Chapter 2 Infiltrating the Enemy Camp

# Chapter 2: Infiltrating the Enemy Camp

The Plaza Hotel suite felt like a prison cell, despite its gilded furnishings and panoramic views of Central Park. Tracy had spent three days there, burning through the cash Eleanor had given her, trying to formulate a plan while dodging calls from concerned friends who'd seen the headlines.

She stood at the window now, watching the city lights flicker to life as dusk settled over Manhattan. Her phone buzzed with another notification—another tabloid story about "The Todd Family Scandal." This one featured a paparazzi shot of Lillian entering Bergdorf Goodman, Phil Tyler's strong hand resting possessively on the small of her back.

Tracy's jaw tightened. In less than a week, Lillian had completely hijacked her life, stepping into the void Tracy had been forced to leave. And that DNA report—the single piece of paper that had destroyed everything—was still bothering her. Something about Harold and Eleanor's reaction hadn't felt right. They knew more than they were saying.

She needed that report. She needed to see it for herself, to understand exactly what had happened. But the report was undoubtedly locked away in the Todd mansion, a place she could no longer access.

Or was it?

Tracy pulled out her laptop and typed "Phil Tyler penthouse" into the search bar. Several articles appeared, most focusing on his $30 million Central Park West residence, a modern glass fortress atop one of the city's most exclusive buildings.

If Lillian was engaged to Tyler, there was a chance she'd left copies of important documents at his place. It was a long shot, but Tracy was running out of options and money.

She closed her laptop and moved to the closet, where she'd hung the few clothes she'd managed to take from her former home. Pushing aside silk blouses and designer jeans, she reached for the black duffel bag hidden in the back—the one item the Todds didn't know about.

Inside was her "other life" kit: black leggings, a fitted black turtleneck, soft-soled boots, gloves, and a small set of lock picks. Throughout her privileged upbringing, Tracy had harbored a secret fascination with security systems and locks. What had started as a teenage rebellion—sneaking out of the Todd mansion to attend forbidden parties—had evolved into a genuine skill set.

By midnight, Tracy stood across the street from Tyler's building, studying its security patterns. The doorman changed shifts at 12:30 AM. The night guard made rounds every forty-five minutes. And according to the building plans she'd found online, there was a service entrance with a keypad lock on the east side.

At precisely 12:28 AM, as the doormen prepared for their shift change, Tracy slipped around to the service entrance. The keypad was a standard model—similar to the one at the Todds' Hamptons house. She pulled out a small electronic device she'd acquired during a rebellious phase in her late teens and placed it against the keypad. Thirty seconds later, the door clicked open.

The service elevator required another code, which her device cracked just as easily. As she ascended to the penthouse level, Tracy's heart pounded in her chest. What she was doing was illegal. If caught, she'd face charges that even the Todd name—which was no longer hers to invoke—couldn't protect her from.

But she had nothing left to lose.

The elevator opened directly into a small service hallway. Tracy moved silently down the corridor, following the floor plan she'd memorized. The penthouse took up the entire floor, with the main entrance likely protected by a more sophisticated security system. But service entrances were often the weak point in even the most secure buildings.

She found the door she was looking for—a discrete entrance that would lead to the kitchen. This lock was more complex, but nothing her tools couldn't handle. After two tense minutes, she was in.

The penthouse was a minimalist dream of glass, steel, and warm wood accents. Moonlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across Italian marble floors. Tracy moved silently, her senses hyperalert for any sign of occupation. But the place felt empty—no sounds of breathing, no rumpled bedsheets, no coffee mugs left in the sink. Tyler was clearly not home.

She made her way to what appeared to be a home office. The door was unlocked. Inside, a massive desk faced the glittering city skyline. Behind it, a wall of built-in filing cabinets beckoned. If Lillian had left documents anywhere, this would be the place.

Tracy tried the first drawer. Locked. She pulled out her picks again, working methodically from drawer to drawer. Most contained business documents—contracts, investment reports, property deeds. Nothing personal. Nothing about the Todds.

She moved to the desk, carefully searching each drawer. In the bottom one, she found a leather portfolio with the Todd Industries logo embossed in gold. Her breath catching, Tracy pulled it out and opened it.

Inside were documents related to a potential merger between Todd Industries and Tyler Ventures. But paper-clipped to the last page was something that made her blood freeze: a copy of her DNA test results, alongside another for Lillian. Both had been highlighted and annotated in a bold masculine scrawl.

"Why would he have these?" Tracy whispered to herself, quickly taking photos of each page with her phone.

She was so absorbed in the discovery that she almost missed the soft click of the main door opening. Footsteps echoed in the marble entryway—too heavy to be a woman's. Tyler was home.

Tracy hastily returned the portfolio to the drawer and looked frantically around the office. No closet, no adjoining bathroom, nowhere to hide. The footsteps were getting closer. In desperation, she slid under the massive desk, curling into the smallest shape possible in the knee space.

The office door opened. From her hiding place, Tracy could see only a pair of expensive leather shoes and the hem of dark trousers as someone entered. The shoes moved to the desk, paused, then continued to the filing cabinet she had been searching earlier. A drawer opened and closed. Then the shoes returned to the desk.

The chair rolled back. Tracy held her breath as Phil Tyler sat down, his knees inches from her face. From this awkward vantage point, she could see he was wearing a tailored suit, the jacket now unbuttoned as he made himself comfortable. His hand reached down to open the very drawer she had just closed.

Tracy closed her eyes, waiting for the shout of discovery. But instead, she heard the rustle of papers and the click of a laptop opening. He was working. At 1:30 in the morning.

Minutes stretched into an agonizing hour. Tracy's muscles screamed with the effort of remaining motionless. Just when she thought she couldn't bear it any longer, Tyler's phone rang.

"It's late, Lillian," he answered, his voice a rich baritone with the faintest trace of impatience. "No, I'm still at the office... The penthouse renovation isn't finished yet... Yes, I've reviewed the merger documents... No, we're not discussing the prenup tonight."

He swiveled in his chair, giving Tracy a glimpse of a strong jaw and the crisp white collar of his shirt. "The engagement party is still weeks away. We have time... Yes, I know your father wants... Look, I have work to finish. We'll talk tomorrow."

He ended the call with a sigh that sounded more like relief than frustration. Then, to Tracy's horror, he pushed his chair back and stood up. But instead of leaving, he walked to a hidden panel in the wall that slid open to reveal a wet bar. The clink of ice in a glass was followed by the unmistakable sound of liquid being poured.

When he returned to the desk, he didn't sit down. Instead, he leaned against it, his weight making the desk creak slightly above Tracy's head.

"You know," he said conversationally to the empty room, "most burglars go for the obvious things. Artwork. Electronics. Jewelry. Not many head straight for corporate paperwork."

Tracy's heart stopped.

"So either you're a corporate spy," he continued, "or you're looking for something very specific. Either way, you've been under my desk for over an hour, which must be terribly uncomfortable. Why don't you come out so we can discuss this like adults?"

The game was up. Tracy unfolded herself from her hiding spot, wincing as her cramped muscles protested. She stood slowly, raising her eyes to meet Phil Tyler's for the first time.

He was younger than she'd expected—early thirties at most—and devastatingly handsome in a way that photos didn't capture. Dark hair swept back from a strong forehead, piercing blue eyes, and cheekbones that could cut glass. But it was his expression that caught her off guard. Instead of anger or alarm, his face held only mild curiosity and something that looked almost like amusement.

"Tracy Todd," he said, taking a sip of his whiskey. "Or not Todd, as the case may be. I've been wondering when you'd show up."

Tracy straightened her shoulders, refusing to be intimidated despite her compromising position. "How long have you known I was here?"

"Since you entered the building," he replied with a casual shrug. "The service entrance alerts my phone. The security cameras show everything. I watched you pick the locks—impressive technique, by the way. Didn't know they taught that at Spence."

Tracy's mind raced. "If you knew I was breaking in, why didn't you call the police?"

"And miss the chance to meet the woman who's caused such a stir in New York society?" He gestured with his glass. "I was curious. Still am. What exactly were you looking for in my desk, Miss Todd?"

"Don't call me that," Tracy said sharply. "Apparently, I'm not a Todd."

"Ah, yes. The great DNA revelation." Phil set his glass down and crossed his arms. "Which brings me back to my question: what are you looking for?"

Tracy decided honesty was her only play. "My DNA report. I wanted to see it for myself. I found a copy in your drawer."

"Along with quite a bit of confidential business information," he noted dryly.

"I wasn't interested in your business dealings," Tracy insisted. "I just want answers about who I am and how I ended up with the Todds."

Phil studied her for a long moment, his blue eyes unnervingly perceptive. "Breaking and entering is a serious crime, you know. I could have you arrested right now."

"But you won't," Tracy said with more confidence than she felt. "Because you're engaged to Lillian, which makes this a family matter. The last thing the Todds want is more scandal."

A smile played at the corner of his mouth. "You're assuming I care what the Todds want."

"Don't you? You're marrying their daughter. You're negotiating a merger with their company."

Phil pushed away from the desk and moved toward her. Tracy instinctively stepped back, but found herself against the wall. He stopped just close enough to invade her personal space without actually touching her.

"What if I told you there's more to the story than what the Todds have shared?" he said softly. "What if I told you Lillian isn't the innocent party she pretends to be?"

Tracy's pulse quickened. "What do you mean?"

Instead of answering, Phil turned and walked to a sleek desktop computer in the corner of the office. He tapped a few keys, and a large monitor on the wall flickered to life, displaying a grid of security camera feeds.

"I have cameras in all my properties," he explained. "Including the guest house at my Hamptons estate, where Harold Todd stayed last weekend."

He tapped another key, and the screen changed to show archival footage. Tracy recognized Harold entering an elegant poolhouse, followed shortly by Lillian. The timestamp showed it was just after midnight, one week ago.

"Turn up the audio," Tracy said, her mouth suddenly dry.

Phil obliged. The speakers crackled with Harold's voice: "...absolutely necessary? The girl has been with us for twenty years."

Lillian's response was cold. "She's been stealing from me for twenty years. My identity. My inheritance. My life."

"We raised her as our own, Lillian. Eleanor will be devastated."

"Eleanor will get over it once she sees the DNA results. And once she realizes how much I can do for Todd Industries with my connections to the cartel."

Harold's voice sharpened. "We agreed never to discuss that. Those associations of your mother's were in the past."

"But still useful," Lillian countered. "Just like your signature on these documents will be useful. Sign them, Father. Transfer everything to me now, before the DNA results become public."

The camera caught Harold's hesitation. "And what happens to Tracy?"

Lillian's laugh was chilling. "She goes back to being nobody. Or worse."

"You promised no harm would come to her."

"And you promised me my birthright. Sign the papers."

The footage showed Harold reluctantly signing several documents. As he handed them back to Lillian, he asked, "When will you tell her?"

"Tomorrow," Lillian replied. "I've already leaked hints to the gossip columns. By this time tomorrow, Tracy Todd will cease to exist in our world."

Harold nodded and turned to leave. But as he reached the door, Lillian spoke again.

"Oh, and Father? Don't think of warning her. Remember, I have proof of every illegal transaction you've made in the last decade. Your choice: her or prison."

The footage ended there. Phil turned to Tracy, whose face had drained of all color.

"Now for the part you really need to see," he said grimly. He pulled out his phone and showed her a new video—grainy nighttime footage of the same poolhouse exterior. The timestamp showed 3:17 AM, just hours after the previous conversation.

The footage showed Lillian leaving the poolhouse alone, glancing furtively around before hurrying away. Two minutes later, smoke began to billow from the windows.

"The fire was ruled an accident," Phil said quietly. "Faulty wiring, they said."

Tracy felt her knees weaken. "Harold was still inside?"

Phil nodded, his expression grave. "By the time my security team saw the smoke and responded, it was too late."

"That's—that's murder," Tracy whispered. "Lillian murdered Harold. Does Eleanor know?"

"Eleanor knows only what Lillian tells her. That Harold died in a tragic accident after signing over everything to his newly-discovered biological daughter."

Tracy sank into a chair, her mind reeling. "Why are you showing me this? Why are you engaged to a woman you know is a murderer?"

Phil crouched before her, his blue eyes intense. "Because I need someone who has as much reason to hate Lillian as I do. Someone who can help me destroy her before she destroys more lives."

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a stack of photographs, tossing them onto the desk before her. They showed Lillian meeting with various unsavory-looking men, exchanging packages, examining weapons.

"Lillian Todd isn't just a murderer," Phil explained. "She's deeply involved with her maternal family's drug cartel. Her plan is to use the Todd fortune and my companies to launder money on a massive scale. I've been gathering evidence for months, but I need someone on the inside."

"And you think that's me? I've just been thrown out. I'm nobody now."

Phil's mouth curved into a dangerous smile. "You broke into my penthouse and cracked my filing cabinet. You're far from nobody, Tracy. And with my help, you can be the one person Lillian fears most—the woman who takes back everything that was stolen from her."

He stood and offered her his hand. "Stealing jewels? Why not steal me instead. Help me bring her down, and I'll help you reclaim your life."

Tracy stared at his outstretched hand, then at the damning photographs on the desk. If what he was saying was true, Lillian wasn't just a privileged heiress—she was a dangerous criminal who had murdered Harold Todd in cold blood.

"How do I know I can trust you?" she asked, not taking his hand.

"You don't," he admitted. "But right now, I'm your only option. Unless you'd prefer I call the police about this break-in?"

Tracy's eyes narrowed. "That's blackmail."

"I prefer to think of it as a mutually beneficial arrangement." His hand remained extended. "What do you say, Tracy? Partners in revenge?"

She looked at the photographs once more, at Harold's face in the security footage, at Phil Tyler's outstretched hand. Then she reached out and took it, sealing a pact that would either restore her life—or destroy what remained of it.

"Partners," she agreed, feeling as though she'd just lit a fuse to a bomb. "But this doesn't mean I trust you."

Phil's smile widened, revealing perfect white teeth. "Good. In our line of work, trust is a luxury neither of us can afford."