Chapter 3 Who's Playing Whom?
Chapter 3: Who's Playing Whom?
I always knew Malcolm Townsend was vain, but I'd forgotten just how spectacular his vanity could be. Standing in his bathroom surrounded by more skincare products than a Sephora warehouse, I counted seventeen different moisturizers – each for a specific part of his celebrity face.
"Where is it?" he barked from the bedroom. "The script for the Vaughn project! I need it for today's meeting!"
"Coming, Mr. Townsend," I called, slipping the small vial of clear liquid into my pocket before emerging with his precious screenplay.
Malcolm snatched it from my hands, not bothering to look at me. He was dressed in workout clothes that probably cost more than my monthly salary, a nasty bruise forming on his forearm – a souvenir from yesterday's stunt practice.
"Your antibiotic cream, sir," I said, holding up the prescription tube. "For your injury. The doctor said to apply it three times daily."
"Just do it," he muttered, extending his arm while reviewing his lines.
I squeezed the cream onto my fingers, gently applying it to the purpling skin of his forearm. For a moment, I remembered other times I'd touched that same skin – in affection, in passion, in comfort. Now my fingers moved clinically, spreading medication over the injury that was about to become very useful to me.
"Shit!" Malcolm suddenly exclaimed, jumping up. "I'm late for the conference call!"
He rushed to his desk, where his laptop sat open, and knocked over a glass of water in his haste. I watched with calculated precision as the liquid splashed across his keyboard.
"No, no, NO!" he shouted as the screen flickered.
I rushed forward with a towel, making a show of patting down the device while subtly pressing the power button. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Townsend! Let me fix this!"
"Don't touch it!" He pushed me away. "You've done enough damage!"
"But your files—"
"Are backed up," he snapped, though uncertainty flashed in his eyes. "Just... get me another computer. Now!"
I hurried to the storage closet where I knew he kept his backup laptop. As I returned, I heard him on the phone: "Postpone the call. Tech emergency."
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"Here you are, sir," I said, placing the spare laptop on his desk. "Shall I try to recover data from the damaged one?"
"Whatever," he muttered, already logging into his cloud account.
In the bathroom, I carefully removed the hard drive from Malcolm's water-damaged laptop. The liquid had barely touched the internal components – exactly as I'd planned when I'd strategically placed his water glass earlier that morning. I slipped the drive into my apron pocket just as Malcolm called for more coffee.
---
Hours later, while Malcolm was at physical therapy for his injury, I connected his hard drive to my encrypted tablet. What I found was exactly what I'd hoped for: a folder labeled "Shane-Offshore" containing detailed records of Shane's tax evasion schemes.
Blackmail material. How predictable.
I made copies of everything, then placed the hard drive in a waterproof bag and tucked it behind the loose tile in Malcolm's shower – where I knew he'd never look.
---
Freddie's workspace was the most organized of the three – a testament to his academic mind. Books arranged by subject and author, papers neatly stacked, pens aligned by color. The man who'd once praised my "brilliant analytical skills" now barely acknowledged my existence as I dusted his bookshelves.
"Professor Henderson," I said softly, "I've finished organizing your research notes for the conference."
He looked up from his laptop, glasses perched on the end of his nose. "Did you use the correct formatting? Twelve-point font, my name in the footer?"
"Of course." I placed the stack on his desk. "And I took the liberty of cross-referencing your current thesis with your published works, as you requested."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "I don't recall asking for that."
"Perhaps I misunderstood," I replied, my expression neutral. "I simply noticed some... similarities between this work and your 2018 paper on cognitive processing models."
Freddie removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Maxine, I don't pay you to analyze my academic work."
"No, sir. You pay me to organize it. Which is why I created this reference sheet." I slid a paper toward him – a meticulous list of paragraphs from his current paper alongside identical passages from a lesser-known researcher's work published two years prior.
The color drained from his face as he scanned the document. "Where did you get this?"
"Google Scholar, Professor. Basic research tools." I maintained my innocent expression. "I thought you'd want to correct the oversights before submission. To avoid any... misunderstandings."
He stood abruptly, snatching the paper. "Get out."
"Of course, Professor. I've also emailed you the contact information for the original author. Dr. Liang seemed quite interested when I reached out to verify—"
"You contacted him?" Freddie's voice rose to a shout. "Who authorized you to—"
"Is everything alright in here?" Shane appeared in the doorway, his expression suspicious.
"Fine," Freddie snapped. "Ms. Chasey was just leaving."
I nodded respectfully and slipped past Shane, feeling both men's eyes burning into my back.
Behind me, I heard Shane's low voice: "We need to talk. About Malcolm."
Phase three was proceeding perfectly.
---
Later that evening, as I prepared dinner in the kitchen, my surveillance app alerted me to movement in my quarters. I watched on my hidden phone as Malcolm rifled through my meager belongings, searching for... something.
When he left empty-handed, looking frustrated, I smiled to myself.
The hooks were set.
---
At precisely 9:32 PM, all three men converged in the living room. I brought in a tray of drinks, playing the obedient servant while my hidden microphones captured every word.
"She's up to something," Shane said the moment I left the room.
"No shit," Malcolm replied. "She's collecting information. I found surveillance software on my damaged laptop."
Freddie adjusted his glasses nervously. "She's catalogued my research. Found... discrepancies."
"Tax documents," Shane admitted reluctantly. "She's had access to everything."
Through my earpiece, I listened to their growing paranoia, their realization that I'd been playing them all. When they decided to confront me, I was ready.
I entered the living room with fresh drinks just as Shane said, "We need to get rid of her. Permanently."
"Get rid of whom, Mr. Donovan?" I asked pleasantly, placing the tray on the coffee table.
The three men froze, exchanging guilty glances.
Shane recovered first. "Your services are no longer required, Maxine. Pack your things."
I tilted my head. "On what grounds am I being terminated?"
"Invasion of privacy," Malcolm said. "Corporate espionage. Take your pick."
"Interesting accusations," I replied, pulling out my phone. "Especially coming from three men conspiring to 'get rid of someone permanently.' Which, under recording, could be construed as a death threat."
I pressed play, and their own voices filled the room: the complete conversation they'd just had, including Shane's ominous final statement.
"You recorded us?" Freddie looked appalled.
"I record everything, Professor. A habit I developed after being falsely accused of crimes I didn't commit." I turned to Shane. "According to Labor Law Article 24, threatening an employee constitutes workplace harassment, with prison sentences starting at three years."
"You wouldn't dare," Shane growled.
"Try me." I met his gaze evenly. "I've already forwarded this recording to my attorney, with instructions to release it should anything happen to me."
The silence that followed was delicious – three powerful men realizing they'd been outmaneuvered by the woman they'd collectively destroyed.
Unexpectedly, Malcolm rose from his seat and approached me. I tensed, ready for confrontation, but what happened next caught me completely off guard.
He dropped to one knee before me, a gesture so theatrical it could only come from him.
"Teach me," he said, his actor's voice pitched to perfection. "Teach me how to deceive three people at once."
I couldn't help it – I laughed. "Why would I do that?"
Malcolm's expression was earnest. "Because you're the best I've ever seen. Better than any acting coach I've had." He glanced back at the other two men. "Better than all of us combined."
Shane stood, outraged. "Have you lost your mind? She's blackmailing us!"
"No," Malcolm countered, still looking at me with newfound respect. "She's beating us at our own game. And I want to know how."
Freddie adjusted his glasses, his academic curiosity evidently piqued despite himself. "The psychological complexity of maintaining multiple deceptions simultaneously is... remarkable."
I looked between the three of them – the businessman, the actor, the professor – all suddenly fascinated by the mechanics of my revenge rather than its implications for them.
"Gentlemen," I said finally, "you seem to be missing the point. This isn't a master class in manipulation. This is justice."
"For what?" Shane demanded.
I smiled coldly. "That's the question you should have asked five years ago, when you testified against my father. When you" – I pointed at Malcolm – "leaked those fabricated photos to the press. And when you" – turning to Freddie – "falsified the research data that sent him to prison."
The color drained from their faces as understanding dawned. They hadn't hired their ex-girlfriend as a maid by coincidence. They'd been targeted all along.
"This was never about us," Freddie whispered. "This was about your father's case."
"Give the professor a gold star," I replied. "And we're just getting started."
As if on cue, all three of their phones chimed simultaneously. They reached for them with visible dread, reading the message I'd scheduled to send at precisely this moment:
"Lesson One: Never underestimate the daughter of the man you framed. Lesson Two coming tomorrow. Sleep well."
I turned to leave, pausing at the doorway. "Oh, and gentlemen? I quit. Consider this my two weeks' notice."
Behind me, Malcolm called out: "Wait! What about my offer?"
I glanced back over my shoulder. "You want me to teach you deception? Here's your first lesson: I was never really your maid. I'm your worst nightmare."
The door closed behind me with a satisfying click as I headed to my room to prepare for phase four – and the arrival of my sister, Ainsley.
