The Confidence Man by OhMyWord COMPLETE, T - Z
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Fanfiction Based On Characters From Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight Series
Rated MA for Mature Adult. Strong Language, & Sexual Situations
The Confidence Man
By OhMyWord
Summary:
The target is Isabella Swan, fellow graduate student. Came into a fortune when her
mother died, she doesn’t seem to care to do anything with it. Quiet, shy, just waiting for The
One. I’ll be everything she wants me to be.
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The Confidence Man Playlist
Prologue
Who Am I?
"Who are you?"
I fixed the bottom button on my polo shirt; it was dark blue and too tight. "I'm Paul Johnston, a girl's guy.
She needs a new best friend and that'll be me." I smiled at my boss, warm, friendly, and open. My hair was
cut shorter than normal and dyed a flat brown; my clothes were new, expensive. I wore brown contact
lenses and glasses with plano lenses.
He didn't smile, but his eyes showed it anyway. "And who's the target?"
"Angela Weber, twenty five, heiress to her Uncle Thomas' fortune. Beginning to think people only want to
be around her because of what she can do for them." I grinned a little at this.
"And how are you different?" His posture was ruler straight, but relaxing at the edges. This was the game
we played at; he knew I had it all down, but enjoyed testing me. I enjoyed it as well; it was the only tradition
in my life.
"Common background, I'm begrudgingly rich too. I hate the scene and I'm searching for something genuine,
which I'll find in Angela's friendship."
"Very well," his demeanor changed, signaling the game was finished. "You have the apartment keys?"
"Yep." I pat my left pocket automatically.
He put his hand on my shoulder congenially, almost like I imagined a father would. "Best of luck to you." He
always said this, or a variation of this, before I went on a job.
I nodded and turned to leave as Paul Johnston.
...
"Who are you?" He crossed his arms over his expensive suit.
I spoke with a thick French accent. "My name is Daniel Barrineau. I'm a struggling artist who will help a
wife – cope – with her loveless marriage." My clothes today were a mix of formally wealthy and starving
painter; I even had a few blue paint spots on my fingernails. My hair was different, forced down and a little
greasy. My contacts made my eyes look almost black. I felt like the great unwashed.
"And the target?" He kept his arms crossed, this job was important.
"Lauren Mallory, wife to Sebastian Jacobs – real estate mogul. As I said, loveless marriage."
"How will you get in?"
This one was almost laughably easy. "She's bored, just waiting for someone younger and better to come
walking by. She wants romance and foreign languages and promises to run away together – that's me."
"Did you get all the canvasses? And the studio space, you've set it up already, right?" He asked, knowing
very well that I had.
"Of course."
This job had proved to be difficult. Her husband, who was sharper than Lauren, caught the two of us
together. I let him get one good shot in, to prove to Lauren that I was willing to be put through anything for
her. That fucker loosened one of my teeth; I had to explain to the dentist who fixed me up that I'd been in a
bar fight.
But it all worked out in the end.
...
"Who are you?" My boss had on an all black suit. It made him look formidable, which he was. Even I didn't
know just how far his reach went. He looked tense today, though he knew I was more than ready. This job
was big, the biggest I'd ever been involved in – a long con. And I was right at the center; it was all up to me.
If I failed, he failed.
"My name is Anthony Masen. I'm a graduate student, studying psychology. She's mousy, lonely; I'll open up
the whole world to her." For this one I'd let my hair do whatever it wanted and I washed the dye from the
last job out. I wore brown-gold colored contacts and shaved my face that morning.
"The target?" His eyes studied me carefully.
"Isabella Swan, fellow graduate student. Came into a fortune when her mother died, she doesn't seem to
care to do anything with it. Quiet, shy, just waiting for The One. I'll be everything she wants me to be." I
grinned; this was going to be fun.
"How will you get in?"
"I'm going to save her life."
"James has the address, twelve o'clock in the D lot. If you're late, he might actually hit her." He, very slightly,
rolled his eyes. "You know how he gets."
I nodded.
"You have the apartment keys? All your school supplies?"
"Yeah," I gestured toward the backpack in the foyer. It was my actual bag from high school; it was easier
than buying a new one and then properly wearing it down.
"Alright," he grabbed my shoulder in a gesture that was both parental and intimidating this time around.
BestoflucktoyouAnthony
I tried not to let my expression fall; I should have been used to it. Rarely did he ever call me by my real
name. I was beginning to think I didn't have one. I was Anthony, Paul, Daniel, Christopher, and Michael. I
was an artist, an heir, a student.
I was whoever I needed to be. And I was the best. I got it all. Every single time.
~*~
Chapter One
The Introduction
When my mother died, I learned a lot that I never cared to know.
Ishouldbackupforasecond
My mom was rich and not because of her own ingenuity.
Renee wasn't a happy person; I've figured that much out by now. By unhappy, I mean unsatisfied with what
she had. To be honest, I'm not all that sure if she loved my dad at all, but I knew she loved that he took care
of her which meant she didn't have to get a job. I like to think that for Charlie, she really tried for as long as
she could.
The second guy was Phil Dwyer, the baseball player. He made pretty good money and they enjoyed each
other for a while. At least, that's what it looked like in the pictures she sent me; I never actually met him.
After Phil came Mikhail Sidorov, of media empire fame. He changed the spelling of his first name to Michael,
married my mother, and bought a house for her in Florida. He was also forty years her senior and several
tax brackets ahead of Phil. Mikhail, or Michael, was nice enough, but liked to send me dolls on my birthday
and major holidays though I was nearing eighteen when he married my mom. The dolls had those creepy
glass eyes that never shut and eventually I locked them all in an old steamer trunk which I then locked in
my dad's attic. I'd seen Child's Play, I knew what happened. Anyway, I guess you might say Michael and I
never connected.
Michael died after three years and left control of his corporations to his grandchildren. He left Renee with
enough money to purchase the Louvre if she were so inclined.
My mother passed away on my birthday, the one before my last one – car accident. I never really wanted to
talk about it and my dad didn't push after the first, "I'm fine." I went through the grieving process like I was
supposed to but it all felt wrong. It was hard to feel sad for a person I hadn't really known, biological
connection or not. So I grieved for the relationship I'd wanted to have with her, but mostly I kept it all to
myself.
After that, my life got a little complicated. I was my mother's only next of kin and the thought alone made
me sad. But with it came an implication that I would inherit her inheritance from Michael. When they found
her will in a mess of paperwork in her Florida home, it confirmed what we already knew.
The first thing I said was that I didn't want it. I told them to donate it to charity and then, as I lost my
patience, I told them to set it on fire for all I cared. They asked if I wanted to know how much it was, I said
no and they told me anyway.
"In assets and liquid financial holdings it comes out to roughly a hundred million dollars, give or take a few
million."
I laughed right in the lawyer's face; I felt really guilty about it later.
Give or take a few million?
I thought
about that, waving my hand so dismissively at money that would feed a starving country for a year.
The lawyer didn't react to my outburst; instead he said, "Isabella, whether you want it or not, the money is
yours."
IlookedatmyfidgetinghandsinmylapandinmyinfinitewisdomutteredOhcrap
...
There were many options considered for a while. I made a lot of lists, so here was my What to Do with the
Damn Money list:
Option One: Donate the money to charity. Someone else could probably use it in a far better way than I ever
could.
Option Two: Give it to my dad. You know, like severance or reparations for his marriage to my mom. But
thinking of my mom that way made me feel bitchy and I didn't want to shove this all his way.
Option Three: Blow it. Buy a really big boat or something. I clearly had no concept at how far a hundred
million dollars would stretch.
Option Four: Rent one of those hot air balloons and start throwing cash out over my hometown.
My dad suggested the fifth option: do something productive with it. I'd mentioned wanting to go to
graduate school once and he hadn't forgotten.
"It doesn't feel right," was all I could articulate at the time. I guess what I meant was that it felt like Renee
was paying me off, like as some kind of apology for our non-existent relationship. And anyway, I had a little
money saved. I could get a job and apply for school for the following autumn without the extra help.
So I went with Option Six: Don't touch it at all. I got a job at a local sporting goods store, which my dad
thought was funny, and combined that money with what I had already saved. I applied to a few schools that
December and was accepted by one. When I told my dad which one, he gave me pepper spray.
I was moving to California.
...
On my very first day in the new city, I got into a car accident. My dying and dented truck slumped to the
side of road where it immediately expired (for good, I learned later) and I sobbed behind the wheel over a
whole lot more than a little fender bender.
I felt like such an idiot. I had no friends here, my only relative in existence lived more than a thousand miles
away, I missed my mom or who I wanted her to be or however I'd justified it in my head, I had this stupid
money that felt like an anchor tied around my waist instead of the blessing it was supposed to be, and now
my truck had died, the truck that had gotten me all the way from Washington. I'd secretly named her Big
Bertha. It was kind of the last straw.
I hadn't noticed yet that the other person from the accident had parked behind me and was now standing
about a foot away. They tapped on the door and I could feel their anxiety though I hadn't looked up yet.
"Are you alright?" She asked through my rolled down window.
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