Chapter 7 Birthday Jitters

# Chapter 7: Birthday Jitters

The night before Albert's birthday gala, I couldn't sleep. I paced my quarters, mentally reviewing my plans, checking for flaws, weaknesses, oversights. Tomorrow would mark the first real escalation of my revenge—a public move that couldn't be taken back.

I'd spent the past week solidifying my position in the household. Elliot had become an unexpected ally, though I remained cautious about how much to trust him. Since his whispered confession in the music room, we'd developed a system of communication—notes hidden in French textbooks, brief conversations while his music played loudly enough to foil any listening devices.

His revelations had been invaluable: security codes, routines, the locations of cameras throughout the penthouse, and most crucially, confirmation that Winton Pierce kept sensitive files in his downtown office. The lawyer visited the penthouse every Thursday afternoon for meetings with Albert, leaving his office vulnerable.

Today was Thursday. While the Albert men attended a pre-birthday lunch at the Harvard Club, I'd made my move.

Winton's office occupied the thirty-eighth floor of a sleek midtown building. Getting in had been surprisingly simple with the credentials Elliot had helped me create—a temporary ID identifying me as a paralegal from their London office, here for the birthday celebrations.

"Mr. Pierce is expecting these documents," I'd told his assistant confidently, holding a sealed envelope. "He asked me to place them directly in his files while he's at lunch."

The assistant—young, eager to please—had barely hesitated before letting me into Winton's inner sanctum. "Just pull the door closed when you leave," she'd said, returning to her phone call.

Inside, I'd moved quickly, using the electronic lockpick disguised as a smartphone case to access his filing cabinet. The folders were meticulously organized, and I found what I was looking for in the third drawer—a thick file labeled "Zhang, C."

My hands had trembled as I'd opened it, confronted with documentation of my own obliteration. Medical records from the hospital. Police reports noting "victim uncooperative." Photos of my damaged face that made bile rise in my throat. The NDA I'd never signed. And most damning of all, a memo from Winton to Albert:

*Subject has been compensated. No further action required. L. was advised on future discretion. Recommend European trip for cooling-off period.*

Attached was a check stub—$250,000 from Winton's personal account, not the family's. Why would the lawyer pay me off with his own money? The irregularity nagged at me.

But the real prize had been deeper in the drawer—a folder labeled "Contingencies" containing similar files on other young women. Five of them. Each with medical records, NDAs, payment receipts. Lucas had been busy over the years, and Winton had been cleaning up after him.

I'd photographed everything using my recording contact lenses, replaced the files exactly as I'd found them, and walked out past the still-distracted assistant with a friendly wave.

Now, those images were secured on an encrypted drive, ready to deploy at tomorrow's gala. Phase one of my evidence gathering was complete.

A soft knock at my door pulled me from my thoughts. I checked the time—nearly midnight—before cautiously opening it.

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Elliot stood in the hallway, pale and tense in pajama pants and a rumpled t-shirt. Without a word, he handed me a folded note, eyes darting nervously toward his father's bedroom down the hall.

I pulled him inside, closing the door quietly before unfolding the paper:

*They're talking about you. Winton knows something's wrong. Be careful tomorrow.*

"How do you know this?" I whispered.

He produced his phone, showing me a screen with audio wavelengths. He'd bugged his father's office.

I stared at him with new appreciation. This boy was far more resourceful than I'd given him credit for. "Can you play it?"

He nodded, producing small wireless earbuds. I inserted one while he took the other, and he pressed play.

Winton's voice came through first: "—something about her that doesn't add up. The Beaumont reference checked out initially, but when I dug deeper, there are inconsistencies."

Albert sounded dismissive. "You're being paranoid. Her credentials are impeccable."

"So were Madoff's," Winton countered. "I'm running a deeper background check. Results should come before the gala."

My blood ran cold. My carefully constructed identity might not withstand that level of scrutiny.

"Is this because I'm interested in her?" Albert asked, irritation evident. "For God's sake, Winton, not every attractive woman is a threat."

"After what happened with Victoria, you should be more cautious."

"That was different."

"Was it? Another beautiful young woman who appeared suddenly in your life, gained your trust, then tried to—"

"Enough!" Albert snapped. "Ms. Fontaine is Elliot's tutor, nothing more."

"For now," Winton replied dryly. "Just postpone any... personal involvement until after I've completed my investigation."

The recording ended. Elliot's dark eyes met mine, questioning.

"Thank you," I said, mind racing. "This is... helpful."

He tilted his head, studying me with uncomfortable intensity before writing in his ever-present notebook: *Who are you really?*

I hesitated. How much should I reveal? How much did he already suspect?

"Someone who wants justice," I finally answered.

He considered this, then wrote: *For the girl with the acid?*

My breath caught. "You remember her."

He nodded, eyes haunted, and wrote: *I hear her screams sometimes. When I try to sleep.*

The confession hit me like a physical blow. I'd never considered that my pain had created echoes, that someone else carried the trauma of that night alongside me.

"It wasn't your fault," I said softly. "You were just a child."

*I should have helped her. You.*

The last word hung between us, the truth finally acknowledged. He knew. Had known, perhaps, from the beginning.

"How did you figure it out?" I asked.

*Your eyes. The way you flinch when Lucas comes near. Little things.*

"Does Lucas suspect?"

Elliot shook his head. *He never really saw you. Just a thing to break.*

The assessment was brutally accurate. To Lucas and his friends, I had never been fully human—just an object for their amusement, their cruelty.

"What about your father?" I asked. "Does he know what Lucas did?"

Elliot's expression darkened. *He paid to make it go away. Like always.*

"And you've been silent all these years."

He looked down, shame evident in the slump of his shoulders. *I was afraid. Then angry. Now I want to help.*

I studied him, this damaged boy from a toxic family, offering himself as an ally in my revenge. Was it a trap? A test? Or genuine remorse?

"Why now?" I pressed. "Why help me destroy your family?"

His writing was jagged, emotional: *They're not my family. They're my prison.*

I understood then—Elliot wasn't just an ally of convenience. He was a fellow prisoner of the Alberts, seeking his own liberation through their downfall.

"Tomorrow at the gala," I said carefully, "things will change. If you help me, there's no going back."

He nodded solemnly, then wrote: *Lucas keeps the original video from that night. Locked safe in his apartment. Security code 051293.*

My heart stuttered. "There's video?"

*He watches it sometimes. When he's drunk.*

Revulsion and rage flooded me in equal measure. The thought of Lucas revisiting my humiliation as entertainment made me physically ill.

"I need that video," I said, voice hardening.

*I can get you into his apartment tomorrow. He'll be at the club until the gala.*

I weighed the risk against the reward. The video would be the ultimate evidence, impossible to explain away. With it, I could destroy Lucas completely.

"Okay," I agreed. "But after that, we need to be careful. Winton's investigating me."

Elliot wrote quickly: *Use my father. He'll protect you if he thinks you want him.*

The suggestion was coldly pragmatic, revealing a strategic mind I hadn't fully appreciated. Elliot understood his father's weaknesses as well as I did.

"I'll handle Albert," I assured him. "You just get me into Lucas's apartment tomorrow."

He nodded, then surprised me by writing: *What will happen to me? When it's over?*

The question caught me off guard. In my years of planning, I'd never considered the aftermath for anyone but myself and my targets. Elliot had always been collateral damage in my mind—unfortunate but necessary.

Now, looking at this broken young man who'd carried the weight of my trauma alongside his own, I felt an unwelcome pang of responsibility.

"What do you want to happen?" I asked.

*Freedom,* he wrote simply.

"Then that's what you'll get," I promised, though I had no idea how to keep such a promise. "Freedom."

He seemed satisfied with this, standing to leave. At the door, he hesitated, then wrote one final note: *Be careful with Winton. He's worse than my father.*

After Elliot left, I sat on the edge of my bed, mind churning. Winton's investigation threatened everything, but it also confirmed something I'd suspected—the lawyer was more than just Albert's employee. He was a guardian of darker secrets, possibly with his own agenda.

Tomorrow's gala would be more complicated than I'd planned. I needed to neutralize Winton's suspicions while still executing the first public phase of my revenge. And now, I had a side mission to Lucas's apartment to retrieve the video.

I opened my laptop, pulling up the dossier I'd compiled on Winton Pierce. Unlike the Albert men, his background was oddly opaque—prestigious law degree, meteoric rise through corporate ranks, but little personal information. No family photos, no mentions of hobbies or interests. Just a series of professional accomplishments and charitable donations that seemed designed to create the appearance of a life rather than document an actual one.

Who was Winton Pierce, really? And why had he paid me off with his personal funds rather than the family's money?

As I closed my laptop, a notification appeared on my phone—a calendar reminder for tomorrow's gala. I'd titled it simply: "Rebirth."

Tomorrow, Claire Fontaine would begin to show her true purpose. Tomorrow, the Alberts would get their first taste of the revenge I'd spent three years perfecting.

I just hoped Elliot was truly on my side. Because if he wasn't—if this was an elaborate trap—I was walking straight into the lion's den with no escape route.

But then, that had been my plan all along, hadn't it? To enter the heart of their world and destroy it from within.

No risk, no revenge.