26. Silas

Chapter twenty-six

Silas

Money bleeds faster than blood in this business.

That’s my first thought as I stand at the edge of the studio lot, staring at a sea of cardboard signs and angry faces. They’re holding up my production, and every minute lost is another fistful of dollars slipping through my fingers. The wind kicks up the scent of sweat, street food, and the distinct tang of garbage—a fitting perfume for this absolute shitshow.

"Silas!" Jean, the director, jogs over, looking like he’s aged ten years since I last saw him.

His hair is disheveled, and there’s a new stain on his once-pristine leather jacket. The poor bastard looks like he’s been through hell and dragged his wardrobe with him.

“They won’t let us shoot.” He huffs, motioning with his thumb toward the crowd. “Every time we start rolling, they throw trash onto the set.”

Of course, they do.

The scandal has spread like wildfire, and the vultures are circling. My supposed sins have given every idiot with a grievance a platform. I glance at the protesters again. Half of them probably don’t even know what they’re here for. But they’ve got a cause now, and I’m the target.

“Any idea who organized this?” I ask, though I already have a sneaking suspicion.

Jean shrugs, wiping his brow. “Some activist group. But between you and me, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was someone with deeper pockets. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a protest this organized over something like this, and I shot movies with Polanski.”

Deeper pockets. Yeah, that tracks. Harvey comes to mind immediately. I bet he slipped a few bills under the table to rile these people up. But proving that would take more time than I have. Proving it wouldn’t change anything, either.

“What are we gonna do? Production is behind schedule, and we’re hemorrhaging cash as the budget will keep increasing as long as we have the cast and crew on the payroll even though we aren’t shooting.”

I’m about to respond when a hand clasps my shoulder.

I see Cassian Sterling grinning at me, all six-foot-something of him, towering with easy confidence. Although his buzz cut and chiseled jawline give him that all-American soldier look, it’s the hard look in his eyes that tells me he’s been through more than a few battles—both real and metaphorical.

“Cass.”

“How’s it going, old man?” Cassian’s grin widens, but before I can reply, he waves it off. “Scratch that. Stupid question.”

I snort, shaking my head. Cassian doesn’t do bullshit, which is one of the reasons I like him.

“Get the fuck outta here, you cunts!” Jean yells at the crowd, who pump their cardboard in the air like guns.

I read one of the colorful signs being carried by a long-haired man dressed like a hobo: We won’t support Sexual Predators even if they make movies we like. The words are squeezed onto the board, and I wonder if he couldn’t have written something shorter and, hell, smarter.

“Grim,” Cassian says, standing beside me.

“Quite.”

“How’s Leah taking it?”

“I haven’t seen her all day.”

I think Leah’s avoiding me, which is understandable. She once told me how much she hated being in the spotlight, and now, she has one directly fixed on her. It’s no surprise that she doesn’t want to be around me.

“This shit sucks.”

“Ezra would’ve found a way to make a joke about it.”

Cassian chuckles, remembering his friend—my brother. “That’s Ezra. The man could make you smile, even if you just heard your mother died of cancer.”

I laugh softly. The crowd doesn’t like that, as their chants get louder and their signs reach higher. Okay, sorry for laughing.

“How you holding up?” I ask Cassian. “Any girl in your life? Preferably something less complicated than mine.”

He rubs his head. “There’s one girl.”

“Yeah?”

“But I haven’t seen her in years.” Cassian wets his lip. “It’s funny that I haven’t seen her in so long, but I’ve never really forgotten her, you know?”

“Trust me, I get it.”

My mind goes to the five-year interval between Rome and seeing Leah again. I thought about her semi-frequently, and even though I got involved with some other women during that period, I never really forgot Leah.

There was just something about her that stuck with me.

“You want to get out of here?” he offers, jerking his thumb toward the exit. “I know a place around the corner that serves drinks strong enough to make you forget your troubles for a couple of hours.”

I exhale slowly, already feeling the pull of alcohol numbing the edges of my frustration. “Yeah, I could use a drink. This,” I motion vaguely at the chaos unfolding around us, “is a fucking mess.”

Before we can make our escape, my phone buzzes. I glance at the screen and see Kane Caldwell’s name flashing. I answer, motioning to Cassian to hold on a second. “Kane, if you’re calling about this shitstorm, I already heard from your father.”

“I’m calling because I’m close to the studio,” he replies—a British accent more noticeable the longer he stays in London. “Where are you?”

“You’re in the States?”

“Yup. Tamara has an exhibition, and I had to be there for her.”

I nod like he can see me. “Where are you?” I ask again.

“Eighth Street.”

I look around at the madness. “Up for a drink?”

“I’ve spent the better part of the day staring at abstract art. I’d kill for a drink.”

“Great. You’ll see my car soon.”

Cassian raises an eyebrow, silently asking if we’re still on for that drink. I nod, signaling that I’ll grab Kane first, then we’ll all go together. I’ve got business to discuss with Kane Caldwell—though with how things are going, I’m not sure there’ll be any business left to discuss soon.

When I find Kane, he’s leaning against a sleek black car, his dark hair impeccably combed, and his sharp suit making him look like he’s about to attend a board meeting. He’s got the kind of face that could sell anything, from software to sympathy. Not that he needs to sell me on anything. We’ve been friends for a while now.

“Kane.” I shake his hand, and he gives me one of those bright smiles that I’m sure makes sealing deals easier.

“Silas,” he says smoothly. “I hear there’s a bit of a . . . disturbance.”

“That’s one word for it,” I mutter. “This is—”

“Cassian Sterling.” He stretches a hand and smirks.

Kane takes it. “Kane Caldwell. You an actor?”

“Nah, he has the pretty face, but he’s just not shallow enough to be one,” I tease.

“What the man said.” Cassian shrugs.

Cassian falls in beside us as we make our way to the lounge he mentioned earlier. It’s a dimly lit joint tucked away from the chaos, where the air smells like whiskey and regret, and no one gives a damn who you are, which is just how I like it.

We settle into a booth, and a waitress—blonde, petite, with eyes that have seen too much—brings us drinks without a word. She knows the kind of men who walk into places like this. She knows we’re here to drown something.

Cassian takes a long sip of his whiskey before breaking the silence. “So, what are you going to do about the protest?” he asks, casually, like we’re discussing the weather.

I swirl my glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “If I had a magic bullet for this, I wouldn’t be sitting here.” I look around. “I think it’s somehow worse because I didn’t do this shit.”

Kane chuckles, though there’s no humor in it. “You don’t need to convince us, Silas. We know you didn’t groom Leah. The problem is public perception.”

“And public perception,” Cassian adds, leaning back, “is a bitch.”

No argument there.

I glance between them. My company’s stocks are tanking, the movie is on hold, and the deal I’ve been working on with Kane’s father, Henry, is slipping through my fingers because of this scandal. Leah and I . . . we started out fake, sure. But somewhere along the line, it got real.

And now the world thinks I’m a predator.

Kane takes a measured sip of his drink, his expression unreadable. “I didn’t just come to New York for Tamara’s exhibition, by the way.”

I raise an eyebrow, waiting.

He sets his glass down carefully, his eyes darkening. “My father’s been placed in an induced coma. It’s only a matter of time now.”

The words shock me. Henry Caldwell, the man who built an empire, the man I’ve been negotiating with, is dying. I remember how he sounded earlier. He didn’t sound great, but I didn’t think . . . I didn’t think it would be this soon.

“Damn,” Cassian mutters, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, man.”

I nod in agreement, but Kane waves it off, his jaw tightening. “I’ve had time to come to terms with it. He’s been deteriorating for a while now.”

“I spoke with him this morning.” I set my glass on the table. “He didn’t sound good. I asked him if he was fine, but he waved it off.”

“He’s a stubborn old cow, my father.” Kane shakes his head, and I can see the grief he’s trying to hide.

He isn’t dead yet, but Henry Caldwell’s death will change things. A lot of things. I hate that even in the face of death, I’m still thinking about business.

Kane leans back, his expression softening slightly. “You’ll get what you’ve always wanted, though, Silas. The company.”

Was it that obvious —my thoughts?

I open my mouth to respond, but my phone rings again before I can say anything. This time, it’s Leah.

“Hold on,” I tell the guys, stepping away from the table. I can feel the alcohol hitting me. Day drinking was a bad idea. “Leah?”

“Silas, you need to come to Caleb’s school,” she says, her voice tense, almost breathless. “There’s been an incident.”

My heart skips a beat. “What happened?”

“I’ll explain when you get here, just—just come, now.”

Shit. I turn back to the table, running a hand through my hair. “I’ve got to go. Something’s happened with Caleb.”

“Is he fine?” Cassian asks.

“I—I don’t know. Leah asked me to come now, so I’ve gotta go.”

Kane and Cassian both nod, understanding in their eyes.

“Go,” Kane says, his voice low. “Take care of your son. Cassian and I here will drink to my dad’s health.”

“Hear, hear.” Cassian raises a glass. “I’ve got nowhere to be.”

As I leave the lounge, my mind is already racing.

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