Updated Feb 25, 2026 • ~7 min read
POV: Gabi
Nix arrives twenty minutes later.
I answer the door with red eyes and tear-stained cheeks.
“What did he say?”
I tell him everything.
The confrontation.
The gambling admission.
The threats.
Nix’s jaw clenches.
“He’s trying to scare you.”
“It’s working.”
“Can he actually implicate me?” I ask.
Nix hesitates.
That’s answer enough.
“My sister is a lawyer. Let me call her.”
I dial Marissa.
Put her on speaker.
“Gabi? It’s late. What’s wrong?”
I explain.
All of it.
When I finish, Marissa is quiet.
“Mari? Can he do this?”
“Technically? Yes. You’re on the joint accounts. Your name is associated with the business registration. A prosecutor could argue you were complicit.”
My stomach drops.
“But I wasn’t! I had no idea!”
“I believe you. But proving it in court is different.”
“How do I prove it?”
“Timeline. Alibis. Witnesses who can testify you were working when meetups happened. Bank records showing you didn’t receive or spend the scammed money.”
“I have all that.”
“Good. But Gabi—”
“What?”
“The best defense is offense. Don’t just prove you weren’t involved. Prove HE was. Overwhelmingly. Make it impossible for anyone to believe you knew.”
“How?”
Nix jumps in.
“Get him on record. Admitting to the fraud. The gambling. All of it.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
“Wire. Hidden camera. Confrontation where he confesses.”
“That’s entrapment.”
“Only if you’re law enforcement,” Marissa corrects. “If you’re a private citizen gathering evidence, it’s legal in Washington as long as one party consents. And you’re one party.”
“So I confront him again. Record it this time.”
“Better idea,” Nix says. “Catfish him.”
I stare.
“What?”
NIX
“He’s been using your photos to catfish women. Let’s use your photos to catfish HIM.”
“That’s insane.”
“That’s genius,” Marissa says through the phone.
“How would that even work?”
“Create a fake profile. Your real photos. Slightly different name. Match with him. Get him to talk about the scam. Record everything.”
“He’ll recognize me.”
“Not if you angle the photos differently. Use ones he hasn’t seen. Wear different makeup. He’s met dozens of women using your face—he might not notice one more.”
Gabi is thinking.
I can see it.
“That’s risky.”
“So is doing nothing.”
“What if it doesn’t work?”
“Then we find another way. But if it DOES work, we have him dead to rights.”
Marissa speaks up.
“I hate to admit it, but Nix is right. A recorded confession is the strongest evidence you can get.”
Gabi looks at me.
“You really think this will work?”
“I think Brandon is arrogant. He doesn’t think he’ll get caught. That makes him sloppy. And sloppiness is how we bury him.”
She nods slowly.
“Okay. Let’s do it.”
GABI
The next morning, Nix comes over with equipment.
Hidden camera in a pen.
Recording app on my phone.
Backup audio device in my purse.
“Redundancy,” he explains. “If one fails, we have others.”
“You’ve done this before.”
“A few times.”
We sit at my laptop.
Create a fake Tinder profile.
“Name?” Nix asks.
“Not Gabriella. Too obvious.”
I think.
“Giselle.”
“Last name?”
“Moreno.”
“That’s your real last name.”
“He won’t notice. He’s not that smart.”
Nix grins.
“Okay. Bio?”
I type.
Giselle M., 29
Photographer. Adventure lover. Looking for real connection.
“That’s basically my real bio.”
“Exactly. We want it close enough that he’ll be interested. Different enough that he won’t notice.”
“Photos?”
I scroll through my Instagram.
Find photos Brandon hasn’t seen.
Recent photo shoot where I modeled my own work.
Different lighting. Different angle.
Makeup heavier than I usually wear.
“These,” I say.
Nix uploads them.
“Perfect. He’s going to bite.”
We activate the profile.
Within an hour: match.
Brandon’s profile appears on my screen.
My hands shake.
“He matched with me.”
“Okay. Don’t message yet. Let him message first.”
Five minutes later: new message.
Brandon: Wow. You’re stunning. Great profile.
I feel sick.
“What do I say?”
Nix dictates.
“Keep it casual. Friendly. Nothing that screams setup.”
Me: Thank you! You seem interesting too. Photographer as well?
Brandon: Tech entrepreneur. But I appreciate art. Would love to hear about your work sometime.
“He’s using the same lines,” I mutter.
Me: I’d like that. Coffee?
Brandon: How about drinks? I know a great wine bar in Capitol Hill.
“That’s where he took Kennedy,” Nix notes.
Me: Sounds perfect. When?
Brandon: Tonight? 8 PM?
I look at Nix.
“Tonight?”
“The faster we move, the less time he has to think about it.”
“Okay.”
Me: Tonight works. See you at 8.
I send the message.
My heart is racing.
“I’m going to meet him. Pretending to be someone else. While he pretends to be single.”
“Ironic, isn’t it?”
“That’s one word for it.”
GABI
At 7:30, I’m getting ready.
Different makeup.
Heavier contouring.
Dark red lipstick I never wear.
Hair straightened instead of wavy.
I look like me.
But not quite.
“You look great,” Nix says.
He’s coming with me.
Staying nearby in case things go wrong.
“I look like a liar.”
“You look like someone gathering evidence.”
I check the recording devices.
Pen: working.
Phone: working.
Purse device: working.
“Remember,” Nix says. “Get him talking about the business. The women. The money. We need him to admit it’s fraud.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Then we abort. But I think he will. He’s cocky.”
We drive separately.
Nix parks down the street.
I walk into the wine bar at 8:02.
Brandon is already there.
Corner booth.
Checking his phone.
He looks up when I enter.
Smiles.
Stands.
I walk toward him.
Every step feels surreal.
This is my husband.
The man I married.
And he has no idea it’s me.
“Giselle?”
“Brandon?”
We hug awkwardly.
He smells like the cologne I bought him for Christmas.
“You’re even more beautiful in person,” he says.
I smile.
Record everything.
“You’re sweet. Thanks for meeting me.”
“Of course. I have a good feeling about this.”
You shouldn’t.
We sit.
Order wine.
Make small talk.
He’s charming.
Attentive.
The Brandon I fell in love with years ago.
Before I knew who he really was.
“So,” I say casually. “What kind of tech do you do?”
“I’m developing a dating app. Revolutionary algorithm. Going to change the industry.”
Lie.
There is no app.
“That’s impressive. Self-funded?”
Here we go.
“Mostly. Some angel investors. But startup funding is tough, you know?”
“I can imagine.”
“Actually,” he leans in. “Can I be honest with you?”
Oh, this is too easy.
“Of course.”
“I’m in a bit of a cash crunch right now. Final funding round fell through. I just need about ten thousand to bridge the gap until the next round closes.”
There it is.
The pitch.
“That’s a lot of money.”
“I know. And I wouldn’t ask. But you seem successful. Smart. And this is a guaranteed return. Triple your investment in six months.”
My recording pen is getting every word.
“How do I know it’s legitimate?”
“I can show you the business plan. The projections. Other investors who’ve already committed.”
More lies.
“Have you done this before? Asked women for investment money?”
He hesitates.
Just for a second.
“A few times. All successful. Everyone’s been paid back with interest.”
Lie.
“What’s the business called?”
“Vale Ventures.”
“And you run it alone?”
“Mostly. I had a partner but we’re… going through a separation.”
“Business partner?”
“Wife, actually.”
My blood runs cold.
“You’re married?”
“Was. It’s complicated. She doesn’t understand the business world. Got jealous of my success.”
I’m going to kill him.
“That sounds difficult.”
“It is. But I’m moving on. Meeting new people. Like you.”
He reaches across the table.
Takes my hand.
Everything in me wants to rip my hand away.
Scream at him.
Throw my wine in his face.
But I don’t.
I smile.
Squeeze his hand back.
“I’d like to hear more about this investment opportunity.”
His eyes light up.
“Really?”
“Really.”
He’s hooked.
And I’ve got everything I need.
END OF CHAPTER 8
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