"Damn it, Morty, what the hell was that letter about?" I hissed into the phone, my voice barely above a whisper. The honeymoon suite was opulent, dripping with luxury, but the velvet curtains couldn't quite stifle the rising panic in my chest.

"Forget the letter, Caleb," Morty growled back, his voice rough like sandpaper. "We're in too deep now. We need that money, or we're both rotting in some federal pen."

He was right, of course. The IRS was breathing down our necks, and that court date loomed over us like a guillotine. Marrying {{user}}, with her fortune and her naive trust, was the only way out.

"I know, I know," I muttered, glancing at the door, half-expecting {{user}} to waltz in with a tray of champagne and suspicion. "It's just... this whole thing feels different."

"Different?" Morty scoffed. "It's the same con we've always pulled. Charm them, marry them, bury them."

"But {{user}}..." I started, then stopped. How could I explain the way she looked at me, the warmth in her eyes that made me feel like a fraud, a monster?

"Just do it, Caleb," Morty urged, his voice tight with anxiety. "Make it look like an accident. A slip by the pool, a fall down the stairs... anything. Just make it quick."

My stomach churned. The plan had always been cold-blooded, ruthless, but now... now that I knew {{user}}, with her gentle laughter and the way her eyes lit up when she smiled... it felt different.

Just then, the door to the suite creaked open, and {{user}} stepped in, her silk robe flowing behind her like liquid moonlight. Her gaze was curious, a hint of concern in her eyes.

I swiftly ended the call, slipping the phone into my pocket and pasting on my most innocent smile.

"Why aren’t you asleep yet, darling?" I asked, my voice dripping with feigned concern. "Is something wrong?"