Nancy pulled up the physical sign-in sheet, photographed and archived. Aiden’s name wasn’t there. The page showed a gap as if that line had been skipped entirely.
“He signed it,” Nancy said bewildered. “I watched him sign it.” Someone had digitally altered the archived image, removing his signature with surgical precision.
But they hadn’t thought to check the security footage. Aiden had been planning this for months, gathering information about every asset, every policy, every possible source of money. He’d even targeted my mother, mining her confused memories for financial details.
I drove back from New Jersey with Nancy’s security footage saved on my phone. Another piece of evidence in the growing mountain of Aiden’s deception. The Sunday evening traffic moved slowly, giving me time to process the calculated cruelty of visiting my mother.
Extracting financial information from a woman whose mind drifted between decades like a radio searching for signals. My phone buzzed with a message from Kaylee. Her flight had landed at Charles de Gaulle three hours ago.
The attached photos made my hands tighten on the steering wheel. Aiden and Madison at the airport currency exchange, his hand on the small of her back with casual intimacy. Another photo showed them getting into a taxi.
Madison’s head tilted toward his shoulder, both of them laughing at something on his phone. The timestamp showed 4:47 p.m. Paris time. The next photo stopped my breathing for a moment.
They stood at the reception desk of the Hotel Lancaster on the Champs-Élysées, a place where rooms started at 800 euros per night. Madison wore a diamond bracelet I recognized, the one Aiden had supposedly bought for his mother’s 70th birthday six months ago. The body language between them spoke of practiced comfort, the kind that develops over years, not months.
The way she adjusted his collar, the way he guided her through the lobby with proprietary confidence. This wasn’t a recent affair. This was a relationship that might have predated our entire marriage.
I pulled into our building’s garage at 8:30 to find Marcus pacing near the elevator, his phone pressed to his ear. When he saw me, his face rearranged itself into concern, but not fast enough to hide the flash of anxiety underneath. “There you are,” he said, ending his call abruptly. “I was getting worried.”
“How’s your mother?” “She’s fine.” Just confused about some old financial documents.
I watched him process this, saw the slight relaxation in his shoulders when I didn’t elaborate. Back in our apartment, I made a decision that would either expose everything or destroy my chance at justice. Sitting across from Marcus at our dining table, I pulled out my phone with deliberate casualness.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said scrolling through my calendar. “Our anniversary is coming up next month.” Eight years since that dinner party where we met.
Marcus nodded, his actor’s training keeping his expression neutral despite the fact that Aiden and I had been married for seven years, not eight. Another test failed. “I want to do something special. A surprise party.”
“Tuesday morning, before the markets open.” Invite all your colleagues from the firm, your biggest clients. Show them the apartment, serve champagne and those little pastries from that French place you love.
His eyes flickered with confusion. “Tuesday morning?” That’s unusual timing for a party.
“You always said the best deals happen before breakfast.” Besides, it would be memorable. Different.
I pulled up my contacts, letting enthusiasm color my voice. “I’ll handle everything.” You just need to send the invites tonight.
Make it sound exclusive, urgent. Tell them it’s important they attend. Marcus hesitated, clearly trying to figure out if this was part of his script or something unexpected.
But refusing would break character, and maintaining his cover was paramount. “If that’s what you want,” he said finally. “Perfect. Send them now while I make dinner.”
“I want to see their responses.” I watched him compose the message on his phone, his fingers moving reluctantly across the screen. Investment banking colleagues, major clients, people whose presence would be impossible to explain away when federal agents arrived.
Within minutes, responses started coming in. Confusion mixed with agreement. When Aiden Mercer requested your presence, you showed up.
While preparing our last dinner together, I felt an unexpected wave of sympathy for Marcus Webb. He was a failed actor from Queens who’d thought he was getting a break, playing a role for what he probably assumed was a reality show or an elaborate prank. Instead, he’d become an accessory to federal crimes, trapped in a performance where the stakes were prison sentences, not bad reviews.
I made salmon with asparagus, simple and quick. Marcus sat at the kitchen island, maintaining the illusion of domestic normalcy while both of us knew something had fundamentally shifted. The script he’d memorized no longer matched the scene being played.
“Wine.” I offered, holding up a bottle of the Malbec we usually shared on Sunday nights. He shook his head quickly.
“I’m not feeling well.” Think I might be coming down with something. The first time in three months he’d refused alcohol.
His instincts were screaming warnings, even if his conscious mind hadn’t fully processed the danger. I poured myself a glass, needing the liquid courage for what was coming. “Marcus,” I said quietly and his whole body went rigid.
I never called Aiden by the wrong name. “I know who you are.” The silence stretched between us like a tightrope.
His face cycled through emotions: surprise, fear, calculation, and finally resignation. When he spoke, the British accent was gone, replaced by pure Brooklyn. “How long have you known?”
“Since Tuesday morning, when my sister saw the real Aiden boarding a plane while you sat in our living room.” He put his head in his hands, the gesture so genuinely human that my anger flickered. “I didn’t know. About the crimes, I mean.”
“He said you were separated, that he needed someone to house-sit, keep up appearances for business reasons.” Paid me $20,000 in cash to pretend to be him for three months. I thought it was weird but legal.
“Did you really believe that?” “I wanted to.” His voice cracked slightly. “I’ve been auditioning for 15 years.”
Waiting tables, driving delivery trucks, watching younger actors get the parts I wanted. Then this guy shows up, offers me more money than I’ve ever seen to play a role. I didn’t ask questions because I couldn’t afford to.
My phone buzzed with a text from Grace. “FBI moving tomorrow morning. Everything is in place.”
I looked at Marcus, this stranger who’d slept in my bed, eaten at my table, participated in a deception that had destroyed my life. But sitting across from him now, seeing the defeat in his shoulders, I recognized another victim of Aiden’s manipulation. “Tomorrow morning, federal agents are going to arrive.”
“The people you invited will be here to witness it.” You can either be arrested as a co-conspirator or cooperate as a witness. “Witness,” he said immediately.
“God, witness.” I have documents, recordings. He made me keep everything in case you got suspicious.
“Said it was insurance.” Marcus spent the night on our couch after showing me a storage unit key where he’d kept everything. Contracts, recordings of phone calls with Aiden, detailed instructions for maintaining the deception.
We barely slept, both of us waiting for the dawn that would end this elaborate performance. At 5:47 a.m., my phone rang. “They got them,” Kaylee said, her voice carrying exhaustion and satisfaction in equal measure.
“French police arrested them at Charles de Gaulle.” They were trying to board a connecting flight to Switzerland. I put her on speaker so Marcus could hear.
He sat up on the couch, the blanket I’d given him pulled around his waist, looking like a man about to hear his own verdict. “The arrest was dramatic,” Kaylee continued. They were in the premium lounge when police arrived.
Madison started crying, claiming she didn’t know anything about any crimes. But Aiden, his composure finally cracked. He tried to run.
They tackled him right there in front of everyone. Someone filmed it, it’s already on European news channels. Marcus closed his eyes, perhaps realizing how close he’d come to being in those handcuffs himself.
I walked to the kitchen and began making coffee, my hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my system. The apartment would soon fill with witnesses to the culmination of Aiden’s deception. By 7:30 a.m. the first guests began arriving.
Robert Steinberg from Steinberg Industries, looking confused but curious. Jennifer Wu from Phoenix Capital, dressed impeccably despite the unusual hour. David Martinez, several junior partners from Aiden’s firm, clients whose portfolios represented billions in managed assets.
They clustered in our living room, accepting coffee and making awkward small talk about the mysterious urgency of the invitation. “This better be worth it, Aiden,” Robert said to Marcus, who stood frozen by the window. “I canceled a breakfast meeting with the Seoul team.”
Marcus looked at me, panic evident in his eyes. The script hadn’t prepared him for this. I stepped forward, playing the gracious hostess one final time.
“Thank you all for coming.” I know the timing is unusual, but you’ll understand in a moment why your presence is so important. At 7:58 a.m. I heard footsteps in the hallway.
Multiple sets moving with purpose. Marcus heard them too, his face going pale. The doorbell rang once, formally, followed immediately by firm knocking.
“Federal agents. We have a warrant.” The room erupted in confused murmurs as I opened the door. Six FBI agents entered, their presence immediately transforming our apartment from social gathering to crime scene.
The lead agent, a woman with steel-gray hair and eyes that missed nothing, held up her credentials. “Agent Sarah Brennan, FBI Financial Crimes Division.” “We’re looking for Aiden Mercer.”
“That’s me,” Marcus said, his Brooklyn accent bleeding through the British veneer. “Except it’s not.” “I mean…”
He looked at Agent Brennan with desperate relief. “I want to cooperate.” I have evidence.
