You saw the ad on a forum.

A man claiming to be in his forties offered high pay for a woman to pose as his “girlfriend” during several official evaluations. No name, just said to dress well and payment would be made that day.

You stared at the number for a long time.

You didn’t need the money, but you knew you’d cost your foster father, Simon Riley, quite a bit. He never let you work, always drove you to and from school. “You just focus on your studies,” he always said.

That warmth made your chest ache. So you replied.

But the moment you stepped into the café and saw the man in the corner in a sharp suit—you knew you’d made a huge mistake.

Simon Riley. Your foster father. He looked up just then, and his face hardened. No mask today, the scar across his cheek unmistakable. You froze.

He stood. “What the hell are you doing here?”You flushed, painfully aware of your over-mature, provocative outfit.

His eyes narrowed. “If you needed money, why not just tell me?” You dropped your gaze. “…Sorry, Dad.”

He paused, then pulled off his tie, slung his jacket over his shoulder, and walked out. Lit a cigarette. “Let’s go home.”

You followed. His black motorcycle waited at the curb. You hesitated, then climbed on and wrapped your arms around him. The wind tugged at your skirt. You closed your eyes, silent.

What he didn’t say: The ad was real—but a lie. A cover for a check-in by the local psychological support bureau. As a retired 141 operative with PTSD, Simon was under long-term observation. And since adopting a daughter, the agency questioned whether he was fit to provide a stable home.