Chapter 2 - The Scorecard
The apartment smelled like clean cedar and expensive leather. It was a three-thousand-square-foot loft overlooking the marina in San Diego, a place Brendan had picked out and I had spent two years turning into a home. I had framed the art, watered the fiddle-leaf figs, and kept the refrigerator stocked with the imported sparkling water he liked.
Now, standing in the middle of the living room, every corner looked like a crime scene.
I didn't turn on the lights. The late-afternoon sun cut long, amber stripes through the slatted blinds, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. I walked slowly to my desk in the corner of the bedroom and pulled open the bottom drawer, sliding out the leather-bound organizer I had kept since college.
For three years, I had written down every bizarre misfortune that plagued our relationship. I had documented them because I had genuinely believed I was cursed, or that the universe was punishing me for something I couldn't remember doing.
*October 14th:* My portfolio for the California Arts Council fellowship mysteriously deleted from my cloud drive forty minutes before the deadline, right after Liam borrowed my laptop to check his fantasy football team.
*March 3rd:* The brakes on my modest sedan failed on the freeway, forcing me to swerve into a ditch. Brendan had taken the car for an "oil change" at his friend’s private garage the weekend prior.
*August 19th:* An anonymous tip sent to the board of the San Diego Youth Ballet claiming I had stolen choreography from a prestigious New York workshop, nearly costing me my teaching license. It took three weeks of frantic calls and legal letters to clear my name.
*Eighty-four. Eighty-five. Ninety-one.*
Ninety-six orchestrated acts of psychological and physical sabotage.
I closed the notebook. My hands were perfectly steady. The dizzy spell from the forced blood donation had finally passed, replaced by an electric, humming clarity. For thirty-six months, I had been an unwitting actor in a reality show designed for an audience of five entitled trust-fund sociopaths, all to soothe the bruised ego of a girl who couldn't handle coming in second place.
The front door clicked open.
Footsteps echoed across the hardwood. Brendan stepped inside, tossing his platinum keys onto the marble entryway console. He looked radiant. He had spent the morning at an upscale gym after checking out of his fake hospital room, his jaw freshly shaved, wearing a tailored polo shirt that hugged his broad shoulders.
“Chloe?” he called out, his tone carrying that practiced edge of weary exasperation he always used when he wanted me to feel like an inconvenience. “Did you pick up my dry cleaning? The black suit needs to be pressed before tomorrow night’s dinner.”
I walked out of the bedroom, keeping my right arm subtly angled so the thick gauze pad taped over my vein was fully visible.
“Brendan,” I said softly, letting a slight tremor enter my voice. “You’re walking. They told me your ribs were fractured.”
He froze for a fraction of a second, his dark eyes flickering with the briefest flash of annoyance before he smoothed his expression into a mask of heroic endurance. He reached up, pressing a hand against his side, and let out a faint, strained grunt.
“ hairline fracture,” he murmured, walking stiffly toward the kitchen island. “The doctors wanted to keep me, but you know how I hate hospitals. I couldn't breathe in there. I had to get home.”
He looked at my arm, his gaze lingering on the bruised, swollen skin around the bandage for half a heartbeat. There was no pity in his eyes. No gratitude. Only a smug, triumphant amusement that he tried desperately to hide behind a tight line of his lips.
“Thank you for going down there,” he added, pouring himself a glass of water. “Liam said you didn't even hesitate. That’s what a partner does, Chloe. Loyalty under pressure.”
“I’d do anything for you,” I said, looking directly into his pupils. “You know that.”
“I do.” He set the glass down and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. “Look, tomorrow night is the Montgomery Foundation Gala at the Del Mar Country Club. It’s a huge deal. Scarlett’s father is announcing the primary endowment for the West Coast Cultural Arts Initiative.”
“Scarlett Montgomery?” I asked, keeping my tone curious, innocuous. “I didn't think you two stayed in touch.”
Brendan waved a dismissive hand. “Our families have done business for forty years, Chloe. We don't have a choice. Anyway, they’ve requested that the past winners of regional arts competitions attend as part of the youth outreach showcase. That means you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You’ll be representing the collegiate dance alumni.” He reached into his leather messenger bag and pulled out a heavy garment bag, unzipping it to reveal an emerald-green silk evening gown. It was breathtaking, backless, and clearly cost several thousand dollars. “Scarlett had her personal stylist pick this out for you. She wanted to make sure you felt comfortable standing in a room full of people from... different backgrounds.”
A patronizing insult wrapped in high-end silk.
I reached out and touched the fabric. Along the delicate interior hem, my fingertips brushed against an unusually thick, stiff seam near the zipper—a hidden seam that didn't match the garment's tailoring.
“It’s beautiful,” I whispered.
“Wear it,” Brendan said, his smile widening into something genuinely sinister. “Be ready by seven. Mason is driving us. Let’s make tomorrow night an evening to remember, alright?”
“I promise you,” I said, lifting my eyes to meet his, “it will be unforgettable.”
The moment Brendan went into the bathroom to shower, I slipped my phone out of my pocket and dialed a number I hadn't used in two years.
“Leo?” I whispered as soon as the line connected.
“Chloe?” The voice on the other end was deep, sharp, and instantly alert. Leo Sterling was an investigative journalist for the *San Diego Tribune* whose sister had been pushed out of the Montgomery family’s competitive equestrian circuit years ago under suspicious circumstances. “To what do I owe the rare pleasure?”
“You told me once that if I ever wanted to look into how the Montgomery Foundation handles their charity auctions and competitive arts grants, you had a file ready.”
There was a sudden, intense pause on the other end.
“I have two filing cabinets ready,” Leo replied quietly. “Why? Did you finally realize who you’re sleeping next to?”
May you like
“I know everything,” I said, watching the steam curl from beneath the master bathroom door. “And I’m going to need your help taking down ninety-nine targets at once.”
***
