Chapter 4 Fake Turns Real, Confrontation in the Bathroom

# Chapter 4: Fake Turns Real, Confrontation in the Bathroom

The morning after the gala, I woke in my penthouse to find a gift box on my nightstand with a note from Martin: "Lesson 28: The power of aftermath. Noon. My place." Inside was a stunning Cartier watch—a not-so-subtle reminder that time was both luxury and constraint.

Two months into our arrangement, and Martin's lessons had evolved from basic wealth management to psychological warfare. How to enter a room to command attention. The art of the pregnant pause. When to deploy generosity as a weapon. The value of strategic silence.

I was becoming something new—neither the fake Wei heiress I'd been for eighteen years nor the desperate counterfeit seller I'd been after my expulsion. Something more dangerous, more calculated.

And more conflicted.

Because despite our purely transactional relationship, I was starting to see glimpses of the real Martin Chen behind the billionaire façade. The way he absently rubbed the scar on his right hand when discussing his childhood. How his eyes softened almost imperceptibly when passing children in the park. His unexplained monthly visits to a nursing home in Queens.

These details fascinated me more than they should have.

At precisely noon, I entered Martin's penthouse using the keycode he'd given me "for emergencies and lessons." The space was minimalist but luxurious—all clean lines and staggering views of Central Park, with priceless art pieces displayed with deceptive casualness.

"Martin?" I called, setting my purse on the marble console table.

No answer. Unusual for someone pathologically punctual.

I wandered deeper into the apartment, past the living room with its two-story windows and into the study where we usually had our "lessons." Empty.

"Martin?" I tried again.

I heard water running from the master suite and hesitated. We had established clear boundaries in our fake relationship—separate residences, no physical expectations beyond the occasional public display of affection for cameras. I had never been in his bedroom.

But something felt off. Martin was never late, never unprepared.

I approached the partially open door. "Martin, it's Cassandra. Are you okay?"

No response except the continued sound of running water.

Concern overrode propriety, and I pushed the door open. The bedroom was immaculate—king-sized bed perfectly made, not a single item out of place. The bathroom door stood ajar, steam escaping.

"Martin?" I called louder, approaching slowly.

I heard a groan—pain, not pleasure.

I pushed the bathroom door open to find Martin leaning against the marble vanity, shirt off, attempting to bandage a bleeding wound on his shoulder. His normally perfect hair was damp with sweat, his face pale.

"What happened?" I gasped, immediately moving to his side.

"Nothing serious," he grimaced. "Just a disagreement about business terms."

The "disagreement" had left a six-inch gash across his shoulder blade. Not life-threatening, but certainly not nothing.

"This needs stitches," I said, examining the wound.

"No hospitals," he replied firmly. "There's a medical kit in the cabinet. I just couldn't reach properly."

I found the surprisingly comprehensive medical kit and set to work cleaning the wound. Martin remained silent, only the occasional tightening of his jaw betraying his pain.

"Who did this?" I asked, applying antiseptic.

"Someone who underestimated my resolve." His voice was controlled, dangerous. "It won't happen again."

I worked methodically, using the butterfly bandages to close the wound. It wasn't my first time dealing with injuries—a childhood accident had left my adoptive father Richard Wei with a similar cut, and Victoria had insisted I learn basic first aid rather than call an ambulance and risk publicity.

"You're good at this," Martin observed.

"Victoria believed appearances were more important than proper medical care," I explained, securing the last bandage. "There. Not perfect, but it should heal cleanly."

He turned to face me, and I suddenly realized the intimacy of our position. Martin was shirtless, water droplets still clinging to his chest, his face inches from mine in the steam-filled bathroom.

"Thank you," he said, his voice lower than usual.

I became acutely aware that I was still touching him, my fingers resting lightly on his uninjured shoulder. I should have stepped back. Created distance. Maintained the professional boundaries of our arrangement.

Instead, I heard myself ask, "Does this have something to do with the Weis?"

Something shifted in his expression—surprise, perhaps, that I'd made the connection.

"Why would you think that?" he asked carefully.

"Because everything in this bizarre arrangement seems to revolve around them." I reached for a towel and handed it to him. "And I'm starting to think there's much more to this revenge plot than you've told me."

Martin accepted the towel but didn't use it, his eyes never leaving mine. "You're becoming quite perceptive."

"Or you're becoming less careful," I countered. "If I'm putting myself in the Wei family's crosshairs, I deserve to know why."

He considered this, then nodded slightly. "Fair enough. Help me with a shirt, and we'll talk."

I followed him into the bedroom, where he indicated a closet that turned out to be the size of my first apartment. He selected a simple black button-down, and I helped ease it over his injured shoulder.

The domesticity of the act felt strangely natural, which disturbed me more than the injury had.

"The Weis and I have history beyond my broken engagement to Eleanor," Martin finally said, sitting on the edge of his bed. "History that predates even your adoption into their family."

I remained standing, needing the physical distance to maintain clarity. "What kind of history?"

"The kind that involves blood and betrayal." His expression hardened. "Victoria Wei wasn't always a Wei. Before she married Richard, she was Victoria Chang—my father's business partner."

The revelation stunned me. "I never knew that."

"Few people do. They've worked very hard to erase that connection." Martin's eyes grew distant. "Together, they developed technology that formed the foundation of both family fortunes. Except Victoria decided her share wasn't enough."

"What happened?"

"Industrial espionage. Stolen patents. My father was found dead shortly after confronting her—an apparent suicide that conveniently eliminated the primary witness against her."

I sank onto the edge of the bed, trying to process this. "You think she murdered your father?"

"I know she did." His voice was devoid of emotion, which somehow made it more chilling. "I was seventeen. I heard their argument. I saw her leave his office. An hour later, he was dead."

"Why didn't you go to the police?"

"With what evidence? The word of a grieving teenager against one of New York's most connected socialites?" His laugh was bitter. "By the time I had the resources to pursue it properly, the trail was cold. Victoria had reinvented herself completely as Richard Wei's perfect wife."

I struggled to reconcile this with the woman who had raised me—cold and status-obsessed, certainly, but a murderer? "And Eleanor? What's her role in this?"

"Eleanor is her mother's daughter in every way." Martin's expression darkened. "She knew about my suspicions when we got engaged. She promised to help me find evidence against Victoria. Instead, she was reporting everything back to her mother."

"So your engagement was never real," I realized. "You were using her to get to Victoria."

"And she was using me to monitor my investigation." He shrugged, then winced as the movement pulled at his wound. "Mutual deception. Almost admirable."

"And where do I fit into all this?" I asked, the question that had been haunting me since our first meeting.

Martin's eyes met mine, intense and unreadable. "You were the unexpected variable. The daughter Victoria adopted under mysterious circumstances, raised as her own, then discarded when it became inconvenient."

"But why me? Why did they choose me specifically to be their fake daughter?"

He hesitated, and I knew we were approaching something crucial.

"That's where things get complicated," he admitted. "I believe your adoption wasn't random. I think Victoria selected you for a specific reason—one connected to my father's death."

My head was spinning. "Are you saying I'm somehow connected to your father?"

"I don't know yet," Martin said. "But I intend to find out. And having you publicly aligned with me is driving Victoria to make mistakes. Like wearing that replica necklace last night."

I stood up, needing to move, to think. "So I'm bait. A tool in your revenge plan."

"Initially, yes," Martin admitted, rising to stand before me. "But you've proven to be much more valuable than I anticipated."

"As a weapon against the Weis?"

"As a partner," he corrected. "You've shown instincts and abilities I didn't expect. You're not just playing the role I created for you—you're expanding it, improving it."

There was admiration in his voice, but it did little to soothe the sting of manipulation. Our entire relationship had been built on mutual use—him using me to get to Victoria, me using him for financial security and revenge.

Yet somewhere along the way, it had begun to feel like something else.

"I need some air," I said, turning toward the door.

Martin caught my wrist, his grip gentle but firm. "Cassandra. There's more you should know."

"I think I've had enough revelations for one day."

"This can't wait." He released my wrist but stepped closer. "Victoria knows we're getting close to something. That's what this was about." He gestured to his injured shoulder. "Her associates made it clear that if I continue, you'll be next."

Fear coiled in my stomach. "She sent someone to threaten you? To hurt you?"

"To warn me," he corrected. "The message was explicit: 'The fake daughter won't survive exposure any better than her mother did.'"

I froze. "Her mother? My birth mother?"

Martin's expression softened with what looked like genuine regret. "I believe your birth mother may have known something about my father's death. And that Victoria may have been responsible for her disappearance as well."

The room seemed to tilt around me. All my life, I'd wondered about my birth parents—had created elaborate fantasies about who they might be, why they'd given me up. The possibility that my mother had been silenced by Victoria Wei was too horrific to contemplate.

"I need to shower," I said abruptly, needing escape, solitude, time to process.

Martin seemed to understand. "Use my bathroom. Take as long as you need."

I nodded numbly and retreated to the steam-filled sanctuary of his massive bathroom. Under the pounding water of his rainfall shower, I tried to make sense of everything I'd learned. If Martin was right, Victoria Wei hadn't just stolen my identity—she'd potentially stolen my mother's life.

And now she was targeting me.

By the time I emerged from the bathroom wrapped in Martin's plush robe, I'd made a decision. This wasn't just about revenge anymore. It was about justice and truth—for my birth mother, for Martin's father, and for myself.

Martin was waiting in the bedroom, seated in an armchair by the window, looking out at the Manhattan skyline. He'd changed into a fresh shirt and looked composed once more, the vulnerable injured man replaced by the controlled billionaire.

"Feel better?" he asked without turning.

"No," I answered honestly. "But I'm clearer about what needs to happen next."

He turned then, studying me with that penetrating gaze. "And what's that?"

"We stop playing defense," I said, surprising myself with my resolve. "If Victoria Wei is responsible for my mother's death, I want proof. I want her to pay."

Martin's expression remained neutral, but something flickered in his eyes—approval, perhaps, or respect. "That could be dangerous."

"I'm already in danger," I pointed out. "At least this way, I'm facing it directly."

He rose from the chair and approached me slowly, as one might a wild animal they didn't want to startle. "You continue to surprise me, Cassandra."

"Is that a compliment?"

"An observation." He stopped directly in front of me. "Most people run from threats. You're choosing to run toward them."

"I spent eighteen years living a lie. I'm done hiding."

Something changed in his expression—the calculating coldness giving way to something warmer, more genuine. "Then we'll face this together."

Before I could respond, he reached out and tucked a wet strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my cheek. The touch was gentle, nothing like the performative affection we displayed in public.

This was real.

I should have pulled away. Our arrangement was business, not pleasure. But standing there in his robe, with the scent of his soap on my skin and the knowledge of shared enemies between us, the line between fake and real had begun to blur dangerously.

"Martin," I began, uncertain what I even wanted to say.

"You should know," he interrupted softly, "that while our beginning was strategic, my current feelings are not part of the contract."

My heart stuttered. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that somewhere between teaching you how to identify genuine wine and watching you outmaneuver Victoria Wei, I stopped seeing you as a means to an end." His hand moved to cup my cheek. "And that complicates things considerably."

Time seemed suspended as we stood there, the space between us charged with unspoken possibilities. I was acutely aware of the heat of his palm against my skin, the subtle scent of his cologne, the intensity of his gaze.

This wasn't in the contract. This wasn't part of our arrangement. This was dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with Victoria Wei's threats.

And yet, I found myself leaning into his touch.

The moment shattered when Martin's phone rang—a specific ringtone that I'd learned indicated his security team. He hesitated, clearly reluctant to answer.

"Take it," I said, stepping back. "It could be important."

He nodded, retrieving the phone from his pocket. As he answered, his expression shifted from frustrated to alarmed.

"When?" he demanded. "How many?" A pause. "Lock down all access points. We're on our way."

He ended the call, immediately shifting into crisis mode. "Someone's trying to access your apartment. My security team has detected at least two intruders attempting to override the elevator codes."

Fear shot through me. "The Weis?"

"Most likely." He moved quickly to a panel on the wall, pressed his palm against it, and a hidden drawer slid open, revealing a handgun. "We need to move. Now."

As he checked the weapon, I spotted something on his nightstand—a framed photograph I hadn't noticed before. I moved closer, drawn by a strange sense of familiarity.

It was a photograph of two people—a teenage boy I recognized as a young Martin, and a small girl of perhaps three years old with familiar eyes.

My eyes.

I picked up the photo, my hands trembling. "Martin. What is this?"

He froze, seeing what I was holding. For the first time since I'd known him, Martin Chen looked genuinely caught off guard.

"That's not how I wanted you to find out," he said quietly.

"Find out what?" I demanded, though part of me already knew the answer—an answer that would change everything.

Before he could respond, the security system chimed with an urgent alert. We were out of time.

"I'll explain everything," he promised, taking the photo from my hands and slipping it into his pocket. "But right now, we need to get somewhere safe."

As we hurried toward his private elevator, I clutched the edges of the robe around me, mind reeling with questions. That photograph suggested a connection between us that predated our contract, predated my expulsion from the Wei family, predated everything I thought I knew about my life.

Who was I really? And who was Martin Chen to me?

The answers would have to wait. For now, we were running—not just from Victoria Wei's thugs, but from a past that was rapidly catching up to both of us.