13

Chapter

Brittany's pov

After two days Jackson had called me to be in his office at six in the evening.

His office was like I'd expected—dark wood panels, the leather chairs, the smell of old money and older secrets.

He sat opposite sides from me, then he slid a folder across his desk with the proud look that he had done well in his investigations.

"You'd want to see this Ms Brittany," he said, with that private-investigator smugness clear in his voice.

My fingers touched the folder slightly and my heart kicked up.

Whatever was inside could destroy the woman who'd dared step into Darcy's life and threaten everything I'd planned.

The first page made me smile.

"Adrian Martinez," I read the content louder, enjoying the name. "Convicted of drug trafficking. Served three years at Rikers Island Women's prison." I looked at Jackson, my smile widened from ear to ear "A drug dealer. Better than I hoped."

"Keep reading," he said, leaning back.

I flipped the pages fast. Employment history at a strip club called The Velvet Room. No family listed, no assets, no education past high school. Several photos showed Adrian on stage, dressed to sell herself to paying men.

"She's a stripper," I breathed. "An ex-con. This is perfect."

The photos were the best. It had grainy security shots of her entering and leaving the club, the time-stamped and dated. Proof of the life she'd led before she walked into Darcy's house. That evidence carries every detail I needed.

"Women like her have something to hide," I said, feeling a rush of satisfaction. "No decent nanny would be that desperate."

Jackson cleared his throat. "There's more."

"More?" I lifted my head, surprised. What could top this?

He pushed a thicker folder across the desk. "This is where it gets interesting."

I opened it, expecting more dirt on Adrian. Instead I found financial records—bank statements, wire transfers, transaction notes. All with Darcy's signature.

"What is this?" I asked, confusion cutting through my triumph.

"Look here," Jackson said, pointing to a highlighted line. "A payment from Darcy Rodrigo to Rikers Island. Fifty thousand dollars, sent three years ago."

My blood turned cold. "Fifty thousand? To a prison?"

"To the facility where Adrian was serving time," he said.

My mind raced. Why would Darcy send money to a prison? And to that prison at that time?

I scan at the name of the prison again, scan at the photos of it. The name was familiar, then I remembered...

A memory I had buried came back—three years ago, angry and desperate, I made a choice that felt like a sure thing. It had seemed perfect then, cruel but effective.

The hospital room had been plain and bright, disinfectant sharp in the air. I stood outside a door, listening to a woman give birth. But I could see her clearly. I felt nothing but cold satisfaction.

"Is she alone?" I'd asked a nurse I had paid, a small woman who took my money without hesitation.

"Yes. No visitors. Just guards," the nurse had whispered.

Perfect. I waited until the newborn's cries quieted, then followed my plan. I'd told the nurse what to do. The prisoner would be told her baby had died—a believable story in that place. No one would ask. I would take the child and use her to tie Darcy to me.

I watched the exhausted mother through the window—a young woman with wet dark hair, grey eyes. I didn't see her clearly, I saw the mark on her breast. She looked lost. I felt nothing. All that mattered was the plan: give Darcy a baby and win him back.

Now, looking at the documents in Jackson's office, that memory returned sharp and ugly.

"Brittany?" Jackson said. "You act like you just saw a ghost."

I couldn’t speak. My shaky hands held the papers tight, as my thoughts raced.

The prisoner I'd stolen a child from, was it Adrian Martinez? The club photos. The way the little girl clung to her at the interviews. Pink had attached to Adrian in a way no one could explain.

"No," I whispered. "No, it's possible."

But the pieces fit too well. She was in the prison at the birth timing, the payment from Darcy, the photos—everything suggested a link I had prayed would never surface.

"Why would Darcy send money to the prison?" I asked, voice small.

Jackson lifted his shoulders in confusion. "I'm still trying to understand the same thing. The payment was listed as an anonymous donation, but I was only able to trace it back to his account. No reasons at all."

Anonymous. The word felt like a lie. If Darcy had known of Adrian, or helped in some way, my theft could be exposed. Or worse—what if he had known and hadn't told me? What would that make me?

But if he doesn't know, why did he make these huge payments to bail prisoners?

The thought of Adrian reclaiming her child, if she's her biological daughter, burned through me. The life I'd built on the lie would collapse. My chance with Darcy would be ruined.

"I need you to dig deeper," I told Jackson. "Find every paper linked to that payment. Who authorized it? Why was it sent? Any records from the prison hospital three years ago. Find birth records. Find anything connecting Adrian to that time."

"Those records are sealed," Jackson warned. "Medical privacy laws—"

"I don't care how hard it is," I interrupted. "Use your contacts. Bend rules if you must. I need answers."

His face went serious. "If there's a biological link between Adrian and Pink and Darcy knows about it, you're in real trouble."

Complicated was too gentle a word. Terrifying fits better.

I thought about my time with Pink, my awkward attempts at motherhood, and then the way the little girl was drawn to Adrian from the moment they met. I'd dismissed it as a child's instinct. Now I feared it was something deeper—recognition.

"What did you tell Darcy when you paid?" Jackson asked softly. "If you find he sent the money, we need to know what he claimed it was for."

I had no ready answer. I could lie to myself—maybe conclude he'd been helping a charity, or that it was an impulsive act of kindness. But the idea of Darcy having any involvement made my stomach flip.

"Get me everything on that payment and the prison birth records," I repeated, forcing calm. "I want it within forty-eight hours."

"Forty-eight hours is tight," Jackson said.

"Then work faster," I snapped. "I don't have time to delay."

I left with the folders like armor. My step was steady until I reached my car. Then I let myself slump against the wheel and breathe.

This couldn't be happening. Not now, when the merger and the wedding were so close. Not when I had almost everything I wanted.

Adrian Martinez was supposed to be a minor problem—someone I could smear and dismiss. Instead, she might be the key to undoing me. If she was Pink's mother and she found out, she would fight. She wouldn't be satisfied with rumors; she would want her child.

And Darcy? The payment suggested he had some connection to that prison. Had he known? Helped? Kept quiet?

Anger and fear churned. If Adrian was the mother and learned the truth, I would not let her ruin me without a fight. That woman had lost once—told her baby was dead. I would make sure she had nothing left to take.

I imagined the steps I'd take. Discredit Adrian publicly, make her past the only thing people saw. Feed the tabloids the photos, the club records, the arrest details. Paint her as unstable and dangerous. If she had been a drug dealer and a stripper, let that be the story.

I would also tighten the legal hold on Pink—double-check the adoption paperwork, confirm every signature. The documents I had forged had been convincing. I trusted the lawyer who'd handled the adoption, the one who arranged for the nurse to disappear and ensured the death certificate held up. But if Darcy suspected anything, even solid papers might not protect me.

Most of all, I had to control Darcy. If he worried, I would steer him away from the past. Keep him busy, flattered, in love with the image I'd made of myself. Make sure he had no reason to search.

The plan felt fragile, like glass on a shelf. One wrong move and everything would shatter.

But I never gave up when threatened. I had lied, bribed, and schemed before, and I'd do it again to protect what I had.

If Adrian tried to claim the child, I'd fight to ruin her — not just take the child, but destroy her reputation, her chances, and everything she cared about. I just wish they are not connected.

I would make sure no one believed her. I would use the dirt Jackson had already found and more.

I patted the folders in my bag as if they were a talisman and started the car. Anger sharpened my focus.

Fear made me ruthless. I drove through the city in a fog, lights blurring as I ran a hard checklist in my head: ruin her reputation, lock down the adoption papers, and find out what Darcy knew.

I'd call the reporters on my speed dial, feed them Jackson's dossier, and shape a story until Adrian became the scandal everyone remembered. A public smear would be faster than a courtroom.

I pictured Darcy's face if he learned the truth. Would he help her? The thought sickened me. I had to keep him near, distracted with events, praised, and sure that I was his future. That way he would have no reason to search the past.

Night settled while I sat in the car. I thought of the lawyer who arranged the adoption. If any gap existed, I would seal it. If anyone threatened my claim, I would ruin them first.

I took a calm breath, my jaw clenched, and vowed again: I would keep what I'd built safe. I had taken risks and won. I would do it again.

No one would take this from me—ever, for any reason.