Chapter 3The Undercover Heiress And Her Audacious Fake

"We're going to my family's estate this afternoon," I told Simon on Saturday morning, holding out his freshly pressed suit jacket. "You promised me last weekend that we'd spend the holiday there."

Simon stood in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting the silk knot of his tie. He didn't turn around.

"Did I?" he muttered dismissively. "I have client meetings."

He grabbed his car keys and walked out, the front door slamming shut behind him.

The Campbell ancestral estate sat on three hundred acres of private forested hills outside the city—a preserve of old-growth timber, iron gates, and stone architecture that real estate digests frequently called the most expensive private parcel in the Pacific Northwest.

Commercial cabs weren't allowed past the outer security checkpoint miles down the valley. As I stepped out of the rideshare at the stone perimeter gate, the estate's private fleet was already idling.

Thomas, our head butler, stepped out of a black Maybach, bowing deeply as the driver held the rear door for me.

I had intended to bring Simon here today, to sit him down in the library and tell him the truth about my family. But some men are destined to scavenge for scraps while walking right past the feast.

My phone vibrated in my clutch.

Evelyn Ward had just posted a new photo on her personal feed.

She was strutting down an upscale pedestrian row in Bellevue, carrying an iced matcha latte, her oversized sunglasses catching the midday light. Two paces behind her walked Simon, his shoulders hung low under the weight of at least eight luxury boutique shopping bags. He had looked up right as the camera snapped, caught in a smile that was exhausted, desperate, and utterly servile.

Thomas drove me back to my downtown apartment later that evening.

As we idled near the curb of the residential high-rise, Thomas looked out the tinted window at the building with undisguised bewilderment.

"Miss Nora, with dozens of properties under your name, why do you insist on living in this cramped flat?"

It was the same question my father had asked when I agreed to marry Simon.

"Location," I replied quietly. "It’s five minutes from headquarters. And besides, Simon liked it."

In reality, it was this very apartment—which I had bought under an LLC before we married—that had convinced Simon to rush our engagement right after graduation. He thought marrying me meant securing prime downtown real estate without paying a dime toward the mortgage.

"Miss Nora," Thomas said, turning around to present an embossed leather case. "Mr. Campbell flew to New York for the Sotheby's evening sale last night. He acquired this archival, untreated Colombian emerald cuff for eighty-five million dollars. The Chairman said the lakeside house was a bit sparse as a birthday gift, and he felt you needed an everyday accessory."

Thomas opened the latch with white-gloved hands.

Inside, resting on velvet, was a mesmerizing band of platinum housing an emerald the size of a pigeon's egg, glowing with deep, bottomless green fire.

"It’s lovely," I said softly. I picked it up, dropped it into the inner pocket of my leather tote, and got out of the car.

Between auditing quarterly logistics and reviewing our supply chains, the cuff completely slipped my mind.

Until one week later, when Evelyn walked onto the office floor wearing it on her left wrist.

"Evelyn, that cuff... my god, look at the color!"

"Don't ask. Everything Evelyn wears costs more than our annual bonuses."

"Wait, I saw that exact piece in Vogue last week! It was the private centerpiece at the Sotheby's high-jewelry auction. An anonymous collector took it for an astronomical figure!"

"You're saying that bracelet is worth tens of millions?!"

"She's literally walking around with a museum exhibit on her arm!"

Evelyn casually set her new Birkin bag on the edge of the conference table, letting her silk sleeve slide back just enough to catch the overhead fluorescent lights. The emerald practically hummed against her skin.

Colleagues crowded around her desk like worshipers at an altar.

I looked up from my spreadsheets, my eyes narrowing at the distinctive platinum filigree.

"Isn't that my cuff?" I asked aloud.

The words slipped out before I could filter them. That bracelet had been locked inside the hidden safe in our master closet. How on earth had it ended up on her wrist?

Simon materialized instantly, stepping into the aisle between our desks, his posture puffed up like a bantam rooster looking for a fight.

"Nora, do you ever look in a mirror before you open your mouth? Look at your thrift-store clothes. Do you look like someone who could own an archival auction piece?"

I looked directly into his eyes, not bothering to hide the disgust curling in my stomach. "Where that piece came from, Simon... I think you know far better than anyone else here."

Evelyn chimed in with a sweet, patronizing giggle, turning her wrist to admire the stone. "Mr. Drake gave it to me this morning. He wouldn't tell me what it cost, but honestly, if he had said it was some cheap costume replica, I wouldn't have bothered putting it on."

She knew. The smirk in her eyes was proof enough.

I pulled out my phone and sent a short text to Thomas: Pull the master bedroom security feed from the past seventy-two hours.

Within three minutes, the encrypted file downloaded.

The footage was timestamped Thursday night, while I was at the office running the midnight close. Simon entered our bedroom, knelt before the false wall behind my hanging coats, and entered the code he must have spent weeks spying on me to obtain.

He took the leather case.

Then he went into my private wardrobe, pulling down designer handbags I rarely carried, scattering clothes across the floor until he gathered four classic Hermès and Chanel pieces. He lined them up on the island, took a photo from a low angle, and sent it.

That was the photo Evelyn had posted to her private story the following morning, captioned: A few casual vintage pieces Dad sent over.

A domestic thief. Living under my roof, sleeping in my bed, stealing my family's heritage to buy favor from a fraud.

The office was buzzing with giddy chatter.

"Simon! You’ve been hiding your family wealth all this time?!"

"I always said it! Simon lives in that luxury downtown tower—he’s an undercover trust-fund kid!"

"Simon, you've held out on us! You have to take the whole division out for a celebration dinner!"

Simon’s cheeks flushed crimson with intoxicating pride. He straightened his lapels, his chest swelling. "Tonight. The private dining room at The Rainier Club estate out at Campbell Crest. The entire division is invited." He paused, looking at me with icy triumph. "Except Nora."

I picked up my phone, opened my banking portal, and clicked one button.

Authorized User: Simon Drake. Status: TERMINATED.

Simon flashed a smug, self-satisfied grin across the bay.

Enjoy your feast, Simon. Let's see what you pay with when the check arrives.