Chapter 3
2445words
"She remembers me, but she's not certain," I said from the backseat of my car. "If she was truly convinced I'm Sophia Chen, she wouldn't just make a phone call—she'd have exposed me on the spot."
"So what's our next move?" Julian's voice carried a note of concern.
"We accelerate," I said, watching New York's nightscape flash by outside the window. "Her suspicions will drive her to investigate, which will distract and terrify her. That's exactly what we need."
After hanging up, I took a deep breath. Yes, the plan needed acceleration now. With Serafina's memory awakening, she'd become more alert. But the more alert she became, the more likely she'd make mistakes.
---
Three days after the Charity Gala, I began setting up my chessboard.
The days of fighting alone were over. To destroy a deeply entrenched family like the Sterlings, I needed insiders, allies—I needed to dismantle their fortress from within. I had already selected my first pieces on the chessboard.
**First Chess Piece: Maria Garcia**
Maria Garcia, forty-two, an undocumented immigrant from Guatemala. She'd worked as a maid for Serafina's family for eight years, six days a week, for a monthly salary of two thousand dollars—barely enough to survive given New York's cost of living.
But money wasn't her biggest problem.
Through my observations this month, I'd discovered Maria's true weakness: her alcoholic, violent husband Carlos, and the two children she desperately wanted to protect—twelve-year-old Sophia and nine-year-old Diego.
I hired a private detective to follow Carlos for two weeks. The results exceeded my expectations: this bastard not only regularly beat his wife but also kept a twenty-year-old Mexican girl on the side, even misappropriating Maria's hard-earned savings to buy cosmetics for his mistress.
Perfect leverage.
---
Thursday night, rain poured down heavily. I knew Maria would finish work an hour later than usual because Serafina had a dinner party that required extra cleaning.
I waited for her along her inevitable route home—at the intersection of 137th Street and Amsterdam Avenue, a dimly lit bus stop. In my dark trench coat holding a black umbrella, I looked like any other commuter waiting for a bus.
At nine forty, Maria appeared, dragging her tired feet. She wore a faded denim jacket, her hair dampened by rain, looking utterly exhausted and vulnerable.
"Mrs. Garcia," I called gently.
She turned, looking at me with confusion. Under the dim streetlight, it took her a few seconds to recognize me.
"Miss Vance?" Her voice carried a heavy Spanish accent. "What are you doing here?"
I walked toward her, tilting my umbrella to shield her from the rain. "I want to talk to you."
Maria instinctively stepped back, wariness flashing in her eyes. "If it's about work, you should speak with Mrs. Sterling—"
"It's not about Serafina." I interrupted, my voice gentle but carrying an authority that brooked no refusal. "It's about you. About your husband."
The color drained from her face instantly.
I pulled out a folder from inside my trench coat and handed it to her. "Take a look at this."
Maria hesitantly took the folder. When she opened the first page and saw photos of Carlos with the young woman, her hands began to tremble.
The photos were crystal clear: Carlos embracing the Mexican girl as they entered a cheap motel; the two kissing passionately on a street corner; him buying her a necklace at a jewelry store. Each photo was marked with date and time.
"This isn't possible..." Maria murmured, her voice growing increasingly faint.
"Turn to the next page," I said calmly.
Bank records. All of Carlos's small cash withdrawals from their joint account, totaling thirteen thousand dollars—exactly all of Maria's savings from the past two years. Each withdrawal corresponded to expenses on his mistress.
Maria's tears began to flow.
"The last page," I continued.
Hospital records. The Mexican girl was pregnant, three months along. According to the dates, she had conceived during the same week Maria was hospitalized after being beaten.
"Oh God..." Maria whispered, the folder slipping from her hands and scattering across the wet pavement.
I showed no sympathy. Sympathy was a weakness, and what I needed was her anger.
"Do you know what's most tragic, Maria?" My voice was sharp as a blade. "You scrub floors and clean toilets for the Sterling family every day, while your own child doesn't even have proper shoes. Your husband uses your hard-earned money to support other women, getting them pregnant, while your Sophia still wears secondhand clothes from charity shops."
Maria's sobbing intensified.
"But," my tone suddenly became businesslike, "I can help you solve this problem."
She looked up, her eyes mixing desperation and hope.
"I can make Carlos disappear. Forever." I said calmly, as if discussing the weather. "Not kill him—that's too messy. But I can have him deported back to Guatemala, never able to enter the United States again. I have connections."
Maria's breathing stopped.
"At the same time, I'll arrange the best immigration lawyers to help you. Green cards, work permits, education funds for the children. Sophia can go to a good high school, Diego can learn piano. You won't have to hide anymore, won't have to be afraid."
I paused, letting these promises sink in.
"But," I continued, "I need you to do something for me."
"What... what thing?" Maria asked reluctantly.
"Nothing difficult. Just... information. Serafina's schedule, her personal habits, her secrets. You've worked in that house for eight years, you know too much. I need you to be my eyes and ears."
Rain drummed against our umbrellas rhythmically. On this dark street corner, we were like two conspirators.
Maria's eyes revealed her inner struggle. I knew a fierce battle raged inside her—she was devout, and cooperating with me went against her moral principles. But the pressures of reality and her children's future were more powerful than abstract morality.
"She...she treats me well," Maria tried one last time.
"She pays you two thousand a month, makes you work twelve hours a day, with no health insurance, no vacation," I sneered. "This is what you call treating you well? Maria, you've been scrubbing her floors for eight years, and she still can't even get your children's names right."
This struck a nerve. I saw the last trace of hesitation vanish from her eyes.
"What...what should I do?" she finally said, her voice barely audible.
A sense of victorious satisfaction bloomed in my heart, but my expression remained perfectly controlled.
I took a disposable phone from my pocket and handed it to her. "This phone has only one number—mine. Every week, you text me about Serafina's movements. Who she meets, what she says, any unusual behavior. Remember, only text messages, no calls."
Maria took the phone with trembling hands.
"Soon, you'll receive a package containing information about a new bank account and the lawyer's contact details. The account already has fifty thousand dollars, enough for you and the children to start a new life."
I looked into her eyes, making sure she understood what this meant.
"Welcome to my world, Maria."
---
**Second Piece: Leo Rodriguez**
If recruiting Maria required precision and psychological tactics, then hooking Leo was as simple as shooting fish in a barrel.
Leo Rodriguez, twenty-nine, nominally an "investment assistant" at some hedge fund, but in reality Jax Thorne's personal lackey who handled all the dirty work that couldn't see daylight. He wasn't smart enough to enter the true financial elite circle, yet not humble enough to accept his mediocrity—a combination that created a perfect target.
I studied his behavior pattern: every Friday night, he went to a high-end nightclub called "Obsidian" in the Meatpacking District. He always sat at the same booth, ordered the same whiskey, and desperately tried to hook up with models and socialites.
But his success rate was basically zero, because worldly women could tell at a glance he was a pretentious fraud.
Perfect.
---
Friday night, I showed up at Obsidian right on time. I wore a black form-fitting dress that fell mid-thigh, accentuating every curve. My hair was loosely curled, my makeup polished but not overdone—the overall look both expensive and approachable.
I didn't need to attract everyone's attention—just one greedy, thirsty loser.
Leo was already at his usual spot, wearing an obviously overpriced Armani suit, trying to look wealthier than his actual income. He used too much hair gel and even more cologne; I could smell his desperation from twenty feet away.
I ordered a classic cocktail at the bar, deliberately choosing a position where he could clearly see my profile. Then I began to wait.
Sure enough, in less than ten minutes, he approached.
"Mind if I buy you a drink?" His opening line was desperately ordinary, his voice carrying forced confidence.
I turned to him with a carefully calculated smile—warm enough to encourage, yet reserved enough to provoke interest.
"Thank you, but I already have one." I raised my glass. "However, you're welcome to sit and keep me company."
He slid onto the adjacent barstool almost too eagerly. Up close, Leo indeed matched my assessment: moderately attractive but with something flickering in his eyes, expensive suit but questionable taste, confidence that was fake, desperation that was tangibly real.
"I'm Leo," he extended his hand.
"Isabel," I lied smoothly, shaking his hand. "Nice to meet you."
For the next hour, I put on an Oscar-worthy performance. I made him believe he was successfully seducing me—timely laughter, interested questions, occasional physical contact. I told him I was a "freelance consultant" (not technically a lie) and had just returned to New York from London (a complete lie).
Leo ate it up. He began boasting about his "connections," his "inside information," how he handled "sensitive matters" for "very important people." He never explicitly mentioned Jax's name, but the implications were obvious.
"You know," he said after his third whiskey, leaning closer, "I work for some very powerful families in this city. The kind of people who can make things happen, if you know what I mean."
"How fascinating," I said softly, letting my fingers brush lightly against his arm. "What kind of things?"
His eyes lit up, clearly believing he was impressing me. "Let's just say, when certain people need certain problems to... disappear, they call me."
Bingo.
We chatted for another half hour as I carefully guided the conversation toward his work, frustrations, and ambitions. Soon, I had a clear understanding: Leo resented being treated like a lackey by Jax. He craved respect, recognition, and more money. He clearly had no loyalty beyond his paycheck.
As the night progressed, I allowed sexual tension to gradually build. Light touches evolved into lingering caresses. Eye contact transformed into smoldering gazes. I let him believe he was conquering me, while in reality, I was precisely manipulating his desire and attachment.
"Want to get out of here?" he finally asked, his voice husky with desire.
"Your place or mine?" I responded with perfectly feigned breathlessness.
---
Leo's apartment was exactly as I expected: expensive but lacking taste, trying too hard to make an impression. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Hudson River, leather furniture that might be authentic Italian or high-quality replicas, and wall art that was probably purchased by the square foot.
But I wasn't here to critique the interior design.
We had barely walked through the door when he tried to kiss me. I let him, even responding with convincing passion. His hands roamed over my body, and I responded just enough to make him believe it was purely out of attraction.
"Wait," I said breathlessly after a few minutes, pulling back slightly. "I want to get to know you better first. You're so... mysterious."
He almost visibly inflated. "What do you want to know?"
I led him to the couch, curling up beside him with my legs tucked underneath me, allowing my skirt to ride up slightly. "Tell me about your work. It sounds so... dangerous."
He did as I asked. In the next hour, Leo basically gave me a complete intelligence dump. Names, places, methods, complaints about the boss. He told me about Jax's gambling debts, his cocaine addiction, his tendency to solve problems with violence rather than brains. He mentioned Damian's business rivals, Serafina's political connections, even details about their family's security system.
I absorbed every word while showing fascination and growing desire.
"You're so... powerful," I whispered, letting my fingers trace patterns on his chest. "It's incredible."
By morning, I had everything I needed. But I wasn't done using Leo.
While he slept, I arranged the next phase. I left "Isabel's" contact information and a note:
"Last night was wonderful. I can't stop thinking about you. Call me. —I"
Then I disappeared.
For the following week, I let him pursue me. I acted hard to get, but not impossible. I fed his ego, supported his delusions, and gradually introduced the idea that I also had "connections"—people interested in the information he had access to.
"You know so much about important people," I said during our third "date." "Have you ever thought about... capitalizing on that?"
His eyes lit up with greed. "What do you mean?"
"I know some people who pay well for inside information. Corporate intelligence, that sort of thing. Of course, everything is completely legal."
Hook, line, and sinker.
In less than two weeks, Leo began regularly passing me detailed intelligence about Jax's movements, his associates, his vulnerabilities. He thought he was impressing his clever new girlfriend. In reality, he was betraying everything for money he would never see and a woman who didn't exist.
The fool never realized that "Isabel" was just another mask, another performance in my revenge drama.
---
I stood before the floor-to-ceiling window of my apartment, watching the lights in the Braxton house across the street. In my hands were two disposable phones—one for contacting Maria, and one for contacting Leo.
My chessboard was taking shape. I had eyes in Serafina's house and ears on Jax's movements. I had leverage, intelligence, and most importantly, allies (whether or not they realized that was their role).
Just then, the phone for contacting Maria vibrated. A message at two in the morning—there must be some emergency.
I opened the text: "Miss Vance, Mrs. Serafina received a strange letter tonight. After reading it, she locked herself in the study and cried for a whole hour. I took a photo of the envelope, which said 'A gift from Sophia.'"
I stared at the screen, a cold smile slowly forming at the corners of my mouth.
I didn't send it. But I know who did.
Jax, you've made your move.
