Chapter 5
Ethan
I sat in darkness, the half-empty whiskey glass cool against my palm as I surveyed the shadowy contours of my living room. The ice had long since melted, diluting the expensive bourbon that I barely tasted. My mind was too occupied with the Viktor Group case files I'd reviewed earlier that day.
Something wasn't adding up. The money laundering operation had a missing link—a critical piece of evidence I couldn't put my finger on. The financial trails were meticulously hidden, too perfect to be amateur work. Whoever had designed this system knew exactly what they were doing.
And then there was Amelia Thompson. The woman who was now, legally, my wife.
I took another sip, letting the liquid burn slowly down my throat. The FBI file on her mother suggested Elizabeth Thompson had discovered something damning before her "accident," and our intelligence indicated Amelia might have inherited more than just money from her mother. But if she was truly innocent, what was the real story? And if she wasn't, how deep did her involvement go?
The opening of the door interrupted my thoughts. She was coming up. I remained motionless, melting into the shadows. First impressions when someone thinks they're alone are the most honest—something the FBI had taught me early.
Amelia stepped inside, arms full of shopping bags.
As the light turned on, she visibly flinched upon seeing me, dropping several bags. Items scattered across my imported marble floor—drugstore shampoo, basic groceries, a notebook. Nothing that screamed "daughter of a money launderer living large."
"First day and already making a mess of the place," I said coldly, studying every micro-expression that crossed her face. Her initial shock gave way to something else—not guilt or fear, but a flash of irritation quickly masked by composure.
She quickly gathered her things, methodical even in her flustered state. I noticed how she arranged items by category as she collected them—toiletries together, food items separate.
"I didn't expect anyone to be sitting in the dark," she said, voice steadier than her hands.
I watched as she picked up a bottle of store-brand shampoo. The FBI file had suggested she was "motivated by financial gain and luxury," yet here she was buying the cheapest essentials. Either this was an elaborate cover, or our intelligence had serious flaws.
"We need to establish ground rules," I said, rising to pour myself another drink. "Don't touch my personal belongings. The master bedroom is off-limits. Keep noise to a minimum." I turned to face her directly. "And remember, we're roommates, not a couple. This marriage exists on paper only."
She met my gaze without flinching. "I need my privacy respected as well. I'll stay out of your way if you stay out of mine."
Direct. Unfazed. Not the reaction of someone intimidated or desperate to please. Again, contradicting what I'd been told to expect.
"I heard your mother left you quite an inheritance," I said casually, watching her carefully. "Is that what all this is about? Was marrying a stranger worth it for the money?"
Pain flickered in her eyes when I mentioned her mother—genuine emotion, not manufactured. "It's not just about money," she said quietly. "It's about protecting what she left me. It's all I have left of her."
She was careful not to mention specifics about the inheritance. Smart. Cautious. I pushed further. "How did your mother die?"
Her expression instantly hardened, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "Car accident," she replied curtly.
There was something there—a story she wasn't telling. The official report said car accident, but the circumstances were suspicious at best. The Viktor Group connection was too coincidental to ignore. I made a mental note to revisit her mother's accident report first thing tomorrow.
I changed tactics. "Mrs. Hopkins handles the housekeeping. You don't need to cook or clean while you're here."
"I prefer to take care of myself," she said, glancing around the expansive apartment. "I'm not looking for someone to wait on me."
"This isn't your hospital dormitory," I countered. "There are certain standards here."
She looked around at the minimalist luxury of my apartment, and I caught a glimpse of something close to discomfort rather than the appreciation or greed I'd expected. Another contradiction to the file I'd studied.
Later, I watched her through the reflection in the glass doors as she moved around the kitchen. Her hands went through what I recognized as the medical washing procedure—precise, thorough, systematic. She arranged items with clinical precision—a doctor's habits carrying over into daily life. The sandwich she prepared was simple, efficient. Nothing extravagant.
She returned with two plates and set one before me. "I made an extra. I wasn't sure if you'd eaten, but if you want it..."
"Thanks," I said stiffly, my mind calculating. Was this an attempt to lower my guard? Create a sense of domestic harmony? If so, it wouldn't work on me.
Before retiring to my room, I checked the security feeds one last time. To my surprise, Amelia wasn't sleeping. She sat by the window, a sketchpad in her lap. I zoomed in and saw she was drawing—infants, in detailed, careful strokes. Tears glistened in her eyes as she worked.
What was she drawing? Was it connected to the case somehow? I noticed a photograph beside her, but the angle prevented me from seeing its contents.
Just before I shut down the monitor, I saw her write something on the sketch: "Grandfather, I'll protect everything she left behind." The words left me more confused than ever.
At 5 AM, after my morning run and strength training, I wiped sweat from my brow and considered my next move. I'd maintain distance publicly while intensifying surveillance.
Hearing movement from her room, I knew she was awake. A perfect testing method suddenly occurred to me. I dialed James Hayes's private number. He was the only friend who knew about my secret identity.
"James, arrange a female companion for tonight at Blue Note."
"What's this?" he chuckled. "Need outside help on your first day of marriage?"
"I need to create an external pressure event to test her reactions and also to build a playboy image for Victor Group—killing two birds with one stone," I explained.
The game was just beginning.