Chapter 3 Pretty Puppets

# Chapter 3: Pretty Puppets

I left the mansion in a blind fury, tears blurring my vision as I slammed the car door and instructed the driver to take me back to my apartment in the city. The audacity of Griffin's lies, the smug satisfaction on Celeste's face—it was all too much to process. What hurt more than Griffin's betrayal was my father's silence, his willingness to believe I was unstable rather than consider that his precious wife's fiancé might be lying.

My phone buzzed incessantly during the ride. Claire, concerned after my hasty text about the confrontation. My father, probably with some half-hearted attempt at reconciliation. I ignored them all. When I reached my apartment—a tiny walk-up that represented my independence from the Montgomery fortune—I locked the door behind me and collapsed onto my bed, emotionally drained.

Three days passed in a haze of angry journalism and takeout containers. I threw myself into work, pitching a series on gaslighting and psychological manipulation that my editor approved immediately. If nothing else, my personal trauma could fuel something worthwhile.

On the fourth day, Claire appeared at my door with coffee and determination.

"You can't hide forever," she said, pushing past me into the apartment. "And you need to see this."

She handed me her phone. On the screen was an Instagram post from one of Celeste's socialite friends. A photo of Griffin and Celeste at some charity luncheon, looking blissfully in love. The caption read: *So happy for these two! Even after that bizarre drama with the jealous stepdaughter... #trueloveconquersall #cantwaittobebridesmaid*

"It's all over the Upper East Side," Claire said gently. "Celeste is spinning a narrative that you had some sort of breakdown. There are rumors you've always been obsessed with her boyfriends."

I handed the phone back, my stomach churning. "That's ridiculous. Anyone who knows me—"

"Knows you've been estranged from that world for years," Claire finished. "Which makes it easier for people to believe whatever they're told about you."

I sank onto my couch, suddenly exhausted. "I don't care what Celeste's plastic friends think."

"You should care about this." Claire pulled up another screen—my professional Twitter account, where several anonymous users were posting screenshots of what appeared to be private messages between Griffin and me, arranging our Coney Island meeting. Messages I had never sent.

"These are fake," I whispered, scanning the manufactured conversation. "I never wrote any of this."

"I know that," Claire said, "but they're being shared in media circles. Someone's trying to make it look like you pursued Griffin, knowing who he was."

The realization hit like a physical blow. This wasn't just about humiliating me at a family brunch—Celeste was systematically destroying my reputation, both personal and professional. And Griffin was allowing it, perhaps even helping her.

"I need to fight back," I said, grabbing my own phone. "I have the real messages from Griffin on the dating app where we matched. I can prove—"

"They're gone," Claire said quietly.

I froze. "What?"

"I tried to look before coming here. The account has been deleted. All traces of your conversation, your match—everything."

The walls seemed to close in around me. "How is this possible?"

"Money, power, tech knowledge—take your pick." Claire sat beside me. "Delilah, I believe you. But you're up against something bigger than just a lying fiancé."

My phone rang, cutting through the moment. My father's name flashed on the screen.

"I should take this," I said, surprising myself. Claire nodded and moved to the kitchen to give me privacy.

"Father," I answered, my voice carefully neutral.

"Delilah." He sounded tired. "We need to talk. In person."

"I have nothing to say to you."

"It's about your... accusations. And your behavior."

Something in his tone made my skin prickle. "My behavior is not the issue here."

"Celeste is worried about you. We all are. Griffin has suggested a place—a wellness retreat. Very exclusive. It might help you gain perspective."

I laughed in disbelief. "A wellness retreat? You mean a psychiatric facility. You want to have me committed."

"It's not like that," he insisted, but his hesitation told me otherwise. "It's just for a few weeks. To help you reset."

"Because I exposed your wife's fiancé as a liar? Because I don't fit into Celeste's perfect family fantasy?"

"Because you're making increasingly erratic claims," my father said, his voice hardening. "Because you've been posting concerning things online. Because you seem determined to hurt Celeste."

"I haven't posted anything!" I protested, then realized—the fake messages. "Those aren't from me. Someone is impersonating me."

"Delilah, please. This defensiveness isn't helping. Just come home. We'll talk through this like adults."

"I am an adult. One who doesn't need to be 'reset' because I'm inconvenient to Celeste's narrative."

My father sighed. "I hoped you'd be reasonable. For your own sake."

The line went dead, leaving me staring at my phone in shock.

"Bad?" Claire asked, returning with two glasses of wine.

"They want to send me to a 'wellness retreat,'" I said, my voice hollow. "My own father thinks I need psychiatric help because I won't play along with their lies."

Claire handed me a glass. "What are you going to do?"

Before I could answer, my phone buzzed with a text. Unknown number, but the message made my blood run cold:

*Photos from Coney Island. You looking very cozy with someone who isn't Griffin. Posted on your work Slack channel five minutes ago. Might want to check your email.*

I lunged for my laptop, logging into my work email to find a message from my editor:

*Need to talk ASAP about the inappropriate photos shared in company Slack. Taking you off the gaslighting piece until we sort this out.*

"No, no, no," I muttered, opening Slack to find doctored photos showing me intimately embracing a man whose face was just out of frame—clearly meant to suggest I'd been with someone else entirely, making up my story about Griffin.

"They're framing me," I whispered to Claire. "Making it look like I invented the whole thing with Griffin because I was with someone else that day."

Claire looked over my shoulder at the images. "This is beyond gaslighting. This is a full-scale character assassination."

My phone rang again—my editor. I let it go to voicemail. Then another call, from a colleague. Then texts from other journalists I knew, asking if I was okay, if the rumors were true.

"It's happening so fast," I said, panic rising in my throat. "They're destroying everything I've built."

"You need a lawyer," Claire said firmly. "And you need to get ahead of this somehow."

But how could I get ahead of something I didn't understand? Who was orchestrating this? Griffin? Celeste? Both of them together?

My doorbell rang, startling us both.

"Are you expecting anyone?" Claire asked.

I shook my head, approaching the door cautiously. Through the peephole, I saw two men in dark suits. One held up a badge.

"Ms. Montgomery? NYPD. We'd like to speak with you about some concerning behavior reported by your family."

Claire joined me at the door, peering through the peephole herself. "Don't open it," she whispered. "Something feels wrong."

My phone buzzed with another text from the unknown number:

*They're not real cops. Get out now.*

"Fire escape," I whispered to Claire, grabbing my phone, wallet, and keys.

We slipped out the back window just as I heard my front door being forced open. Heart pounding, we descended the metal staircase and ran through the alley behind my building.

"My place isn't safe," Claire said as we hailed a taxi. "They'll look there next."

"I know somewhere," I said, thinking of an old college friend who'd moved to Brooklyn. "Just get us out of Manhattan."

---

Three days later, I was hiding in a motel on the outskirts of the city, paid for in cash. Claire had gone back to her life with promises to keep me updated on the whisper campaign against me. My editor had placed me on "administrative leave." My bank account had been frozen due to "suspicious activity." My social media accounts were either hacked or suspended.

It was as if I was being systematically erased.

The motel room door opened, and I jumped, grabbing the nearest weapon—a table lamp. But it was only the motel manager, a tired-looking woman in her sixties.

"Phone call for you at the front desk," she said. "Man wouldn't give his name."

I hesitated. No one knew I was here except Claire, and she would have called my burner phone.

"Tell him I'm not here," I said.

The woman shrugged. "Already told him you were. Sorry, honey."

After she left, I paced the small room, weighing my options. I could run again, find another anonymous motel. But my resources were dwindling, and I was tired of running from shadows.

Decision made, I walked to the front desk, vigilant for any sign of the fake officers or other threats.

"This is Delilah," I said to the clerk, who handed me an ancient corded phone.

"Hello?" I said cautiously.

"Delilah." Griffin's voice sent a shock through my system. "Don't hang up."

"How did you find me?"

"That's not important right now. What's important is that you're in danger."

I laughed bitterly. "From you and Celeste."

"Not from me." His voice was low, urgent. "You need to listen carefully. There's a black car outside the motel. My driver. He'll bring you to a safe location."

"So you can finish what you started? Have me committed?"

"So I can explain what's happening." He paused. "Delilah, I know you have no reason to trust me. But right now, I'm your only option."

"I'd rather take my chances alone."

"They know where you are. The same people who sent those fake officers. They're twenty minutes away. Maybe less."

My heart raced. "Why should I believe you?"

"Because despite what you think, I never meant for any of this to happen to you." His voice softened. "You were never supposed to be involved."

Something in his tone—regret, perhaps, or genuine concern—made me hesitate.

"The car will wait five minutes," he said. "After that, you're on your own."

The line went dead.

I stood frozen, weighing impossible choices. Trust the man who betrayed me, or face unknown enemies alone? Before I could decide, the motel clerk pointed out the window.

"That your ride? Fancy car for this neighborhood."

A sleek black sedan idled in the parking lot, driver standing beside the open rear door.

Five minutes. That's all the time I had to decide if Griffin was offering salvation or another, more elaborate trap.

I stepped outside, the evening air cool on my skin. The driver nodded respectfully as I approached.

"Ms. Montgomery," he said. "Mr. Blake is waiting."

I paused at the open door, peering into the darkened interior. Empty.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Upstate. Private property. Very secure."

Another trap? Or my only escape from whatever was closing in on me?

I slid into the car, my heart pounding as the door closed behind me. As we pulled away from the motel, I watched in the side mirror as two unmarked vans turned into the parking lot. Men in dark clothing emerged, moving with purpose toward the motel office.

The driver caught my eye in the rearview mirror. "Just in time, Ms. Montgomery."

The car accelerated onto the highway, carrying me toward Griffin—and whatever game he was really playing.

Hours later, I was led through a modernist glass house nestled in dense woods. The driver disappeared after delivering me to the front door, which opened automatically as I approached.

I stepped inside cautiously. The house was minimally furnished but elegant, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a lake.

"Hello?" I called out, my voice echoing slightly.

Movement caught my eye—Griffin emerging from a hallway, looking more casual than I'd ever seen him in jeans and a simple sweater. He stopped a respectful distance away.

"Thank you for coming," he said quietly.

"Did I have a choice?"

"We always have choices. Rarely good ones, in my experience."

I studied his face, searching for deceit. "Why am I here, Griffin?"

"Because you're in danger. Because you deserve the truth." He gestured toward a sitting area. "And because you're now a piece on a board you don't even know you're playing on."

"Stop speaking in riddles."

"I'm trying to tell you that you're not crazy." His green eyes locked with mine, intense and clear. "Everything you remember happened. Coney Island. The Ferris wheel. The hotel."

The validation I'd been desperately seeking left me strangely hollow. "Then why deny it? Why help Celeste destroy me?"

"Because Celeste is not who you think she is. And neither am I." He moved closer, his expression grave. "You're just her pawn right now, Delilah. But I remember who you used to be, before all this. And I think that person deserves a fighting chance."

"A chance at what?"

"Survival," he said simply. "And maybe, if we're very careful, revenge."