Fake Date, Real Fate-Chapter 107: The War Beneath the Calm

ADRIEN’S POV

By the time Isabella’s father was done grilling me about job titles and Cameron had just barely avoided getting strangled by Aria mid-banter, I felt my phone vibrate—once, short.

Gray.

At the hospital. Ready.

I didn’t look up. Just typed back, quick and precise:

Don’t wait. Go to the scene. I’ll pick you up once I’ve dropped Isabella off. If this wasn’t an accident, you’d better have something to show me.

No pleasantries.

No small talk.

Not today.

I slipped the phone back into my coat pocket just as Leo handed Isabella a sandwich and declared hospital food a crime against humanity. My jaw had been tight the whole time—cordial, polite and watchful—but now? It locked even tighter.

Because I couldn’t show what was really brewing beneath my composure.

Someone nearly hit her.

Someone aimed.

And if Gray couldn’t give me answers, then I’d start pulling threads myself—and I wouldn’t be gentle about it.

I watched from the car as Isabella disappeared into the house, her limp barely there now but still enough to make my hands clench around the steering wheel. Her father looked back once—his expression unreadable and calculating. Their gate clicked shut a few seconds later.

She was safe. For now.

"Let’s go," I said, already shifting gears.

Cameron didn’t say anything. He just nodded and keyed the destination into the console. I knew where we were headed. Gray had followed instructions.

The drive was short—less than ten minutes. The road dipped through a quiet residential stretch that led to the bus stop where it had happened. Wide enough for two cars, bordered by closed booth and flickering security lights.

A figure stepped out from the shadows as we slowed, motioning once.

Gray.

I pulled up near the curb. He got in the back seat, closed the door carefully, and nodded once.

I pulled back onto the road.

The engine hummed low beneath my fingers. Familiar weight. Familiar control. The only thing in this car not pissing me off.

Gray leaned forward between the seats, his tone all business.

"Boss."

"Talk."

He tapped his tablet, pulling up a feed that lit the screen in grayscale footage. "Bakery nearby has a decent static cam. Only one angle, but it’s clear enough to confirm: the car parked here—" he pointed, "—eighteen minutes before Isabella and her brother came into view."

Cameron frowned. "That’s not random. That’s patient."

"Exactly," Gray said. "Engine was off. No plate visible. Tints on every window. Soon as the two of them moved into the frame... the car rolls forward. Fast. Straight path. No swerve. No last-minute brakes. Just calculated acceleration."

My jaw locked. "Any shots of the driver?"

Gray shook his head. "Angle was wrong. Lighting worked against us. Shadow hid everything but the shape of a shoulder and what looked like a cap."

"Plates?"

"Scrubbed. No hits on registration. Switched out within the hour. Whoever did this knew how to stay off-grid."

"Anything else?"

"Yes." He swiped again. "We cross-referenced movement patterns. That same car was caught turning off Edison Street roughly ten minutes before this. And guess who owns a property three blocks from there?"

Cameron muttered, "You’ve got to be kidding."

"Caden," I said quietly.

Gray just nodded. "Property’s in a holding company name, but the paperwork screams Walton spinoff. I triple-checked."

The silence in the car turned heavier, almost electric.

I didn’t raise my voice. Didn’t breathe harder.

But the fire was already spreading beneath the calm.

"Get me the make of the car. Tire impressions. Every kiosk around here—pull footage. And flag any purchases from nearby gas stations in the last twenty-four hours that match this profile."

"Already working on it," Gray said, sliding the tablet into his coat. "We’ll find him."

I looked through the windshield at the bus stop which was empty.

But I could see it—her figure, laughing maybe, distracted, stepping forward without knowing what was coming.

I flexed my jaw.

"Why does he keep on testing my patience?" I sighed.

*LATER THAT DAY─[ZOOM TO CADEN’S POV]*

Caden stepped into his living room, tossing his blazer onto the arm of the couch. The city bled light through floor-to-ceiling windows. He loosened his tie, poured himself two fingers of Talisker, and checked his phone—no news alerts, no fallout.

So far, so good.

He leaned against the bar, about to take the first sip—when the doorbell rang.

Frowning, he turned. No one buzzed up. Security wouldn’t have let a delivery this far unannounced.

He opened the door.

No one.

Just a flat black envelope resting at his feet. No seal. No label.

He crouched down slowly, whiskey forgotten.

Inside: a photograph.

Grainy. Monochrome. But unmistakable.

A frame pulled from security footage. A black sedan. Headlights flaring. A girl—Isabella, barely visible in motion—moments from being hit.

No blood or any visible injuries. But frozen mid-frame in a close call.

Tucked at the bottom corner: a small yellow post-it.

Handwritten.

Two words.

Try again.

He stared at it. Silent.

Then slowly, slowly—he smiled.

Because he recognized the handwriting.

And he’d just been warned in Adrien Walton’s favorite language:

Threat. Silence. Grace.

Caden stared down at the photo one more time, then lit the edge with his cigar lighter.

The flames curled fast, but not before he whispered to the smoke:

"Now we’re playing."

[BACK TO ADRIEN’S POV]

It was nearly midnight by the time I returned back to my family’s vila.

I didn’t knock.

The study door opened with a soft click, spilling lamplight onto marble. My father was still behind his desk, papers rearranged since this morning but his posture unchanged—spine straight, fingers poised, eyes already watching me like he knew I’d return.

"Changed your mind about the transfer?" he asked without looking up.

I walked in. Closed the door behind me.

"No."

His pen paused mid-line.

I stepped closer. "But I do have something to say."

Now he looked at me.

"I want you to keep your imposter of a son on a leash," I said quietly.

His pen remained suspended for a beat longer, then settled onto the paper with deliberate slowness. The scratch was loud in the hushed room. He looked away from me, his gaze fixed on the document beneath his hand. But the air shifted, growing colder, heavier.

"Imposter?" My father finally lifted his head. His eyes, usually sharp, were like chips of ice now. "A strong word, even for you."

"Tell him to keep his hands off from anything that doesn’t belong to him. Especially mine."

"Especially yours?" My father’s voice was low and leveled but the ice had hardened into steel. "You’ve acquired quite a few things over the years, Adrien. You’ll need to be more specific."

I gave a thin smile. "No. I don’t."

A beat of silence passed between us—tense, brittle, unspoken.

"Are you threatening family now?" he asked, voice lower, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

"I’m warning liabilities," I replied. "You can pretend not to know the difference."

I turned before he could respond, hand on the doorknob.

"And next time?" I added without looking back, voice smooth but steel-edged. "I won’t hold back. I won’t care who else gets hit. I will remove the problem. Permanently."

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