Defeating Ridge's Schemes

The familiar Seattle skyline stretched before me through the airplane window, its steel and glass towers catching the late afternoon sun like scattered diamonds. After twelve months in London, working eighteen-hour days to secure the Hartwell Industries contract, I was finally home. The project had been a resounding success—thirty million in revenue locked in for the next three years. Ridge would be so proud.

I clutched the small velvet box in my carry-on, containing the vintage Cartier watch I'd found in a Mayfair antique shop. Ridge had always admired classic timepieces, and this one would be perfect for celebrating our reunion and my professional triumph. The white orchids I'd bought at the airport florist shop rested carefully in my lap, their delicate petals reminding me of our wedding bouquet.

Seattle-Tacoma International Airport buzzed with its usual controlled chaos, but I moved through it with purpose, my heels clicking against the polished floors. Every step brought me closer to Ridge, to our life together, to the future we'd built. The townhouse we'd purchased—well, that I'd purchased outright with my signing bonus—would be our sanctuary tonight. I'd already planned the evening: his favorite dinner from that Italian place on Capitol Hill, champagne, and the surprise announcement about the promotion that came with the Hartwell success.

The Uber ride through familiar neighborhoods felt surreal after a year of London's narrow streets and constant rain. Pike Place Market, the Space Needle, the waterfront—everything looked exactly as I'd left it, yet somehow different through eyes that had seen boardrooms in three countries and closed deals worth more than most people's annual salaries.

My phone buzzed with a text from Ridge: 'Working late again. Don't wait up.' I smiled, typing back quickly: 'Have a surprise for you. See you soon.' His response was just a thumbs-up emoji, but that was typical Ridge—never one for lengthy text conversations.

The townhouse came into view as we turned onto our tree-lined street, its red brick facade and black shutters as elegant as ever. Home. I tipped the driver generously and stood on the sidewalk for a moment, breathing in the crisp Seattle air and savoring the anticipation.

My keychain felt heavy in my hand as I approached the front door, laden with luggage and flowers. The smart lock's digital display glowed blue, waiting for the familiar six-digit code. I punched in our anniversary date—the same password we'd used since moving in two years ago.

Access denied.

I frowned, trying again more carefully. 0-8-1-5-2-1. The lock beeped twice, red light flashing mockingly.

Maybe Ridge had changed it for security reasons while I was away. I tried his birthday, then mine, then various combinations of numbers that meant something to us. Each attempt met with the same harsh beep and red light.

"Excuse me, dear, is everything alright?"

I turned to see Mrs. Patterson, our elderly neighbor, peering at me from her front porch. Her silver hair was perfectly coiffed despite the late hour, and concern creased her weathered features.

"Oh, Mrs. Patterson! It's me, Blaire Murphy. From next door." I waved, juggling my purse and the orchids. "I'm just having trouble with the lock. Ridge must have changed the code."

Her expression didn't soften. If anything, she looked more suspicious. "I'm sorry, dear, but I don't recognize you. The young lady who lives there is much younger, with dark hair."

A cold knot formed in my stomach. "Young lady? Mrs. Patterson, I've lived here for two years. We've talked about your garden, remember? You gave me cuttings from your rose bushes last spring."

She shook her head slowly, reaching for something in her cardigan pocket. "I'm going to have to call the police. You can't just break into people's homes."

"Break in? This is my house!" My voice rose higher than intended, desperation creeping in. "Mrs. Patterson, please. Call Ridge—Ridge Stephens. He's my husband."

But she was already dialing, speaking in hushed tones about a suspicious person trying to break into the Stephens residence.

I set down my luggage and pulled out my phone, calling Ridge directly. It went straight to voicemail. Then again. The third time, I left a message: "Ridge, I'm home early to surprise you, but I can't get in. The lock code isn't working, and Mrs. Patterson doesn't recognize me. Please call me back immediately."

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. My hands trembled as I tried the lock one more time, using every combination I could think of. Nothing worked. The red light seemed to mock me, denying me entry to my own home, my own life.

The police cruiser pulled up just as the front door opened.

A young woman stepped out—petite, with long dark hair and wearing one of Ridge's Columbia Law sweatshirts. She looked to be in her mid-twenties, pretty in an understated way that made my designer outfit feel suddenly overdone.

"Officers," she called out, her voice carrying a slight tremor. "Thank goodness you're here. This woman has been trying to break in for the past ten minutes."

My world tilted sideways.