My name is Caden Scott, and I’ve spent five years making sure no one knows who I am. Not the barista who calls me ‘hon,’ not the neighbors who think I fix computers for a living, and definitely not my father, who still believes his son works a nine-to-five in IT.

But today, everything trembled on the edge. I watched from the kitchen as Martha—my dad’s fiancée—ran her fingers over the dining table’s edge, her brow furrowing. "This is African Blackwood," she murmured. "Worth more than a house. Where did you get this?"

Dad laughed it off. "Oh, Caden found it at an estate sale!"

I froze. No one buys African Blackwood at estate sales. Especially not polished into a seamless eight-seater with quantum-locked humidity control. My tech. My mistake.

And then she looked up. Directly at me. Like she’d just connected two dots I’d spent a lifetime erasing.

My phone buzzed—Lena’s code red alert. They were coming. Corporate spies. Or worse, her ex. Either way, the lie was unraveling. I had seconds to decide: run, confess, or burn the evidence.