Chapter 6
“I think you’re mistaken. My name is Lyra,” I said firmly, forcing steel into my voice as I held his gaze.
Wesley Dorne’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk. “Cut the act, Iris. I know. exactly who you are.”
You are.”
My stomach churned, but I locked the turmoil away behind an unreadable expression. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He leaned against the cabin wall with practiced ease, his arms crossed, his sharp, calculating eyes never leaving mine. “You can drop the disguise. It’s useless. I own the agency that helped you ‘disappear.”
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His words struck me like a blow, but I didn’t let it show. “So what?” I asked curtly, crossing my arms over my chest. “Are you going to blow my cover? Announce to the world that I’m alive?”
Wesley let out a low, almost mocking chuckle as he straightened. “Not yet.”
“Not yet?” I echoed, my voice tightening as my nerves began to fray. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He tilted his head, his expression maddeningly calm. “It means I have a condition.”
“What condition?” I demanded warily, narrowing my eyes.
A sly grin spread across his face. “I need a fake wife.”
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I blinked, momentarily stunned. “A fake wife?”
“You heard me,” he replied, as nonchalant as ever. “There are certain… business negotiations that require me to have a spouse by my side. You’re already an accomplished actress, so why not put those skills to use?”
I didn’t hesitate. “No. Absolutely not.”
The memories of my past slammed into me -five years trapped in a loveless marriage, suffocating under a fabric of lies and betrayal. I refused to step back into that cage, fake or otherwise.
“All I want is peace,” I said, my voice resolute. “A life far away from Quentin, far away from anyone who’s ever hurt me. Playing house
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with you isn’t part of that plan.”
Wesley shrugged as if my rejection barely registered. “Then I guess I’ll have to let everyone know you’re alive.”
My hands balled into fists at my sides. “Why are you doing this? What could you possibly gain?”
His smile widened, though his eyes stayed cold and calculating. “Let’s just say I have my reasons. But for now, you need to get moving. I’ll handle the yacht.”
I raised a skeptical brow. “You’re kidding.”
“Not even a little,” he said with a smug grin. “This yacht? It’s mine. And I’m the only one here who knows how to steer it.”
Disbelief and frustration warred within me as
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I stared at him. “Fine,” I ground out through clenched teeth. “But stay out of my way.”
He smirked again, already turning toward the door. “Whatever you say, soon–to–be Mrs. Dorne.”
“In your dreams,” I shot back, slamming my cabin door with a force that made the wood shudder.
Leath
against it, I let out a shaky breath, my heart pounding with a mix of fury and disbelief. Wesley Dorne. Of all people, why did it have to be him?
Frustration boiling over, I ripped off the wig, tossing it aside along with the makeup wipes. What was the point of the disguise now? Wesley knew exactly who I was.
Needing a distraction, I turned on the
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television–and immediately regretted it.
The headline seized my attention: Quentin Brooks Claims Foul Play in Iris Keaton’s Death.
The screen shifted to Quentin, standing stoically behind a podium, microphones flanking him like sentinels. His expression was perfectly curated–a portrait of grief painted in every line of his face.
“I refuse to believe my wife would take her own life,” Quentin said, his voice steady but tinged just enough with emotion to seem genuine. “Iris and I were deeply in love. We were building a family together”
My blood ran cold as the camera closed in on him.
“She was pregnant with our child,” he
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continued, his voice cracking ever so slightly. “We had plans for the future. Someone out there is trying to destroy her legacy, spreading malicious lies about my wife and me. But I will not rest until the truth prevails, and justice is served.”
My fists clenched so tightly my nails bit into my palms. I barely registered his next words.
“I will fully cooperate with the authorities,” he insisted, his tone firm and righteous. “The rumors about Iris’s mother and Delilah Starling are baseless–cruel attempts to tarnish our family’s name. Whoever is responsible for these falsehoods will be held accountable.”
I snapped off the TV, the remote slipping from my hand and clattering to the floor. “Liar,‘ I hissed, pacing the room like a caged animal. “You’ll never tell the truth, will you?”
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But I was done letting him control the story. If he wanted to twist the narrative, then I’d expose the real one–and crush him with it.
Firing up my laptop, I created another shell account, a forgettable name with no ties to me. This time, I wasn’t concerned with stirring up whispers. I was going directly to Quentin.
I attached the files I’d carefully gathered over the last year. contracts, financial records, hospital logs–everything that tied him to my mother’s dealings, everything that proved what he’d done.
The message was short but damning: I know what you did, Quentin. I know everything.
His reply came quicker than I expected: Who is this? What do you want?
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A cold smile tugged at my lips as I typed my answer. Money. A lot of it.
There was a pause before his next message: How much?
Leaning back in my chair, I allowed myself one moment of satisfaction before typing: Enough to ruin you.
The yacht groaned as it lurched forward, and I felt the hum of the engines beneath my feet. Wesley must have already taken the helm, steering us away from the port.
I shut the laptop with a decisive snap, then turned toward the window.
