Chapter 5 Fake It Till You Make It
# Chapter 5: Fake It Till You Make It
The morning after their hasty escape from the Metropolitan Museum Gala, Tracy awoke to find her face splashed across every New York gossip site. "TODD FAMILY DRAMA: DISGRACED FAKE HEIRESS STEALS BILLIONAIRE FROM REAL DAUGHTER" screamed one headline. Another proclaimed: "WALL STREET WOLF DUMPS TODD HEIRESS FOR HER REPLACEMENT."
Accompanying the sensational headlines were photos of Phil kissing her on the museum steps, his hand possessively at her waist, her body arched toward his in apparent passion. The images were undeniably intimate—and completely staged.
"Good morning, celebrity," Phil's voice came from the doorway of her bedroom suite. He was already dressed in tailored slacks and a casual button-down, looking annoyingly fresh despite their late-night adventure. "Sleep well?"
Tracy groaned, setting aside her tablet. "Hardly. Is it normal to have photographers camping outside your building at 6 AM?"
Phil crossed to the floor-to-ceiling windows and glanced down at the street below. "That's actually fewer than I expected. The Garrison divorce attracted at least twice as many."
"Comforting," Tracy muttered, pulling herself out of bed. She was suddenly conscious of her sleep-rumpled appearance in contrast to Phil's polished perfection. "What's the plan for today? More running from cartel hitmen?"
"Actually," Phil replied, turning from the window with a slight smile, "today we begin your formal training."
"Training? Haven't I been training all week to play the besotted fiancée?"
Phil shook his head. "Not that kind of training. After last night, it's clear we need to accelerate our timeline. Lillian is more dangerous than I anticipated, and her uncle's presence changes things."
He walked to Tracy's closet—which he had filled with designer clothes in her exact size, a fact she found both impressive and unsettling—and pulled out athletic wear: leggings, a sports bra, and a fitted tank top.
"Get dressed," he instructed, tossing the clothes onto her bed. "Comfortable shoes. We leave in twenty minutes."
Tracy raised an eyebrow. "Where are we going?"
"To meet your new instructor."
---
The "instructor" turned out to be a compact, muscular woman in her forties with close-cropped silver hair and the watchful eyes of a predator. She greeted them at a nondescript door in Brooklyn, marked only with the number 42.
"You're late," she said to Phil, her voice carrying a hint of Eastern European accent.
"Traffic," Phil replied easily. "Tracy, meet Irina. Former Russian special forces, current pain in my ass, and the best combat trainer in New York."
Irina gave Tracy an assessing look, walking a slow circle around her. "Too skinny. Not enough muscle. But good posture, probably flexible. We can work with this."
Tracy bristled. "Excuse me? Work with what, exactly?"
Phil leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Irina is going to teach you how to defend yourself. Possibly how to attack, if necessary."
"I'm not a soldier," Tracy protested.
"No," Irina agreed bluntly. "You are prey. I will teach you to become predator instead." She gestured to a heavy metal door. "Come."
Beyond the door was a large, open space with padded floors, mirrored walls, and various training equipment. It resembled a high-end martial arts studio, though something about the reinforced walls and lack of windows suggested its purpose was more serious than recreational fitness.
"Strip," Irina commanded.
Tracy blinked. "What?"
"She means take off your outer layer," Phil clarified, looking amused. "Irina believes in assessing baseline physical condition."
Reluctantly, Tracy removed her light jacket, standing awkwardly in the leggings and tank top. Irina circled her again, occasionally prodding muscles or testing joint flexibility.
"Better than I thought," she finally announced. "Rich girl, but not completely useless. You exercise?"
"Pilates, yoga, some cardio," Tracy replied, still uncomfortable under the scrutiny.
Irina nodded. "Good foundation. We build on it." She turned to Phil. "You stay or go?"
Phil checked his watch. "I have meetings. I'll be back in three hours."
"Wait," Tracy interjected, suddenly alarmed. "You're leaving me here?"
Phil's expression softened slightly. "You'll be fine. Irina is the best at what she does. Trust her."
With that, he departed, the heavy door closing behind him with an ominous thud. Tracy turned to Irina, who was now unwrapping athletic tape.
"What exactly am I supposed to be learning here?"
Irina's smile was not reassuring. "How to survive."
---
Three hours later, every muscle in Tracy's body screamed in protest. She had been thrown to the mat more times than she could count, learned a dozen ways to break free from various holds, and practiced strikes until her knuckles were raw despite the protective wrapping.
When Phil returned, he found her sprawled on the mat, breathing heavily, while Irina looked on with what might have been approval.
"How did she do?" he asked.
"Not bad for first day," Irina replied. "Good instincts. Quick learner. Needs strength training, but has natural talent for movement."
Tracy managed to prop herself up on her elbows. "Is this really necessary? I thought the plan was to gather evidence against Lillian, not engage in hand-to-hand combat."
Phil helped her to her feet, his touch surprisingly gentle. "Plans change. After seeing Vega last night, I'm not taking any chances with your safety."
"She comes back tomorrow," Irina declared. "Same time. We work on weapons next."
"Weapons?" Tracy echoed faintly.
Phil guided her toward the exit, one arm supportively around her waist. "Just basics. Consider it an insurance policy you'll hopefully never need to use."
Outside, Phil's driver waited with the now-familiar black SUV. Once they were inside, Tracy slumped against the leather seat, wincing as new bruises made themselves known.
"I feel like I've been hit by a truck," she groaned.
"Irina has that effect," Phil agreed, passing her a cold water bottle from the car's mini-fridge. "But she's the best. She trained me, too."
Tracy glanced at him in surprise. "You? Why would a billionaire need combat training?"
"I wasn't always a billionaire," Phil replied, his tone suggesting he wouldn't elaborate further. "Besides, in my line of work, making enemies is inevitable."
They rode in silence for a while, Tracy gulping water and trying to ignore her aching body. Finally, Phil spoke again.
"There's been a development. One of my sources inside the Todd mansion reports that Lillian had a private meeting with Eleanor this morning. Apparently, it became heated."
Tracy sat up straighter, concern overriding her physical discomfort. "Is Eleanor okay?"
"She's fine. But Lillian was seen leaving with a stack of files from Harold's private office." Phil's expression darkened. "Whatever she's planning, she's accelerating her timeline too."
"We need to get into that safe in Eleanor's study," Tracy said decisively.
Phil nodded. "Already working on it. The annual Todd Industries charity dinner is tomorrow night at the mansion. Eleanor has personally requested my attendance, despite the... awkwardness of the situation."
"And me? I doubt my invitation is still valid."
Phil's smile held a predatory edge. "Oh, you'll be there. As my plus one."
---
The following evening found Tracy standing in Phil's expansive living room, wearing a midnight blue gown that managed to be both elegant and provocative. Her hair had been swept into an intricate updo, exposing the graceful line of her neck and the diamond earrings Phil had provided—"on loan," he'd insisted, though she suspected they were yet another addition to his growing investment in their charade.
"Remember," Phil instructed as his personal stylist made final adjustments to his bow tie, "tonight isn't just about finding those documents. It's about establishing our relationship as the real thing. Every person at that dinner will be watching us, analyzing every interaction, ready to report back to Lillian."
"I know," Tracy replied. "I've been practicing my besotted gaze in the mirror."
Phil dismissed the stylist with a nod and crossed to where Tracy stood. Without warning, he placed his hands on her waist and pulled her close.
"Show me," he demanded quietly.
Tracy looked up at him, momentarily confused. "Show you what?"
"Your besotted gaze." His tone was clinical, but his hands remained firmly on her waist. "Convince me you're in love with me."
Tracy hesitated, then decided to approach this like the performance it was. She relaxed into his touch, allowing her body to soften against his. She lifted one hand to his face, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. Her eyes met his, deliberately softening, lips parting slightly as if in anticipation.
"Is this what you want?" she asked, her voice pitched low. "The way a woman looks at a man she can't resist?"
Something flickered in Phil's eyes—surprise, perhaps, or approval. His grip on her waist tightened fractionally.
"Better," he acknowledged. "But your eyes still show calculation. Love isn't calculated, Tracy. It's reckless, consuming."
Tracy's frustration flared. "And you're such an expert on love?"
"I'm an expert on deception," he countered smoothly. "And right now, you're not being convincing enough."
He released her abruptly and stepped back. "Again. But this time, don't think about it. Feel it."
"Feel what, exactly?" Tracy demanded. "We've known each other barely two weeks. Most of which you've spent ordering me around and dragging me to combat training."
Phil studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, without warning, he closed the distance between them again. This time, one hand came up to cradle the back of her neck, thumb brushing against her pulse point.
"When you're truly attracted to someone," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "your pulse quickens." His other hand found the small of her back, drawing her closer until their bodies were flush against each other. "Your breathing changes." His face lowered to hers, lips hovering just above her own. "And your eyes..." His gaze captured hers, intense and unwavering. "Your eyes dilate."
Tracy stood frozen, acutely aware of every point of contact between their bodies, of his breath mingling with hers, of the subtle scent of his cologne. Her heart was indeed racing, her breathing shallow.
"That's it," Phil murmured, satisfaction evident in his tone. "That's the look."
And then he released her, stepping back as casually as if they'd been discussing the weather. "Hold onto that feeling. Use it tonight."
Tracy stared at him, momentarily speechless. The intensity of her physical reaction disturbed her—this was supposed to be an act, a means to an end. Yet her body had responded to his proximity with embarrassing authenticity.
"You're wrong," she finally managed, smoothing down her dress in a gesture that was more about regaining composure than fixing her appearance. "That wasn't attraction. That was anger."
Phil smiled, a knowing curve of his lips that only irritated her further. "Call it whatever you like. As long as it looks real to everyone watching."
He offered his arm with exaggerated gallantry. "Shall we, darling? Your former family awaits."
---
The Todd mansion loomed before them, its windows ablaze with light, luxury cars lining the circular driveway. Tracy felt a peculiar sensation as Phil's car approached—this had been her home less than a month ago, and now she was returning as an outsider, a curiosity, a scandal on the arm of New York's most eligible bachelor.
"Ready?" Phil asked quietly as the car stopped at the entrance.
Tracy took a steadying breath. "As I'll ever be."
The moment they stepped into the grand foyer, a hush fell over the nearest cluster of guests. Tracy recognized most of them—board members from Todd Industries, social acquaintances of the family, the elite of New York society who had once welcomed her as one of their own.
Phil's hand settled possessively at the small of her back, a warm presence that was both reassuring and a reminder of their performance. His head bent close to hers, lips brushing her temple in a gesture that appeared intimate to any observer.
"Smile," he whispered. "You're exactly where you belong, and they all know it."
Tracy summoned her most confident smile, leaning slightly into Phil's touch as they moved further into the room. The whispers followed them, along with openly curious stares.
"Philip! You came!" Eleanor Todd's voice cut through the murmurs. She approached them, resplendent in a silver gown, her social mask firmly in place. If she was surprised or disturbed by Tracy's presence, only the slight tightening around her eyes betrayed it.
"Eleanor," Phil greeted her smoothly, brushing an air kiss near her cheek. "Thank you for including us despite the... complicated circumstances."
Eleanor's gaze flickered to Tracy, a complex mixture of emotions crossing her features too quickly to interpret. "Tracy. I didn't expect to see you tonight."
"Phil insisted I accompany him," Tracy replied, her voice steadier than she felt. "I hope that's not a problem."
Before Eleanor could respond, a cold voice interjected from behind her. "Actually, it is a problem."
Lillian appeared at Eleanor's side, a vision in crimson that emphasized her dramatic coloring. Her smile was razor-sharp as she assessed Tracy. "This is a private event for Todd Industries supporters. Since you're neither a Todd nor a supporter, you're not welcome."
Phil's arm slid around Tracy's waist, pulling her closer to his side. "Tracy is my guest, Lillian. Unless you'd prefer I withdraw my foundation's annual donation? It's quite substantial, as I recall."
The threat hung in the air between them. Eleanor glanced nervously between Lillian and Phil, clearly torn between social propriety and her daughter's obvious hostility.
"Of course Tracy is welcome," she finally said, though her smile appeared strained. "Any guest of Philip's is welcome in our home."
"Your home," Lillian corrected coldly. "Not hers. Not anymore."
With that parting shot, she turned and walked away, her crimson gown swirling dramatically around her ankles. Eleanor offered an apologetic smile before hurrying after her.
"Round one to us," Phil murmured against Tracy's ear. "Now for phase two."
They circulated through the party, Phil introducing Tracy as "my fiancée" to everyone they encountered, watching with evident satisfaction as eyebrows raised and speculative glances were exchanged. Tracy played her part perfectly, laughing at his jokes, touching his arm affectionately, gazing up at him with what she hoped was convincing adoration.
Throughout it all, she was acutely aware of Lillian watching from across the room, her expression growing darker with each passing minute.
"She's getting angry," Tracy noted quietly during a moment alone with Phil near the bar. "Is that part of the plan?"
Phil's smile was wolfish as he handed her a champagne flute. "Absolutely. Angry people make mistakes. And we need Lillian to make a very big mistake tonight."
"What kind of mistake?"
"The kind that reveals her true nature." He clinked his glass against hers. "Just follow my lead."
Dinner was announced, and the guests began moving toward the grand dining room. Phil guided Tracy to their assigned table, which she noted with some surprise was at the opposite end of the room from Eleanor and Lillian.
"I expected to be seated at the family table," she murmured as Phil held her chair.
"This is better," he replied. "We need a distraction at exactly the right moment. Being far from Lillian gives us more freedom of movement."
The meal proceeded with excruciating slowness. Tracy picked at her food, her stomach too knotted with tension to eat much. Phil, on the other hand, appeared completely at ease, charming their tablemates with anecdotes and business insights.
As the dessert course was being served, Phil leaned close to her. "It's time. In exactly three minutes, I need you to create a scene."
Tracy nearly choked on her water. "What kind of scene?"
"Something dramatic enough to draw everyone's attention. Something that will keep Lillian focused on you, not on me."
Tracy's mind raced. "And where will you be?"
"Getting what we came for." Phil's eyes met hers, serious now. "Can you do this?"
Tracy thought of the past two weeks—of being ejected from her home, of discovering her entire life had been a lie, of learning that the woman who replaced her was a murderer with cartel connections. She thought of Harold Todd, killed in that pool house fire. She thought of her own uncertain future.
"I can do it," she confirmed. "But you'd better be quick."
Phil's smile was genuine this time. "That's my girl."
He leaned in suddenly, capturing her lips in a kiss that was far more heated than their public display on the museum steps. His hand came up to cradle her face, his thumb caressing her cheek in a gesture that felt surprisingly tender. When he finally pulled away, Tracy was breathless, her cheeks flushed.
"For luck," he explained, his voice low. Then he stood and excused himself from the table, heading not toward the restrooms but toward a side door that Tracy knew led to the family's private quarters.
Tracy counted silently in her head, giving Phil exactly three minutes to get clear of the dining room. Then she rose from her seat, champagne glass in hand, and moved purposefully toward the center of the room.
"I'd like to make a toast," she announced, her voice carrying across the suddenly hushed space. "To Eleanor and Lillian Todd."
All eyes turned to her, including Lillian's, whose expression had shifted from surprise to fury.
"Sit down," Lillian hissed. "You have no right to speak here."
Tracy ignored her, raising her glass higher. "To the woman who raised me for twenty years," she continued, her voice steady despite her pounding heart. "And to the woman who stole my place with a fraudulent DNA test."
Gasps echoed around the room. Eleanor half-rose from her seat, her face pale. "Tracy, please—"
"I have questions, Eleanor," Tracy pressed on. "Questions about what really happened twenty years ago. Questions about why Harold's signature on my dismissal papers looks different from his normal handwriting. Questions about why Lillian appeared in your life just months before Harold's convenient accident."
"That's enough!" Lillian stood abruptly, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. "Security, remove her immediately!"
"No need to call security," Tracy replied calmly. "I know the way out. I lived here most of my life, remember? But before I go, I want everyone in this room to look carefully at the woman claiming to be Lillian Todd. Ask yourselves why a true heiress would need to threaten and manipulate her way into a family. Ask yourselves why Harold Todd died so conveniently after signing over his fortune."
Lillian advanced toward her, fury distorting her beautiful features. "You pathetic little fraud. You think anyone here believes you? You're nothing but a street rat who got lucky for a few years."
Tracy stood her ground as Lillian approached. From the corner of her eye, she saw Eleanor watching in horror, saw the guests frozen in fascination at the unfolding drama. Most importantly, she saw no one paying any attention to the side door through which Phil had disappeared.
"Wrong," Tracy replied softly, meeting Lillian's gaze steadily. "You stole my life. And I'm here to take it back."
Lillian's hand shot out, striking Tracy across the face with enough force to snap her head to the side. The champagne glass shattered as it hit the floor, the sound shocking in the sudden silence.
"You're delusional," Lillian snarled. "Guards! Remove her now!"
Two security men appeared, moving toward Tracy with grim determination. But before they could reach her, Phil materialized at her side, his arm sliding protectively around her shoulders.
"Touch her," he said quietly to the approaching guards, "and I'll have your jobs."
The men hesitated, looking to Eleanor for guidance. Eleanor, who had finally found her voice, stood shakily.
"Let them go," she instructed. "Both of them. This dinner is over."
As Phil guided Tracy toward the exit, she whispered, "Did you get it?"
His hand tightened briefly on her shoulder. "I got something better," he murmured. "Proof that Lillian isn't who she claims to be. And evidence of her direct connection to her uncle's cartel operations."
Tracy risked a glance back as they reached the foyer. Lillian stood watching them, her expression murderous. But it was Eleanor who caught and held Tracy's gaze—Eleanor, whose face showed not anger but profound confusion and the first stirrings of doubt.
Outside, as Phil's driver pulled the car around, Tracy touched her stinging cheek. "She hit me harder than I expected."
Phil turned her face gently toward the light, examining the reddening mark. "I didn't expect her to get physical in front of witnesses. She's losing control."
"Good," Tracy said fiercely. "Let her show everyone who she really is."
Phil helped her into the car, his touch lingering longer than necessary. "You were magnificent in there. Completely convincing."
Tracy leaned back against the leather seat, suddenly exhausted. "It wasn't all an act. I meant what I said about taking back my life."
Phil studied her in the dim light of the car interior. "I know," he said quietly. "That's what makes you dangerous to her. That's what makes you perfect for this."
As the car pulled away from the Todd mansion, Tracy caught a glimpse of Lillian in an upstairs window, watching their departure. The expression on her face promised retribution.
"She'll come after us now," Tracy said. "That scene back there—it was a declaration of war."
Phil reached across the seat to take her hand, his grip warm and reassuring. "Let her come. We're ready."
But as the mansion disappeared from view, Tracy wondered if anyone could truly be ready for what Lillian might do next. The woman had already killed once. And now Tracy had publicly challenged her claim to everything she valued.
The game had escalated—and the next move would be Lillian's.
