The pink lines glowed like a verdict under the flickering fluorescent light of my Chicago apartment’s bathroom, each one a seismic shift in my world. My hands shook as I clutched the pregnancy test, the pharmacy bag crumpled on the counter beside a half-empty Starbucks cup from my morning rush. I was going to be a mother. Jameson and I—we—were going to be parents. The thought sent my heart soaring, a caged bird breaking free, imagining his warm brown eyes lighting up when I told him. We’d dreamed of this, hadn’t we? Those lazy Sunday mornings in our Lincoln Park condo, tangled in sheets, whispering about a future where our kids ran through a backyard sprinkled with Fourth of July sparklers. I pictured surprising him tonight, maybe wrapping the test in a velvet box, his smile as bright as the Chicago skyline at dusk.
But as I drifted down the hallway, the hardwood cool under my bare feet, his voice stopped me cold. Low, intimate, slithering through the cracked bedroom door. “Babe, you know I’m only here for the money.” My breath caught, a shard of ice in my throat. My hand froze on the doorknob, the pharmacy bag slipping from my fingers, hitting the floor with a crinkle that echoed like a gunshot. “Once I’ve got what I need, I’m back with you. She’s too blind to see I don’t love her—just her bank account.”
My knees buckled. I slid down the wall, the hallway tilting as if the whole world had shifted off its axis. Three years. Three years of building a life with Jameson, of believing his promises, of thinking I’d found someone who saw me, not just the marketing firm I’d inherited or the zeros in my Chase account. Tears burned my eyes, but I bit my lip until I tasted copper, forcing silence. Through the door’s sliver, I saw him pacing, phone pressed to his ear, gesturing like he was selling a pitch. To her. Tara. His ex, who I’d naively thought was a faded Polaroid in his past.
“I know, baby,” he continued, his laugh a blade twisting in my gut. “She paid off my student loans, bought me that Tesla, even dropped fifty grand on my ‘business venture.’ She thinks we’re building a future together.” My hand drifted to my stomach, where our child—my child—grew, unaware of the man who’d never deserve to know them. The man who saw love as a transaction, trust as a weakness to exploit.
The hallway’s shadows seemed to close in, the air thick with betrayal. But beneath the ache, something sharper stirred—a cold, hard edge forming in my chest. Jameson thought I was blind, just another soft-hearted Chicago girl with a trust fund and no spine. He thought my kindness was a flaw, my generosity a blank check. He was wrong. Dead wrong. As I picked up the pharmacy bag, my hands steady now, a plan began to spark. He wanted to play games? Fine. But he was about to learn I could play them better.
Part 2: Flashback to Love
Six months earlier, I thought I’d won the lottery of love. Jameson stormed into my life like a Lake Michigan gale, all intensity and charm, sweeping me off my feet in a way I hadn’t thought possible since my dad’s death left a crater in my world. It was a late night at a Loop coffee shop, the kind with exposed brick and overpriced lattes, where I was drowning in spreadsheets for the marketing firm I’d inherited. My father’s legacy—a Chicago institution that had once brokered campaigns for Fortune 500 companies—felt like a weight I could barely carry at twenty-seven. I was running on caffeine and grit when he slid into the chair across from me, his smile as warm as the summer breeze off Navy Pier.
“You look like you could use a rescue,” he said, nodding at the chaos of papers and my flickering laptop screen. “Or at least a sandwich to balance out that triple espresso.” I laughed—really laughed—for the first time in months. Jameson had a way of making the world feel lighter, like the city’s skyscrapers could bend just for him. He asked about my work with genuine curiosity, listening as I spilled the challenges of running a business I hadn’t built. “Your dad must’ve been a titan to create this,” he said, his hand brushing mine across the table, sending a spark through me. “And you’re even more impressive for carrying it forward.”
Those words cracked open something I’d kept locked since Dad’s funeral. Jameson saw me—not just the heiress to a Chicago empire, but the woman fighting to prove she deserved it. Our romance moved fast, like the L train barreling through the Loop. Within weeks, he was staying over, his toothbrush next to mine in my Lincoln Park condo. By three months, he’d moved in, claiming his lease was up and he was “between places.” I didn’t care. His presence turned my too-big house into a home, banishing the ghosts of my father’s absence.
Jameson was a dreamer, always spinning plans for tech startups or investment deals that just needed “the right backing.” His passion was contagious, and I found myself caught up in his vision. “We could build an empire, Colleen,” he’d say, his eyes bright as we lay in bed, the city’s glow filtering through the blinds. “Your business savvy, my ideas—we’d be unstoppable.” When his student loans piled up, I paid them off without a second thought. When his car died on the Kennedy Expressway, I bought him a sleek Tesla. When he pitched a boutique consulting firm to “revolutionize small business marketing,” I wrote a check, believing I was investing in us.
My best friend Anna had her doubts, her South Side skepticism cutting through his charm. “He’s too smooth, Colleen,” she’d warn over drinks at a River North bar. But even she softened when she saw how happy he made me. My sister Evelyn, fiercely protective since Dad’s death, grudgingly admitted he seemed devoted. “He looks at you like you’re the Chicago skyline at night,” she said at a family dinner in Evanston. Everyone bought his act—my business partners, my friends, even me. He’d woven himself into my life like ivy, beautiful but suffocating, and I was too starry-eyed to notice the cracks.
Part 3: Awakening
The Chicago dawn broke gray and heavy, the kind of morning where the city’s skyscrapers seemed to lean into the weight of Lake Michigan’s fog. I woke before Jameson, the pregnancy test hidden in my purse like a loaded gun, my heart encased in a frost as sharp as a February wind off the pier. His betrayal echoed in my skull—She’s too blind to see I don’t love her, just her bank account—each word a nail driven deeper into the coffin of the woman I’d been. But as I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake him, something new stirred inside me. Not grief, not anymore. It was clarity, cold and unyielding, like the steel of the Willis Tower against a winter storm.
I moved through our Lincoln Park condo like a ghost, brewing coffee in the sleek kitchen I’d once thought we’d share forever. The routine was a performance now, each step calculated to keep Jameson in the dark. I poured his coffee—two sugars, a splash of cream, just how he liked it—and set it on the marble island, the same spot where we’d planned our future over takeout from Lou Malnati’s. Now, it was my war room. As he slept, I gathered evidence: bank statements showing transfers to accounts I didn’t recognize, emails about “investments” that never materialized, text messages where he’d pushed for access to my business accounts, all framed as “streamlining our finances.” Every document was a brick in the fortress I was building to protect my daughter, my legacy, my life.
By eight, I was on the phone with Connor Caden, my family’s lawyer since I was a kid skipping through Dad’s Loop office. Connor was a Chicago institution himself, a man who’d seen every kind of betrayal in the city’s high-stakes circles. “Colleen,” his voice crackled through the line, steady as the El train’s hum. “What’s going on? You sound… different.”
“I need to protect everything,” I said, no preamble, no tears. “My business, my accounts, my future. And I need it done quietly.” There was a pause, the kind that told me he was already flipping through mental files of legal strategies. “Are you in trouble?” he asked.
“Not yet,” I said, glancing at the bedroom door where Jameson still slept, oblivious. “But I will be if we don’t move fast.”
Connor didn’t push for details. He’d known me since I was braiding my hair in pigtails, had guided me through the chaos of inheriting Dad’s marketing firm at twenty-five. “Come to my office this afternoon,” he said. “Bring everything—bank records, business documents, property deeds, the works. We’ll lock it down.”
I hung up, my pulse steady for the first time since the hallway. Next, I texted Anna, my best friend, whose South Side grit had always grounded me. Need you for lunch. Bring your laptop and that bottle of pinot you’ve been hoarding. It’s serious. Her reply was instant: 11 a.m. too early for wine? What’s wrong, C? I typed back, Just be there. I’ll explain everything.
The morning dragged as I played the part of the devoted girlfriend. Jameson stumbled into the kitchen, all tousled hair and the silk robe I’d bought him for his birthday, a $300 splurge from a Michigan Avenue boutique. “Morning, beautiful,” he mumbled, wrapping his arms around me from behind, his lips grazing my neck. Once, that gesture would’ve melted me. Now, it was like a snake coiling around my spine. I forced a smile, leaning into him just enough to sell the act. “Sleep well?”
“Like a baby,” he said, grabbing the coffee mug. “You’re too good to me, Colleen. You know that?” You have no idea how good I’ve been, I thought, stirring oatmeal on the stove, the scent of cinnamon masking the bile rising in my throat. “What’s your day look like?” I asked, keeping my voice light.
“Meeting with that investor I told you about,” he said, settling at the island, his eyes already on his phone. “Big potential for the consulting firm. He’s hyped about what we’re building.” What we’re building. The lie was so polished it gleamed, like the Chicago River catching the midday sun. I wondered how many times he’d rehearsed it, how many nights he’d practiced that earnest tilt of his head in the mirror.
“That’s amazing,” I said, my smile as practiced as his. “You’re killing it.” Every word was a performance, a thread in the web I was weaving to trap him. As he rambled about his “deal,” I nodded, my mind already three steps ahead. He thought he was playing me, but I was rewriting the rules.
After he left—probably for another call with Tara, not an investor—I called in sick to work, citing a migraine. The firm could run without me for a day; I’d made sure of that when I took over. Then I got to work. I dug through files in my home office, a room still lined with Dad’s old awards from the Chicago Ad Federation. Every withdrawal, every “investment,” every vague email about “opportunities” went into a folder. I found a receipt for a $10,000 wire transfer to an account in Tara’s name, dated months ago. My stomach twisted, but I filed it away, another piece of the puzzle.
Then I set up a small recording device under the bedroom nightstand, hidden behind a stack of books. Jameson’s late-night calls with Tara would continue—I was counting on it. Every word he spoke was another nail in his coffin, and I wanted them all documented. By noon, I was ready to meet Anna, my folder of evidence tucked into a leather tote, my resolve as unyielding as the city’s concrete.
We met at our usual spot, a quiet bistro in River North where the clink of wine glasses and low hum of conversation gave us privacy. Anna took one look at me—pale, eyes sharp with something she couldn’t quite name—and ordered two glasses of pinot before I sat down. “Okay, spill,” she said, leaning across the table, her braids swinging. “You look like you’re planning a heist, not a lunch date.”
I exhaled, the weight of the past twenty-four hours pressing against my ribs. “Jameson’s been lying. About everything.” I told her about the pregnancy test, the phone call, the way his voice had dripped with contempt as he laughed about my trust. I showed her the bank statements, the texts, the proof of his betrayal piling up like snow on a Chicago sidewalk. Anna’s face darkened with every word, her hands clenching into fists. “That bastard,” she hissed when I finished. “That absolute piece of trash.”
“I know,” I said, my voice low but steady. “But screaming won’t get my money back or protect my daughter. I need to be smart, Anna. Smarter than he thinks I am.”
Her eyes narrowed, then a slow grin spread across her face, the kind she got when she sniffed out a story as a freelance investigative journalist. “You’ve got a plan.”
“I’m building one,” I said, pulling out my laptop. “But I need your help. Start with Tara Elliot, his ex. I need everything—social media, job history, financials if you can get them. I want to know who she is and what she’s after.”
Anna’s fingers were already flying over her keyboard, tapping into databases only someone with her credentials could access. “Tara Elliot, right? Let’s see what we’ve got.” Her eyes scanned the screen, narrowing with interest. “Oh, this is good. She’s not exactly living large—working retail at a boutique on Michigan Avenue, moved back with her parents after Jameson ditched her. But here’s the kicker: she filed a police report against him six months after their breakup. Theft. He cleaned out their joint account and vanished.”
My blood ran cold. It was the same playbook, just sloppier. “Sounds familiar,” I said, my voice tight. “What happened with the report?”
“Dropped,” Anna said, scrolling. “She couldn’t prove he didn’t have permission to take the money. But it’s a pattern, Colleen. He’s not just a liar—he’s a predator.”
I leaned back, the bistro’s warm lights casting shadows across my hands. Tara wasn’t just Jameson’s ex; she was another victim, maybe one who’d learned to fight back. “She’s not in love with him,” I said, piecing it together. “She’s playing him, just like he’s playing me.”
“Looks like it,” Anna said, her grin turning wicked. “Question is, what’s her endgame?”
I thought about Jameson’s smug tone, the way he’d bragged about Tara waiting for him. If she was conning the conman, she was doing it with surgical precision. “I think,” I said slowly, “Tara and I might have more in common than either of us knows.”
Anna raised her glass, her eyes gleaming. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“That the enemy of my enemy might just be my ally?” I clinked my glass against hers, feeling a spark of something dangerous and exhilarating. “Let’s find out.”
We spent the rest of lunch strategizing. Anna would dig deeper into Tara’s life, cross-referencing her social media with Jameson’s call logs. I’d keep playing the perfect girlfriend, feeding his ego while Connor locked down my finances. Every move had to be precise, like navigating rush hour on the Dan Ryan. Jameson thought he was running the show, but he’d underestimated me—his biggest mistake yet.
As I left the bistro, the Chicago wind whipped through my coat, carrying the scent of diesel and possibility. I wasn’t just fighting for myself anymore. I was fighting for the child growing inside me, for the legacy my father had left, for every woman Jameson had ever used and discarded. The city pulsed around me, its rhythm matching the fire in my chest. This wasn’t just about revenge—it was about justice. And I was ready to serve it cold.
Part 4: Tara’s Revelation
The Chicago skyline glittered like a jagged crown against the dusk as I stood across from the boutique on Michigan Avenue, the Magnificent Mile’s lights casting long shadows over the pavement. Tara Elliot worked closing shifts at a sleek clothing store, its windows draped with dresses that cost more than most people’s rent. Anna’s research had given me her schedule, her address, even the police report she’d filed against Jameson—a mirror of my own betrayal, etched in black-and-white legalese. I’d spent two days watching her from a distance, blending into the crowd of shoppers and tourists, learning her rhythm. Tara moved with the guarded grace of a woman who’d been burned and learned to carry her scars like armor. She was sharp-edged, platinum blonde, all angles where I was curves—a stark contrast that made Jameson’s game painfully clear. He’d chosen us for what we could give, not who we were.
Tonight, I’d make my move. The boutique was quiet, the Thursday evening crowd thinning as the city settled into its after-work hum. I pushed through the glass door, the bell chiming softly, and pretended to browse a rack of silk scarves while the last customer lingered at the sale rack. Tara stood behind the counter, her posture professional but her eyes scanning the room like a hawk. When the other woman left, clutching a discounted blouse, Tara’s gaze flicked to me. “Can I help you find anything?” Her voice was polite, clipped, the kind of tone that kept people at arm’s length.
I turned, meeting her eyes, my heart pounding like the L train rattling overhead. “Actually, I was hoping we could talk about Jameson.”
Her face changed in an instant, the professional mask shattering. Her eyes narrowed, lips tightening into a thin line, but there was no shock, no guilt—just a flicker of something like recognition, maybe even relief. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, guarded edge. “Do I know you?”
“I’m Colleen,” I said, stepping closer, my hands steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me. “Jameson’s girlfriend.” I watched her closely, searching for any crack in her composure. Instead, she leaned against the counter, her posture shifting to something almost predatory.
“So, you’re the mark,” she said, the words sharp as a Chicago winter wind. The casual cruelty should’ve stung, but it didn’t. It felt like a handshake, an acknowledgment that we both saw through his lies.
“I know he’s using you,” I said, keeping my voice even. “The same way he’s using me.”
Tara’s eyes flicked to the door, then back to me. She crossed the boutique in three quick strides, flipped the sign to “Closed,” and locked the door with a click that echoed in the quiet. “The question is,” she said, turning to face me, “what are you going to do about it?”
I studied her, looking for deception, for any sign she was still under his spell. All I saw was a woman who’d been broken and rebuilt herself stronger. “That depends,” I said. “Are you really planning to take him back?”
She laughed, a sound like glass breaking on concrete. “Take him back? Honey, I wouldn’t touch Jameson if he was the last man in Illinois and I was stranded on Lake Shore Drive in a blizzard.” She moved back behind the counter, putting a barrier between us, but her posture was more cautious than hostile. “But he doesn’t know that.”
“So you’re playing him,” I said, the pieces clicking into place. “The same way he’s playing me.”
Her eyes narrowed, assessing me like I was a potential ally—or a threat. “I have to say, you’re handling this better than I did. When I found out what he’d done to me, I lost it—screaming, crying, calling the cops. It just made him disappear faster.”
I thought of my own collapse in the hallway, the way I’d crumpled against the wall, the pharmacy bag a crumpled confession at my feet. “Trust me, I had my moment,” I said. “But then I got angry.”
“Good,” Tara said, a spark of approval in her eyes. “Anger’s useful. Heartbreak just makes you stupid.”
I hesitated, then took the leap. “I was hoping you might want to help me.”
Silence stretched between us, heavy with possibility. Tara’s expression was unreadable, but I could see the wheels turning, calculating risks and rewards. “Help you how?” she asked finally, her fingers drumming on the counter.
“Jameson thinks he’s playing us both,” I said, stepping closer, my voice low but firm. “He thinks you’re pining for him, and he thinks I’m too naive to see what he’s doing. What if we let him keep believing that—right up until we take him down?”
A slow smile spread across her face, sharp and stunning, like the Chicago River catching the first light of dawn. “You want to run a con on the conman?”
“I want to give him what he deserves,” I said. “And I think you do too.”
She was quiet for a long moment, her gaze drifting to the boutique’s windows, where the city’s lights pulsed like a heartbeat. “What did he take from you?” she asked.
“Money,” I said. “About two hundred grand so far. Plus, he’s been angling to take over my marketing firm, the one my dad built from nothing in the ’80s. And…” I paused, my hand brushing my stomach, the secret I hadn’t shared with anyone but Anna. “I’m pregnant.”
Her eyes widened, a flicker of something—sympathy, maybe—crossing her face. “Does he know?”
“No,” I said, my voice hard. “And he never will if I have anything to say about it.”
“Jesus,” Tara muttered, running a hand through her platinum hair. “He’s a piece of work, isn’t he? At least when he screwed me over, I didn’t have a kid to worry about.”
“So, will you help me?” I asked, my heart hammering but my voice steady.
“What exactly are you proposing?” She leaned forward, her elbows on the counter, her eyes locked on mine.
I took a deep breath, the plan crystallizing as I spoke. “Jameson thinks he’s close to getting everything he wants—my money, my business, and you. He’s been pushing for access to my firm’s accounts, talking about ‘our future,’ making bigger financial asks. I think he’s planning to clean me out and disappear, probably to run off with you.”
“Except I’m not waiting for him,” Tara said, her smile turning wicked.
“Exactly,” I said. “So what if we let him think his plan’s working? We make him believe he’s about to get it all—my money, my business, you back in his arms. Then we pull the rug out in the most humiliating way possible.”
“I like the way you think,” Tara said, her voice low and conspiratorial. “But what’s in it for me? Besides watching him crash and burn.”
“What do you want?” I asked.
She hesitated, then shrugged, her bravado slipping just enough to show the hurt beneath. “I want him to feel as helpless as he made me feel. I want him to know he underestimated us both. And…” She paused, her jaw tightening. “I want the money he stole from me. Fifteen grand. It’s nothing to you, but it was my life savings.”
“Done,” I said without hesitation. “Fifteen thousand is pocket change compared to what he’s taken from me. Consider it a down payment on our partnership.”
“Partnership,” Tara repeated, testing the word like it was a foreign currency. “Never thought I’d be teaming up with Jameson’s current girlfriend to take him down.”
“Ex-girlfriend,” I corrected, a small smile tugging at my lips. “I just haven’t told him yet.”
“Fair enough.” She extended her hand across the counter, her nails painted a fierce red. “Partners.”
I shook it, the contact sealing something bigger than either of us. “Partners. But we need to be careful. Jameson can’t suspect anything’s changed.”
“Oh, honey,” Tara said, her smile sharp as a switchblade. “I’ve been playing this game for months. He thinks I’m head-over-heels, waiting for him to ride back into my life on a white Tesla. He has no idea I’ve been recording every call, saving every text, documenting every lie.”
“You’ve been recording him?” My pulse quickened, the possibilities unfolding like a Chicago street map.
“Audio, texts, voicemails—the works,” she said, pulling out her phone and scrolling through a list of files. “Learned my lesson the first time. Always get evidence. Want to hear him brag about his ‘stupid, trusting girlfriend’ who’s funding his new life?”
I nodded, my stomach clenching. She hit play, and Jameson’s voice filled the boutique, smooth and intimate, a tone he’d once used with me. “Baby, you should see how easy this is. She just handed me another fifty grand for the business expansion. It’s like taking candy from a toddler. She’s so desperate for our ‘future’ she’ll give me anything.”
Each word was a fresh cut, but I forced myself to listen, to memorize the cadence of his betrayal. He went on, detailing his plans to drain my accounts, mocking my trust, laughing about how I’d never suspect a thing. When the recording ended, I felt hollow but resolute. “How many of these do you have?” I asked.
“Dozens,” Tara said, her expression grim. “He calls me twice a week to gloat. I’ve been saving them, waiting for the right moment.”
“That moment’s coming,” I said, my voice steady. “Soon.”
“What’s your plan?” she asked, leaning closer, her eyes gleaming with anticipation.
I outlined the idea that had been simmering since the hallway—a public reckoning, a stage where Jameson’s lies would be exposed to everyone who mattered. “We throw a dinner party,” I said. “A big one, at a private room in a downtown restaurant. We invite my friends, my sister, his business contacts—everyone he’s been trying to impress. We let him think it’s to celebrate his ‘business launch.’ He’ll be strutting, thinking he’s won. Then, in front of everyone, we play the recordings—yours, mine, all of them.”
Tara’s smile widened, a predator catching the scent of blood. “And then?”
“Then I make a toast,” I said, my voice low and fierce. “To trust, to love, to the people who think they can take everything from you. And we show them exactly what he is—a liar, a thief, a man who’d sell his soul for a dollar.”
“And I come in when?” Tara asked, already leaning into the plan.
“Right at the end,” I said. “You walk in, the ex he’s been promising to run away with. He’ll think it’s his big reunion—until you tell everyone you’ve been playing him too. We leave him with nothing—no money, no reputation, no future.”
Tara was quiet, staring out at the Michigan Avenue lights, the city’s pulse thrumming through the glass. “You know,” she said finally, “when I started this, I just wanted to hurt him, to make him feel what I felt. But this… this is bigger. He’ll keep doing this—finding women, bleeding them dry—unless we stop him.”
“Exactly,” I said. “This isn’t just about us. It’s about every woman he’s hurt, every woman he could hurt. We’re shutting him down for good.”
“Okay,” Tara said, her voice firm, her eyes meeting mine with a fire that matched my own. “I’m in. But we need to be airtight. Jameson’s not stupid—just cocky. If he smells a trap—”
“He won’t,” I cut in. “As far as he knows, you’re still his lovesick ex, and I’m still his naive girlfriend. We keep playing our parts, feeding his ego, giving him just enough rope to hang himself.”
“How long?” she asked, her fingers tapping the counter, already planning.
“Two weeks, maybe three,” I said, thinking of the legal moves Connor was making, the evidence we were compiling. “Just long enough to set the stage and gather every shred of proof we need.”
“And in the meantime?” Tara’s eyebrow arched, a challenge in her gaze.
“We give him exactly what he expects,” I said. “You keep taking his calls, stroking his ego. I keep playing the supportive girlfriend, handing over money, smiling through his lies. We make him feel untouchable—right up until the moment he falls.”
“Right up until he falls,” Tara echoed, her voice a vow. As I left the boutique, the Chicago night wrapping around me like a cloak, I felt a spark of hope—not the blind, fragile kind that had led me to Jameson, but something forged in fire, tempered by betrayal. The city’s lights burned bright, and so did I. Jameson thought he was the predator, but he’d never seen a trap like the one we were building.
