Chapter 50
The sun was dying.
It bled out across the horizon, painting the sky in violent streaks of orange and bruised purple. From the vantage point of the master balcony, the world looked peaceful, orderly, and distant.
I sat on the outdoor sofa, my legs extended, my body angled to accommodate the weight resting against me.
Aleesha.
She had curled herself into my side, her head resting heavy on my shoulder. Her hand—small, soft, and uncalloused—was holding mine. Her fingers traced aimless, repetitive patterns on my palm. A circle. A line. A heart.
I did not pull away. I did not tell her that her fidgeting was inefficient. I simply sat there, breathing in the scent of her—a cloying mixture of vanilla shampoo and the lingering sweetness of that ridiculous strawberry drink she consumed earlier.
It was... grounding.
"It's a miracle, Gabby," she whispered, her voice vibrating against my shirt. "The internet just... flipped! Everyone is defending her now. They proved it was a deepfake. They even found audio of Chad admitting it! Stephie is safe."
I remained silent, staring at the darkening tree line.
A miracle.
Aleesha believes in miracles. She believes in the inherent goodness of humanity, in the idea that truth naturally rises to the surface like cream.
She does not understand that truth is a construct. It is a narrative that can be edited, deleted, and rewritten by those with the resources to hold the pen.
There was no miracle. There was only logistics.
Marcus had delivered the bribe to the Dean—a donation substantial enough to fund a new library wing.
Sean had fabricated the "forensic analysis" video, layering technical jargon over nonsense to convince the masses.
The "leaked audio" of Chad? An AI voice synthesis generated in our server room, scripted to incriminate the boy and absolve the girl.
Chad Herons was finished. Stephanie Miller was exonerated.
And Aleesha was happy.
I had rewritten reality to stop my wife from crying. It was a tactical maneuver. A necessary expenditure of resources to maintain the stability of the Asset.
"I'm just so glad," Aleesha murmured, squeezing my hand tighter. "I will do everything to protect her, Gabby. I promised. Because... I don't want to lose a sister again."
My gaze shifted from the horizon to the top of her head.
"Sister?" I asked, my voice low.
My mental dossier on Aleesha Garcia was comprehensive. I knew her blood type, her allergies, her elementary school grades.
"You are an only child," I stated. "The record is clear."
Aleesha sniffed. She stopped tracing patterns on my hand.
"I know," she whispered. "Biologically, I am solo. But... Sydney wasn't just my cousin. She was my sister. In my heart."
The name struck a chord in the back of my mind. A faint, dissonant note.
"Sydney," I repeated, testing the weight of the syllables.
"She was older than me," Aleesha explained, her voice thick with sudden emotion. "Four years older. She was the best, Gabby. She was the one who bought me my first Hello Kitty plushie when I was five. She taught me how to braid hair. She defended me from the mean kids."
She sniffled, wiping her nose on her sleeve, lost in the memory.
"We did everything together! Every Friday was our designated 'Ice Cream Emergency' day.
Even if there was a typhoon! We would run to the corner store under one umbrella, soaking wet, just to get the double-chocolate cones.
And the malls... oh, we walked until our feet hurt!
We didn't have much money, but we would try on the fancy dresses and pretend we were queens of a magical kingdom. "
A sad smile tugged at her lips as she looked up at the darkening sky.
"Then on Sundays, we would go to church in our best clothes, holding hands while we prayed.
She always prayed for me, Gabby. Always.
And the cinemas! We watched every cheesy romance movie that came out.
We cried over the same scenes! And when we didn't have money for tickets, we had movie marathons at home.
Just me, Sydney, and 'The Kids'—that's what we called our plushies.
We lined them all up on the bed—Mr. Snuggles, Princess Paws, all of them—and gave them popcorn. It was our little family."
She looked up at me, her expression shattering.
"I miss that family, Gabby. I miss her."
She sat up slightly, reaching for the pink wallet she kept in her pocket.
"Look."
She pulled out a small, laminated photograph. It was creased at the corners, worn from being held too many times.
I looked at it.
Two girls sitting on a park bench. One was a teenager—Aleesha—grinning with braces, holding a melting chocolate cone. The other was a young woman with black hair, kind eyes, a soft smile that seemed to hide a reserve of strength.
I froze.
I knew that face.
Sydney Ramirez.
My brother's wife.
"She was the best sister I could ever ask for," Aleesha continued, unaware that the temperature in my blood had just dropped ten degrees. "But... destiny is cruel."
She touched the face of the woman in the photo.
"She died," Aleesha whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek. "Two years ago. On her wedding day. Can you believe that? It was supposed to be the happiest day of her life. She married a man... she never told me his name, she said it was complicated... but she loved him. And then... the explosion."
She choked on a sob.
"The car exploded. She died. She was just twenty-two, Gabby. She was just starting her life."
I stared at the photo.
She took a shaky breath, her thumb brushing over Sydney's smiling face in the photo.
"Do you remember... at the pizza place? When I told you I wanted to live in Switzerland?"
I nodded slowly. "The cows and the bells."
"Yeah," she whispered. "That wasn't just my dream, Gabby. It was our dream. Mine and Sydney's."
Her eyes got that distant, dreamy look again, but this time it was tinged with deep sorrow.
"We planned it all out since we were teenagers! We were going to move to the Alps together. We were going to build two little wooden cottages right next to each other. With a garden in the middle and a little white gate that never locked."
She sniffled, looking down at the picture.
"We were going to raise our families together. My kids would be best friends with her kids. We would have Sunday brunches and bake cookies and run through the hills like in The Sound of Music. We promised, Gabby. We pinky promised that we would grow old together in the snow."
She clutched the photo to her chest.
"That's why I want to go there someday. To honor her. But... it won't be the same. It will never be the same because her house will be empty. She won't be there to wave at me from the porch."
I stared at her.
The irony was sharp enough to draw blood.
She wanted to go to the Alps to mourn a ghost. She didn't know that the ghost was alive, breathing that crisp mountain air, likely living in a wooden cottage just like the one she described.
I was the only reason the gate was locked.
Aleesha was crying for a ghost that wasn't dead.
Sydney Ramirez and Elias Muratori—my pathetic, romantic younger brother—did not die in that explosion.
They faked her death. They staged the accident to escape the life I lead. To escape me.
And why did they run?
Because I forced them to.
I was the one who dragged Elias back to the family. I was the one who arranged his marriage to Olivia, a political union designed to strengthen our hold on the territory. I was the architect of the pressure cooker that forced them to blow up their own lives just to breathe.
Technically, Aleesha is crying because of me.
The realization settled in my chest like a lead weight.
I looked at my wife. She was trembling, wiping her eyes with her free hand, mourning a loss that was entirely fabricated, yet entirely my fault.
I possessed the power to end her grief in an instant.
I could pick up my phone. I could call the pilot. I could fly her to the Swiss Alps, to the secluded cabin where my intelligence network knew Elias and Sydney were living. I could reunite her with her "sister."
I could give her that peace.
But I sat there. Silent.
I did not speak. I did not offer the truth.
Why would I?
Revealing that Elias is alive would expose a weakness in the Muratori succession. It would unravel the narrative I had carefully constructed for the underworld.
And... it would mean letting her go.
If she knew her cousin was alive in the Alps... she would want to go there. She would want to stay there. She would leave this mansion, leave this life, and leave... me.
I looked down at her. Her face was wet with tears, her eyes red and puffy. She looked so fragile. So pure.
She has a genuine heart. A heart that bleeds for friends and mourns for cousins.
And I have trapped her.
I trapped her with a contract she didn't read. I trapped her in a house she didn't choose. I trapped her in a web of lies that spans continents.
For what?
An heir, I reminded myself. I need the boy.
But as I watched a fresh tear track down her nose, a sickening feeling churned in my stomach.
I wanted to let her go.
For a brief, terrifying second, the impulse was there. To annul the contract. To send her to Switzerland. To let her bake cookies and live in that simple, safe world she dreamed of in the pizza parlor.
She deserves that life. She does not deserve to be the wife of a man who fakes deaths and scrubs crimes.
But then... the thought of the silence that would follow.
The thought of the mansion without her pink rugs. Without her Aerosmith concerts in the car. Without the smell of vanilla and the chaotic noise of her existence.
I flinched.
No.
I cannot let her go.
I do not love her, I repeated mentally, the mantra feeling thinner than usual. Love is a defect. I am simply... accustomed to her utility.
I reached out.
I wiped the tear from her cheek with my thumb. My touch was gentle, betraying the cold calculation of my thoughts.
"Do not cry, Aleesha," I murmured.
"It just hurts," she sniffled, leaning into my hand. "I miss her so much."
"I know," I lied.
I pulled her closer, wrapping my arm around her shoulders, trapping her against me.
I will not tell her. I will not take her to the Alps. I will keep her here. I will buy her happiness in other ways. I will destroy her enemies. I will burn down the world for her.
But I will not give her the truth.
Because the truth would take her away from me.
And that is a logistical outcome I cannot accept.