies.

But now Ava knew better.

And if the voice note was telling the truth… she’d find proof.

She crept toward the walk-in closet, pushing open the heavy mirrored door. The scent of expensive cologne and leather filled her nose. His suits hung like soldiers in a line pristine, color-coded, intimidating. She reached toward the shelf overhead, brushed aside the folded sweaters…

And there it was.

A slim black phone.

Powered off.

Hidden like a secret lover.

She held her breath, pressed the power button. The screen blinked awake. Locked.

She tried his birthday.

Click.

Unlocked.

Instant regret.

Messages.

Photos.

Voice memos.

Her name was everywhere. Her face. Screenshots of her social media, her student records, even surveillance shots from when she went grocery shopping last week.

Her blood ran cold.

“Ava Sinclair birth records confirmed.”

“Debt confirmed. Family history fractured.”

“Abuse survivor? Still pending verification.”

“Connection to Joe West potential risk.”

“Mental health history: flagged.”

She scrolled faster, heart hammering in her chest.

“She doesn’t know yet. But she will.

I just need her to sign the final clause.”

Final clause?

Ava’s throat closed. Her fingers trembled as she backed away

And then she felt it.

The air shifted.

She turned around.

Grayson was standing in the doorway.

Eyes shadowed. Barefoot. Shirtless.

Watching her.

Calm. Too calm.

“I see you found it,” he said.

His voice was low. Steady. But there was something dangerous just beneath the surface something coiled and waiting.

Ava clutched the phone like it could shield her. “What the hell is this?”

He walked toward her slowly, never breaking eye contact. “You weren’t supposed to see that yet.”

“Were you spying on me?” she snapped.

“I was protecting myself.”

“From what, Grayson?! I signed your contract!”

He stopped in front of her, voice barely above a whisper. “Not the real one.”

Ava’s heart dropped.

“What do you mean not the real one?”

He didn’t answer right away. He just leaned in slightly, close enough that she could smell the faint trace of whiskey and danger on his breath.

Then he said it.

“You never asked what happens if you fall in love.”

Her breath caught.

The room spun. Whether from rage or panic or something darker, she didn’t know.

But one thing was crystal clear now.

This wasn’t just fake anymore.

This was war.

And if he wanted to play dirty, so could she.

She held up the phone between them, then whispered, “I want the real contract.”

Then she walked out without another word