Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
JOEL AND THE EMAIL
I sat alone in the study, the weight of my suspicions anchoring me to the leather chair behind the mahogany desk. The room was dim, save for the focused light from the antique brass desk lamp that cast an amber glow on the wood’s deep grain. My fingers drummed a staccato rhythm on the desktop, echoing slightly off the walls lined with bookcases filled with volumes on strategy and history. The décor spoke of old-world charm—a stark contrast to the blinking monitors and humming machines that served as the nerve center of my operations. Advanced security tech littered the space: screens streaming live footage from every corner of the mansion and interfaces awaiting commands.
“Something’s not right…” I muttered to myself, my eyes narrowing.
I replayed our interactions with Elizabeth—or rather, the woman who claimed to be her. My gut twisted. My instincts told me that there was more to this girl than we first thought. With a clench of my jaw, I resolved to peel back the layers of “Elizabeth Shoemaker” until I found the truth hidden beneath.
No one made a fool out of Joel Porter.
I know just who would help me, a tech specialist and hacker buddy of mine. I called him up on my cell phone and it rang a few times before he answered.
“Samuel,” I said into the secure line, “I need your expertise, buddy.”
“Joel! How’s it hanging? Long time no talk to you.” I heard Samuel’s voice crackling with static before stabilizing. A shared interest in uncovering deceit had bonded us over the years, and today was no different.
“Shoemaker’s records. I want them cracked open. Now. You in?”
“Consider it done,” he said, the sound of his fingers already tapping across his keyboard.
We synced our computer screens, and I watched as lines of code cascaded like a waterfall on my monitor—Samuel’s handiwork in real-time. His skills were unmatched, each keystroke slicing through firewalls like they were made of air. Together, we sifted through layers of encrypted data, the tension winding tighter within me with each passing second.
“Stop there,” I commanded when an email thread snagged my attention. “Zoom in.”
The emails we uncovered sent a pulse of adrenaline surging through me. It was an exchange between Shoemaker and an unidentified contact, discussing payment, discretion, and a decoy. A damn decoy. One that would take the place of his daughter. Shoemaker, that asshole, had heard about our plans to kidnap his daughter as ransom for the tech he had kept from us.
Sebastian, Braxton, and I had always been at the top, our influence as Elites cemented by our success in selling military technology. But now, we were fixated on the Nant-bots, revolutionary tech that could propel our business even further. Chad Shoemaker, that snake, had promised them to us, but he backed out, lured by a higher bid from some rival. The betrayal cut deep, and our anger had pushed us to the edge. Desperate to secure the deal, we threatened to kidnap Shoemaker’s daughter, a drastic measure to force his hand. And Shoemaker had known all along, but how?
“What the fuck?” The expletive burst from my lips before I could temper it, my usual blunt force breaking through.
The betrayal stung sharply, a bitter tang on my tongue. This wasn’t just about business now—it was personal. Shoemaker had played us for fools, but the bastard didn’t know who he was dealing with. No, I thought grimly, he was about to find out.
Fury coursed through my veins, a white-hot river of rage that threatened to consume me. I wanted to punch something, preferably Shoemaker’s smug face. But I couldn’t afford to lose control, not now.
I was still reeling from the revelation when Samuel, my hacker friend who was more skilled at navigating this digital landscape than anyone I knew, called out to me. “Joel, take a look at this.”
The screen showed images, candid shots, and posed family portraits from Chad Shoemaker’s cloud storage. There she was—Elizabeth. The woman in the photos had a certain softness around her blue eyes, short hair, a birthmark just below her left ear, a softness to her that the woman downstairs lacked. The woman in the basement was athletic, her green gaze sharper, her skin unblemished where that distinctive mark should have been, and she had hair down to her ass.
My stomach twisted into a knot of frustration and disbelief. How could we have been so blind? I prided myself on my attention to detail, on being the guy who never missed a trick. Yet here we were, duped by some cheap imitation. The realization stung worse than any physical blow.
“Height’s off too…” I pointed out with clinical detachment. “Look at this family reunion photo—she’s towering over her cousins. Our guest downstairs is no Amazon and has much longer hair, darker too.”
Shit. Elizabeth Shoemaker was not sitting in our basement cell. We had an imposter, a damn fake decoy, and we were back at square one.
The bitter taste of failure filled my mouth. I’d let my family down, let myself down. This wasn’t just a setback; it was a full-blown disaster. And the worst part? I had no idea how to fix it…yet.
How dare he outmaneuver us like this? The urge to lash out was almost overwhelming, but I forced it down.
“Thanks, Sam. I owe you one,” I said, my voice heavy with a frustration I didn’t bother hiding.
“Anytime, Joel. You know where to find me if you need more research done.”
“Will do.” I ended the call abruptly, my hands fisting.
I wanted to throw the phone across the room. Instead, I gripped it tighter, reminding myself that breaking things wouldn’t solve our problem. But damn, it would feel good for a moment.
“Sebastian! Braxton!” I barked into the intercom, summoning my cousins to my office.
Within moments they were there, Sebastian with his thoughtful frown, and Braxton strolling over to a leather chair facing my desk and plopping down.
“What’s up?” Sebastian asked, his calm demeanor so different from the tempest of emotions within me.
“Look.” I thrust the printouts of the emails and the family photos toward them. “Our Elizabeth isn’t the real deal. Shoemaker hired a decoy.” I jabbed a finger at the pictures of the real Elizabeth Shoemaker.
I watched their reactions. Would they understand the gravity of the situation? Or would I have to spell it out for them like they were children?
Braxton snatched the papers, his eyes darting back and forth as he absorbed the information. The color drained from his face, then returned in a rush, his jaw clenching tight. “That son of a bitch,” he spat, the playful tone he usually carried now edged with ice.
Finally, a reaction that matched the fire in my gut. At least Braxton got it. But Sebastian...
Sebastian took his time, examining each piece of evidence with meticulous care. After a long pause, he shook his head slightly. “Are we certain? Could be a mistake. Maybe she changed...people do.”
I envied Sebastian’s nativity. How could he be so casual when everything was falling apart? Part of me wanted to shake him, to make him feel the urgency coursing through my veins.
“Changed? Seb, even plastic surgery can’t change someone’s height. And the girl downstairs can’t be more than five-foot’ five,” I retorted sharply.
My patience was fraying; time was slipping away, and every moment wasted meant Shoemaker had the upper hand.
“Okay, so she’s a fake. What now, Joel?” Braxton’s question hung between us like a challenge.
They were looking to me for answers, for direction. The responsibility sat heavy on my shoulders, but I’d be damned if I’d let it crush me.
I met his gaze squarely, the answer clear in my mind. “We confront her. We find out everything she knows about Shoemaker and why she agreed to this charade.”
“Then we use it against him,” Braxton finished, the anger in his voice matching my own.
“Perhaps,” I affirmed, the wheels already turning. “Let’s go have a chat with this ‘Elizabeth, first.”
Sebastian nodded, resigned, though the doubt lingered in his eyes. He followed us out of the office. My mind was a whirl. Who the hell was the woman locked up in our basement?
Our boots resounded through the hallway of the mansion. The ostentatious display of wealth around us—gilded mirrors, crystal chandeliers casting prismatic light on polished marble floors, and paintings of ancestors who would surely disapprove of our current predicament—made my anger sharpen.
“Life has a peculiar sense of irony,” I muttered, noticing a servant slip by, her eyes trained on the floor, avoiding our gazes.
The staff knew better than to ask questions or show curiosity toward the affairs of the Porter family.
Descending the staircase to the basement, the temperature dropped with each step, a chill seeping into my bones. The decadence of upstairs gave way to utilitarian concrete and steel below. This was another world entirely—a world where we controlled every variable.
The cold air down here always reminded me of the ruthlessness required in our line of work. No room for warmth or comfort when you’re dealing with liars and deceivers.
The door to the cell came into view, and I felt a surge of adrenaline. This was it—the moment of truth. The woman, with her long dark hair and defiant green eyes, stood with her back against the wall of the cell. She seemed small and vulnerable, yet she held herself with a certain pride that demanded respect.
I couldn’t help admiring her guts, even as I prepared to tear her story apart. It takes a special kind of crazy to try and pull one over on the Porters.
“Elizabeth,” I called out, using the name she claimed as hers.
The figure inside the cell rose to meet us, her posture rigid, defensive. Her green eyes—a stark difference from Elizabeth Shoemaker’s blue ones—met mine in defiance.
“Who exactly are you?” Braxton asked, the photos of the real Elizabeth in hand, ready to present them as evidence.
“Because you’re certainly not Elizabeth Shoemaker,” I said coldly, crossing my arms over my chest, my gaze hard. “She’s six feet tall, has a birthmark just below her left ear, and blue eyes. You—you’re nothing like her.”
My blood was boiling. This imposter had the nerve to think she could outsmart us. I’d seen my fair share of con artists, but this one took the cake.
Braxton held out the photos towards the bars, letting her see the undeniable truth. “Care to explain?”
The figure inside the cell stood upright, her green eyes glaring back at us, her body tense and ready for defense. The photos in Braxton’s hand were held out towards her, an obvious accusation.
“Guys, we don’t know her story yet. Let’s listen,” Sebastian interjected, but there was an edge to his calmness now.
Always the voice of reason, Sebastian. Sometimes I wondered if he had ice water in his veins instead of blood. But right now, his cool head was just pissing me off.
Sebastian stood with his arms crossed, his normally peaceful expression now tinged with a hint of determination. His eyes flicked back and forth between the imprisoned figure and my own.
In contrast, the woman in front of us seemed guarded, her shoulders squared and her gaze challenging. Despite the bars between us, I could see the fire in her green eyes, a stark difference from Elizabeth Shoemaker’s cool blue ones.
I had to hand it to her—she had nerves of steel. But so did I, and I wasn’t about to let her off easy.
“Start talking,” I demanded, leaning forward. “And it better be good.”
I stood outside the woman’s cell, my hands clenched so tightly that my knuckles turned white. The dampness of the basement choked the air. I unlocked the cell door and it swung open. The woman inside hesitantly stepped out.
Fuck, I hated this place. The musty stench of desperation clung to everything.
Sebastian reach out and his grip on her arm was vice-like, his face contorted with an anger I’d rarely seen in him. Beside him, Braxton’s fists were tight, his usual playfulness gone.
“Who are you really?” My voice echoed against the cold stone walls, each word a hammer striking steel. “We know you’re not Elizabeth Shoemaker. So who the hell are you?”
Her eyes flared, the green in them almost luminescent against the overhead lights. She took a step forward, her chin raised. “You think you’ve got it all figured out, huh? Big man Joel Porter, always in control.”
Oh, sweetheart, if you only knew. Control was an illusion I’d perfected, a mask I wore to hide the turmoil beneath my facade. But damned if I’d let her see that now.
Sebastian’s grasp tightened, his jaw set hard. “This isn’t a joke. You’ve lied to us, manipulated us—”
“All right.” Her voice broke, and she looked away for a fleeting moment before meeting my gaze again. “My name...my name is Brynn Soto.” Tears began to well up in her eyes, spilling over and tracing paths down her cheeks.
A hush fell over us, even the ever-spirited Braxton falling silent. Something about the unrestrained emotion in her expression made me pause, despite the indignation coursing through me.
Well, shit. This wasn’t how I expected this little interrogation to go. Brynn Soto? The name meant nothing to me, but the raw pain in her eyes...that was all too familiar.
“Mr. Shoemaker...he came to me with an offer.” Her words tumbled out between sobs, every sentence punctuated by tears. “He promised to pay a hefty sum of money if I agreed to pretend to be his daughter. It meant security for me and my sister, Kay. We had nothing, nowhere to go. He said all I had to do was pretend, just for a little while...”
Sebastian’s grip on her arm loosened incrementally, each of his fingers unfurling as if they were compelled by her every word.
I felt my own resolve wavering. Damn it. I’d seen enough cons to last a lifetime, but this... this felt different. The desperation in her voice struck a chord I thought I’d long since silenced.
“Kay means everything to me,” Brynn continued, her voice cracking. “And I—I thought I could give her a better life. It was supposed to be simple. But there’s nothing simple about lying every day, and worrying if today’s the day you’ll be caught.”
“You have a sister.” Braxton’s eyebrows knitted together, his snarky humor replaced by something softer, more human. “Where is she now?”
“Safe with a friend,” Brynn whispered, her tears drying up. “At least, I hope so.”
I watched her, the anger within me wrestling with the unexpected twinge of sympathy her story elicited. This wasn’t part of the plan; emotions were never part of the plan. But standing in the dingy, dank basement, facing the shattered visage of a girl who’d gambled everything for family, for love.
Fuck. Why did she have to mention a sister? It’s like she knew exactly which buttons to push. I could feel my resolve crumbling, and I hated it. Hated her for making me question everything. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.
“Dammit,” I muttered. Whether it was frustration or something else, I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that the lines between right and wrong had blurred, and I hated it. I hated her…this Brynn Soto, if that was even her real name. She could still be lying to us.
My mind was a battlefield, loyalty to my family warring against this unwelcome spark of empathy. I wanted to shake her, to make her take back every word that was making me doubt myself. But I couldn’t. And that pissed me off even more.
“This is nonsense,” I snapped, my voice echoing off the cold concrete walls. “She’s played us all for fools.”
Sebastian’s stern gaze softened as he studied Brynn. “Joel, she’s just—”
“Cut the crap, Sebastian!” My words sliced through the room like a knife. “We can’t afford your bleeding heart right now.”
Braxton, usually the light-hearted joker of our trio, shared a long look with Sebastian. Their silent exchange spoke volumes, and I could practically hear their thoughts aligning in sympathy for Brynn. It was infuriating.
Now I’m the bad guy. Just because I’m not ready to roll out the welcome mat for Little Miss Lies-a-Lot. When did I become the villain in this twisted story?
“Look, Joel,” Braxton said, his voice uncharacteristically serious, “we’ve all been pawns in Shoemaker’s shit show. We’re angry, sure, but she’s not the real problem here.”
Brynn stepped forward. “Guys, listen—”
“Enough!” I barked, cutting her off. “You lied, you deceived us, and now you want what? Sympathy? Forgiveness?” I shook my head, disgust curling my lip. “Get the hell out of my house. Now.”
“Joel!” Sebastian exclaimed. “That’s a bit rash.”
“Go, Brynn. And if I ever see you again, it’ll be too soon.” I turned my back on her, my fists clenched at my sides. Behind me, I heard the shuffling of feet and the murmur of voices as Sebastian and Braxton escorted her out.
I wanted to punch something. Or someone. Preferably Shoemaker, but right now, even a wall would do. Anything to drown out the nagging voice in my head telling me I might be making a mistake.
“Joel...” Sebastian tried one last time, his hand resting on my shoulder.
“Save it,” I said, shrugging him off.
My heart thundered with anger and something else...something I refused to acknowledge. Protecting our family legacy was all that mattered. And no amount of tears or sob stories would change that.
I stood there, alone in the silence. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d just made the biggest blunder of my life. And I hated myself for even considering that possibility.