Page 70 of Fake To Forever

She moves with a kind of elegance that’s almost robotic. There’s no warmth in her demeanor, no real humanity in the way she speaks or interacts. Every time she enters a room, it feels like the temperature drops a few degrees. She doesn’t say much, but when she does, it’s always with purpose—each word chosen carefully, cutting when it needs to be, sweet when she’s trying to manipulate the situation.

Agnes has always been the power behind Theresa, the driving force of her ambition and greed. I’ve known that from the beginning. She’s the one who taught Theresa how to play these games, how to wear different faces depending on what she wants, and right now, as she stands in front of me, arms crossed and eyes narrowing in that familiar, piercing way, I can see the wheels turning in her mind. She’s here for one thing: control. Whether it’s through Theresa, through Oliver, or through me, she’s always trying to find a way to hold the reins.

There’s no love in Agnes. Only strategy. And that’s what makes her the most dangerous of them all.

I stand up quickly, instinctively putting myself between Oliver and them. He’s still too young to understand, but I don’t want him near them, especially not Theresa. She doesn’t belong here, not in my house, and definitely not in my life anymore.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, keeping my voice as steady as I can manage.

Theresa smirks, her mother hovering behind her like a vulture. "Can’t a mother come check on her son?"

My blood is boiling in my veins. The audacity she has, showing up like this, walking into my house like she owns the place and pretending she gives a damn about Oliver. It’s almost laughable.

“Edna?” I shout. “Can you come in here, please?”

A few moments later, the nanny walks into the room. Her eyes jump between me, Theresa and Agnes, and she furrows her brow in concern.

“Sir?” she asks.

“Can you take Oliver upstairs, please?”

She nods and hurries to my son’s side.

“Come on, little one,” she says, taking Oliver’s hand and helping him to his feet. “Let’s go read a story up in your room.”

“Okay, Edna,” he says. Edna gives me a lingering look as she leads Oliver out of the room. Theresa barely spares our son a glance, which tells me all I need to know about her real intentions for being here.

"You’re not here for Oliver," I say flatly, crossing my arms. "What do you want?"

Her smirk doesn’t falter. She steps further into the room, her eyes scanning the space, taking in every detail as though she’s sizing up her next move. "It’s been too long, Christian. I’ve been thinking a lot about what’s best for our son."

Our son. The words grate against me like nails on a chalkboard. She hasn’t shown any real interest in being a mother to Oliver, not since he was born. Everything she’s done has been for herself—whether it’s attention, money, or trying to worm her way back into my life.

"And what’s best for Oliver in your opinion?" I ask, trying to keep the anger out of my voice.

Her mother, who’s been silent until now, finally speaks up, her voice dripping with condescension. "Dear, it’s quite simple. A child deserves, no, needs his mother. Theresa is willing to step back into her role. She’s been thinking a lot about her future—and his."

I laugh bitterly, shaking my head. "Don’t act like you care about Oliver. You’ve had every opportunity to be in his life, and you’ve never taken it. This isn’t about him. This is about money. It always is with you."

Theresa’s smirk falters, but she quickly recovers, her eyes narrowing. "You always think the worst of me, Christian. I’ve changed. I want what’s best for Oliver."

"No," I snap, stepping closer, my voice low but firm. "What you want is the child support and the potential inheritance. You don’t care about Oliver; you care about what he represents. You think if you win custody, you’ll have control over what’s mine, and one day, he’ll inherit everything. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?"

Theresa’s face hardens, the façade slipping just for a second. She glances at her mother before looking back at me, a glint of something dangerous in her eyes.

"What if I could offer you a deal?"

She’s not even trying to deny my accusations against her. I scoff, but she takes another step forward, ignoring my reaction.

"You divorce that little tramp. Leave this little charade behind. Marry me instead."

Her words hang in the air, as poisonous as the smirk curling her lips.

I feel the ground shift beneath me, the weight of her suggestion sinking in. "What?"

"If you marry me," she says, her voice sickeningly sweet, "I’ll agree to continue living my life far away from you and Oliver. I won’t fight for custody, I won’t interfere, and I’ll let you raise him however you want. In return, you’ll give me what I deserve—access to your fortune."

I stare at her, barely able to process what I’m hearing. "You want me to marry you so you can get my money, and then what? Disappear? You expect me to believe you’ll just walk away from Oliver after that?"

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