Chapter 5: The Seduction and the Setup

I carefully compiled a dossier on Lillian Moore and handed it to Derek. He just glanced at it, fixed his eyes on the photo, and spat out a few sharp words: “Widow’s face—easy mark.”

He tossed the file back like it was yesterday’s sports section. The confidence was infuriating—and oddly reassuring. If he thought it would be easy, maybe he was right.

Then he tossed the file back to me.

Papers slid across the Formica table, catching on a coffee ring. He didn’t even bother to scan the details—just trusted his gut, as always.

“Don’t you want to study your target? Even romance scammers come up with multiple plans. Lillian Moore is at least a wealthy woman—can you show some respect for your client?”

I pushed the file back toward him, voice clipped. If he was going to play games with my future, he could at least pretend to take it seriously.

“Client?” He suddenly leaned in close, our eyes meeting, breath mingling, and said with a suggestive tone, “Whoever pays is the client. If I’m going to respect anyone, it should be you.”

His voice dropped an octave, and for a split second, I felt heat rise in my cheeks. He was too good at this.

I picked up Lillian’s file and slapped it against his face, pushing him away.

The sound was satisfyingly sharp. He laughed, rubbing his nose like a chastened schoolboy.

“Ow, ow. My nose job was expensive. If you break it, you’ll have to pay.”

He winked, still smirking. I rolled my eyes, refusing to be drawn into his game.

“Pay my ass! Rule number one: no harassing the employer!”

My words rang out in the diner, drawing a curious glance from the waitress pouring coffee. I held his gaze until he backed off, hands raised in mock surrender.

This guy is way too flirtatious. If I don’t set boundaries, it’ll happen again.

I mentally added an extra layer of armor to my interactions with him. Derek was trouble with a capital T, and I couldn’t afford to slip, not even once.

He gave me a sidelong smile. “Boring.”

His eyes sparkled with mischief, but I saw the edge underneath. He respected strength, even if he’d never admit it.

Then he pocketed the listening device I gave him, turned his back, and raised a finger. “One month. You keep your husband out of the way and don’t interfere.”

His tone left no room for argument. He was taking the lead now, and I had to let him.

One month?

It felt impossibly short—a ticking clock counting down to my family’s fate. I chewed my lower lip and wondered if I’d made a mistake.

Lillian Moore is sharp—he’s being too cocky. I started to regret hiring him.

Doubt crept in, sour and persistent. I tried to remind myself why I’d come this far—because the alternative was losing everything.

But my doubts disappeared after their very first encounter.

I watched it all unfold from the corner of the mall’s Starbucks, hands wrapped tight around my cup, heart pounding like a drum. If Derek could pull this off, maybe I had a chance after all.

That day, in the mall, I sat in the Starbucks on the second floor, watching Derek approach Lillian with a bright smile. But this smile was different from his usual—gentlemanly and restrained.

He looked like someone out of a Ralph Lauren ad—casual but calculated. The way he moved, the way he smiled, all of it screamed trust fund, not street hustle. Even I almost forgot who he really was.

He wore a red cashmere sweater, looking warm and composed, like a privileged kid raised in luxury, radiating sunny confidence. With his striking features, he had the air of a silly but charming young nobleman.

It was an act, but a convincing one—his posture straight, his grin relaxed, the kind of boy every mother wants her daughter to date. He fit in among the mall’s wealthier crowd like he belonged.

I thought he’d greet Lillian, but instead, he approached the older woman beside her—Lillian’s mother.

It was a brilliant move—ignore the target, focus on the gatekeeper. Most men would have gone straight for Lillian, but Derek played the long game.

“Excuse me, I found a card. Could you see if it’s yours?”

His voice was soft, deferential, the picture of respect. He held the card between two fingers, careful not to intrude.

It was a uniquely designed restaurant membership card, labeled ‘The Humble Room.’

Anyone with social ambitions in our city knew The Humble Room—an exclusive spot, more coveted than any country club. Only the right people got in, and the rest just dreamed.

That’s a local, exclusive private dining club—just as its name suggests, all the guests are wealthy, even if not all are cultured.

Even the mayor’s assistant had to pull strings to get a reservation there. Derek had done his homework. Or maybe he’d just stolen the card. With him, it was hard to tell.

Who knows where Derek got this prop.

He could’ve printed it himself, for all I knew. The point was, it looked real.

Lillian’s mother shook her head, but I saw Lillian’s gaze linger on the card.

She was trying to hide it, but the hunger was there. For a woman who’d climbed as far as she had, status symbols still mattered.

Derek put on a shy smile, even scratching his head, and said, “Actually, um… sorry to be abrupt. I’d really like to get to know your daughter, but I thought I should ask your permission first.”

It was such an old-fashioned move that even I nearly laughed. But it worked—Lillian’s mother lit up like a Christmas tree.

Lillian’s mother had probably never been hit on by such a young, handsome man before. She looked at Lillian and said graciously, “You young people, it’s good to get to know each other.”

The pride in her eyes was unmistakable—her daughter was wanted, admired, even by men like Derek. It was a rare moment of power for her.

Lillian is a golden phoenix who flew out of a humble neighborhood, highly valued by her family. Everyone around praises Lillian’s mother for raising such an accomplished daughter. Since childhood, Lillian’s status at home has always been a bit above her mother’s. This might be the first time in her life someone showed such respect, letting her mother exercise maternal authority.

It was a subtle psychological play. By flattering the mother, Derek made Lillian feel special and traditional—everything she wanted to believe about herself, even if she pretended otherwise.

I have to say, it looked like a simple line, but Derek nailed it.

He made it look effortless, but I could see the calculations behind every word. The best cons never feel like cons at all.

And Lillian?

She played it cool, but her body language changed—shoulders relaxed, smile blooming. Derek had her hooked, and she didn’t even realize it yet.

All women in finance are snobs, no exceptions. Derek’s old-money style, the Patek Philippe watch peeking out from his wrist, plus that restaurant card—which only insiders know is hard to get—were more than enough to catch her interest.

It was a master class in social engineering. Everything about him screamed pedigree, and she responded the way anyone in her world would.

Sure enough, she extended her hand graciously. “Summit Securities, Lillian Moore. Have we met before?”

Her voice was silk and steel—polished, professional, but hungry for validation. Derek’s eyes sparkled as he took her hand.

Derek seemed stunned by her friendly manner, reached out and shook her hand lightly. “We probably haven’t met. Otherwise, you’d already be in my contacts.”

The line was cheesy, but Derek delivered it with just enough sincerity to make it land. Lillian laughed, and the ice was broken.

Derek smiled radiantly, flashing big white teeth, looking like someone easily charmed by beauty.

In that moment, he was every woman’s dream—a little vulnerable, a little cocky. I wondered how many times he’d used the same trick.

After that, the two naturally exchanged numbers.

No fuss, no awkwardness—just the easy chemistry of two people who knew what they wanted.

I also checked Derek’s newly curated Instagram—photos of him competing in a global coding competition. Scrolling further back, there was even a photo of him at the Kentucky Derby.

That Derby photo? Every old-money wannabe in Louisville has one just like it—big hats, mint juleps, the works. He’d spun a whole new identity, complete with international flair and local cachet. The Kentucky Derby shot was especially clever—everyone knows that’s where the city’s old money shows up every spring.

With one move, he built a persona of wealth, intelligence, and deep family background. The Photoshop was flawless, and the timeline seamless. Who knows how many sockpuppet accounts a pro like him manages. If I didn’t know his real background, I might have been fooled too.

I zoomed in on the Derby photo and laughed—Derek had even edited himself into the winner’s circle. The audacity was impressive.

Seeing Derek’s progress, I knew I had to act as well.

If I wanted to win, I couldn’t just sit on the sidelines. I started making calls, planning the next move, running scenarios like a chess master facing a grandmaster.

The baby’s hundred-day party was coming up—just the right time to strike a nerve.

In our circles, milestone parties matter. They’re not just celebrations—they’re signals, status updates, reminders to everyone who’s who. I planned mine down to the napkin colors.