StoriesBlog Mazza and Morales exchanged another look. Then Mazza extended his hand. “Deal.”
Colette came home at dawn. Tristan was waiting in the kitchen, two cups of coffee prepared. His face was carefully arranged into an expression of concerned confusion. He had rehearsed this moment for the three hours since leaving the police station.
She stopped in the doorway when she saw him. Her hair was disheveled, her makeup smeared, the silk blouse she’d worn yesterday wrinkled. She looked small and vulnerable. An act, he now knew. One of many.
“Tris,” her voice cracked. “I can explain. The police… they told me there was some kind of mistake. That they think I’m involved in something criminal because of a tattoo.”
He let his voice carry uncertainty, not accusation. “This is insane, right? Tell me this is insane.”
Relief flooded her features. She rushed to him, throwing her arms around his neck. “It’s all a horrible mistake. The tattoo… I got in college at a party. I was drunk. I didn’t know what it meant. And Sebastian, he’s a client. We were discussing an event and he had a panic attack.”
“The police said he was in his underwear when they arrived,” Tristan said, testing her.
She pulled back, and he watched her eyes dart as she recalibrated. “He’d been exercising. The hotel has a gym. We’d just finished a workout and were discussing business when he felt chest pain. I was just… I was trying to help him relax. It looked bad, I know. But Tris, you have to believe me.”
The lies rolled off her tongue with practiced ease. How many times had she lied to him? How many fabricated stories had he accepted without question?
“I believe you,” he said, hating himself a little. “But the police seemed pretty serious. They mentioned other men, other incidents.”
“Circumstantial. My lawyer says they have nothing solid. The DA will probably drop the charges within a week.” She cupped his face in her hands, her blue eyes wide and imploring. “I need you right now. Can you stand by me?”
Behind her, Tristan could see the small camera Detective Morales had installed in the living room smoke detector that morning. Everything was being recorded.
“Always,” he lied back.
The next three weeks were a masterclass in deception. Tristan went to work, responded to calls, saved lives—all while living with a woman he now saw as a stranger wearing his wife’s face.
At night, while Colette slept, he carefully photographed documents he found in her home office. Bank statements showing large deposits from shell corporations. Emails on her laptop—password “Crown2019″—detailing meeting times and target profiles. Text messages to numbers he forwarded to the police.
Devin had become his anchor. They took their lunch breaks in the ambulance, where Tristan could drop the act for thirty minutes.
“You’re handling this better than most would,” Devin said one afternoon, passing him a sandwich. “But you look like hell.”
“I feel like hell. I wake up next to her every morning and want to…” Tristan stopped himself. “The detectives say they’re getting close. They’ve identified four other members of the syndicate through Colette’s communications. Including the woman running the whole operation.”
“Who is it?”
“Someone named Lenore Bridges. She’s been operating this network for six years. High society type. Runs a legitimate PR firm as a front. Colette isn’t even in the inner circle; she’s just a worker bee, recruiting targets and executing the blackmail. But she’s made over two million dollars in the past three years.”
“Two million,” Devin whistled. “While you work sixty-hour weeks saving lives for fifty grand a year.”
“What’s the endgame?” Devin asked.
“They’re planning a big hit. Some tech CEO named Matthew Olsen is in town for a conference next week. He’s worth about four hundred million. Colette’s assignment is to get him alone, get him compromised, then demand payment. Morales says if we can catch them in the act with Olsen, they’ll have enough for RICO charges. The whole network goes down.”
“And Colette?”
“Twenty to thirty years. Maybe more.”
Devin was quiet for a moment. “You okay with that?”
Tristan thought about Pablo Gates, who put a gun in his mouth rather than face the shame of what the syndicate had done to him. He thought about Arnaldo Short’s children, who had to leave their private school when their father lost everything. He thought about every lie Colette had told, every kiss that had been part of her cover.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m okay with that.”
The breakthrough came on a Thursday night. Colette thought Tristan was working a double shift, but he was actually sitting in an unmarked surveillance van outside a restaurant in River North, watching through a hidden camera as his wife met with three other members of the Crown Syndicate.
Lenore Bridges sat at the head of the table. She was in her fifties, with ash-blonde hair cut in a severe bob and the kind of polish that came from old money. Her legitimate business, Bridges Strategic Communications, worked with Fortune 500 companies; the criminal enterprise was just a more lucrative side project.
Next to Lenore sat Carrie Carroll, a stunning brunette in her thirties who specialized in targeting politicians and celebrities. And across from Colette was Quentin Solomon, the syndicate’s tech specialist who handled the digital side—hacking, deep fakes, and cryptocurrency laundering.
“The Olsen situation needs to be flawless,” Lenore’s voice came through crisp and clear, thanks to the bug Detective Mazza had planted in her designer handbag earlier that day. “He’s cautious, smart. We only get one shot at this.”
“I’ve already made contact,” Colette said confidently. “Met him at his hotel bar yesterday. He’s interested. We have dinner scheduled for Saturday at his suite.”
“And the setup?” Lenore asked.
Quentin pulled out a tablet. “Cameras are in place. I hacked the hotel’s security system. We’ll have full control of the feeds during the encounter.”
“Pharmaceuticals are ready if we need to ensure cooperation,” Lenore added calmly.
Tristan’s hands clenched into fists. Pharmaceuticals? They were talking about drugging someone.
“Payment structure is the same as always,” Lenore continued. “Initial demand will be five million. If he balks, we escalate. Send previews to his board members, his wife. We’ve researched his psychological profile; he’ll pay to avoid scandal.”
“What’s Colette’s cut?” Carrie asked.
“Standard rate. Four hundred thousand.” Lenore smiled coldly. “Consider a bonus for good work. You’ve been very productive lately, darling.”
Colette preened under the praise, and Tristan felt sick. This was who she really was. Not the woman who had promised to love him, but a predator who destroyed lives for profit.
After the meeting, Tristan met with Detectives Mazza and Morales at the police station.
“We have them,” Morales said, excitement clearing her voice. “Conspiracy to commit extortion, identity theft, hacking, drug-facilitated sexual assault. The charges are piling up, but we need to catch them in the act with Olsen to make it ironclad.”
“What about Olsen?” Tristan asked. “Is he in danger?”
“Matthew Olsen doesn’t exist,” Mazza said with a slight smile. “He’s actually undercover FBI Agent Matthew Olson. We’ve been coordinating with the Bureau for the past week. This is a sting operation. Saturday night, when Colette and her team make their move, we’ll have agents in the hotel, surveillance in place, everything documented. It’ll be the cleanest bust in CPD history.”
“So what do you need from me?”
“Colette will need an alibi story for Saturday. She’ll probably tell you she has a work event or a late client dinner. Your job is to act like you believe her, maybe even encourage her to go. And…” Morales hesitated. “We need you to have dinner with some friends that evening. Make sure you’re visible in public with witnesses. When this goes down, you can’t be anywhere near the scene. Your lawyer will need to establish that you had no knowledge of your wife’s activities.”
“I’m filing for divorce the moment she’s arrested,” Tristan said flatly.
“That’s your right. But Mr. Valentine, there’s something else you should know.” Mazza pulled out another file. “We’ve been digging into Colette’s background. Before she met you, she was engaged to a man named Alexander Clayton. He died in a car accident seven years ago.”
“She told me about that,” Tristan said. “Said it was a difficult time in her life.”
“The accident was never fully investigated, but we pulled the case file. Clayton’s brakes failed on a mountain road in Colorado. He’d recently changed his will to leave everything to Colette. His family contested it, claimed she was manipulating him, but they couldn’t prove anything. She walked away with half a million dollars in life insurance and property.”
The implication hung in the air like poison.
“You think she killed him,” Tristan said slowly.
“We think she’s capable of a lot more than blackmail,” Morales replied. “Which is why we need you to be very, very careful until Saturday.”
Friday night, Colette came home with takeout and an apologetic smile.
“I know we planned to spend the weekend together,” she said, setting out containers of Thai food. “But I have a last-minute client emergency tomorrow evening. Major event crisis. I’ll probably be out until midnight.”
Tristan barely looked up from his phone. “No problem. Devin invited me to dinner anyway. His wife’s making her famous pot roast.”
“You’re not upset?”
He forced himself to meet her eyes. “Why would I be upset? You’re working. That’s who you are. I knew that when I married you.”
She relaxed, moving around the table to kiss the top of his head. “This is why I love you. You get it. You get me.”
No, he thought. I never got you. I just saw what you wanted me to see.
That night, they made love. It was mechanical, performative, and Tristan felt like he was betraying himself with every touch. But he knew she would be suspicious if he pulled away now. So he played his part, let her believe everything was normal.
When she fell asleep beside him, he slipped out of bed and went to the bathroom. He stared at his reflection in the mirror—dark circles under his eyes, new lines around his mouth. He looked older than he had a month ago. The man looking back at him had learned that the person he trusted most in the world was a monster. And that truth had carved something out of him that could never be replaced.
His phone buzzed. A text from Detective Morales. Everything in place for tomorrow. Stay safe. This ends soon.
Saturday arrived with clear skies and warm temperatures. Tristan spent the day at Navy Pier with Devin and his wife, Eleanor, establishing his alibi as instructed. They ate overpriced hot dogs, rode the Ferris wheel, and took photos that would be time-stamped and geo-tagged—evidence that Tristan Valentine was nowhere near the Whitmore Hotel when his wife attempted to destroy another man’s life.
At 6:00 PM, his phone rang. Colette.
“Hey, babe. Just wanted to let you know I’m heading into this event. Probably won’t have my phone on much.”
“Okay. Good luck with everything.”
“Tris… I love you.”
The words were ashes in his mouth. “Love you too.”
He ended the call and looked at Devin. “She’s moving in.”
They were sitting at a restaurant in Greektown now, while Eleanor had gone to the restroom. Devin’s expression was grim. “When this is over… what are you going to do?” he asked.
Tristan had thought about this constantly over the past weeks. The police would handle the legal punishment—arrests, trials, prison sentences. But that wasn’t enough. Colette had made him complicit in her lies. She had used his love as a shield while she destroyed people. She had stolen years of his life.
“I’m going to make sure she knows exactly what she lost,” Tristan said quietly. “She thinks she’s smarter than everyone. That she can manipulate and scheme and never face consequences. I’m going to show her she was wrong.”