Chapter 8 Cast
CAST
“Listen,” I say into the receiver, voice lower than I want it to be.
The man on the other end answers in a static whisper, the dialect thick. “I have him in scope right now.”
“Where is he?” My jaw tightens.
“The dinner table.” He responds and I hear the sure click of a safety being turned off.
“We let him enjoy the holidays,” I tell him. “Let him think he’s safe for a while. Family dinners. Hot chocolate. All of that.” My mouth tastes like iron. “But before January, he’s gone. This has to be clean. He’s a public figure.”
There’s a pause, more like the sound of something heavy settling. “You sure you want to wait?”
I can feel the room tilt from the weight of the decision, the ledger of consequences balanced on my shoulders. “Yes,” I say. “People need to feel safe, even if it’s a lie. But don’t let it drag into the new year. We can’t afford it.”
Footsteps pass outside my office, a fast, nervous staccato.
The hallway door clicks; someone moves past the frame.
For a second I think it’s just a courier, someone running a late errand.
Then a familiar silhouette cuts the light: Vincent, shoulders hunched like he’s carrying something inside his coat that wants to get out.
He picks up his pace down the stairs as he mutters into his own phone, the words spilling sharp and urgent. “No, you don’t understand—find it now. The numbers drop every day. If we don’t lock it down, we’re done by the new year.”
The thread of the conversation in my other ear snaps like a taut wire.
I hear my own name—probably not mine, but the way he says “we” makes it mine whether I want it to be or not.
I end the call without thinking, the receiver thudding back into its cradle with more force than necessary.
My heart is already moving, hot and heavy.
Vincent’s voice cuts through the corridor like a blade. “You need to hunt now, not later. This isn’t about patience—it’s about survival.” His words are urgent enough that I can hear the fray in them, the ragged edge of a man running out of time.
I stand, boots squeaking on the freshly waxed floor, and follow him without thinking.
The stairwell smells of motor oil and peppermint—the seasonal wreath hanging on the railing doing nothing to mask the grit.
He’s two steps ahead, his coat flaring, jaw clenched so tight the muscle ticks at the corner of his mouth.
When he turns at the bottom, he doesn’t see me at first; he sees the ledger on the counter, the open laptop glowing with numbers that aren’t supposed to move this way.
He’s whisper-yelling into the phone now, low and dangerous, like someone trying to keep a storm in a bottle. “We didn’t lose this much overnight. Something’s been siphoning off the accounts. Find it. Track every cent. If it’s internal—if it’s a mole—you cut it out. Now.”
There’s a hatred in his voice I haven’t heard in years, the old animal thing from before the suits and the PR statements. I stop a few paces back, close enough to feel the heat from him, far enough that he can’t hear me breathing. My chest tightens.
He stops pacing, shoulders squared, and listens for a few seconds. Whatever comes through that phone, it doesn’t soothe him. It sharpens him.
Then, without warning, he hurls it.
The sound of glass and plastic detonating against the marble floor slices through the air, sharp and final. The pieces skid across the tile, one chunk still blinking faintly like a dying heartbeat.
Vincent stands there, chest rising hard, hands braced on the counter as he exhales through his nose. For a second, he doesn’t move. Just stares at the wreckage of the phone, the reflection of the city lights flickering across the shards.
I take that as my cue and step forward, clearing my throat loud enough to be heard but soft enough not to be a threat.
“Guess I can cross new phone off your Christmas list,” I say, trying to sound lighter than I feel. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
Vincent turns his head like the sound of my voice drags him back into his body. His eyes are darker than usual—hollow, sleepless, feral around the edges.
“Fuck off, Cast.” He straightens, runs a hand through his hair, and lets out a humorless laugh that sounds like it hurts his throat.
“I’m serious,” he mutters, still staring at the broken phone. “You shouldn’t be listening in on my private confidential phone calls.”
I cross my arms, leaning against the wall. “You know that line doesn’t work on me. Nothing in this house is confidential.”
He doesn’t answer, just presses the heel of his palm against his eyes like he’s trying to wipe out the last ten seconds. “It was nothing Cast, just go.”
I glance down at the shattered phone, then back at him. “Whatever that was,” I say carefully, “it doesn’t sound like nothing.”
Vincent finally looks at me, jaw tight, and for a second I see it—the exhaustion, the crack in the armor. But then it’s gone. He draws in a shallow breath, straightens his shoulders, and gives me that practiced, distant smirk that’s meant to end conversations before they start.
“Don’t,” he says. “Just… don’t right now.”
He doesn’t move, just stands there breathing hard, the broken phone still blinking weakly between us like a dying thing.
“Don’t,” Vincent repeats, lower now, sharper—like a warning.
But I step closer anyway. “You’re gonna have to give me more than that.”
“I don’t owe you anything, Cast.”
“Like hell you don’t.” My voice rises before I can stop it. “You owe it to the rest of us to not fall apart in silence. What the fuck is going on? You’ve been off for weeks. You’re barely sleeping. You’re pacing like a fucking maniac. Talk to me.”
Vincent turns on me then, really turns, his jaw tight and his eyes darker than I’ve seen in months. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. “And you don’t want to.”
“The hell I don’t,” I shoot back, stepping forward until we’re nearly chest to chest. “You think I haven’t seen this before? You spiral, you shut down, and then the rest of us are left cleaning up the mess. I’m not doing that again.”
“Then stop acting like I’m a goddamn child.”
“I’m acting like your brother. Someone who gives a shit.”
He closes the distance between us without warning, close enough that I can smell the whiskey on his breath, the ghost of pine smoke from the fire upstairs. His shoulders are rigid, his hands flexing at his sides like he doesn’t trust them to stay still.
“Mind your fucking business,” he snarls.
The words hit harder than a fist.
For a second, neither of us breathes. The sound of the heater hums behind us, too gentle for a moment like this.
My throat tightens, not from anger this time—but from that same ache that’s followed us since we were boys trying to rebuild the ashes of our father’s empire.
“Every time we get close to something good,” I whisper, “you pull away. You think you’re protecting us, but you’re not.
You’re just building walls I can’t climb anymore. ”
Vincent’s expression flickers—guilt, pain, gone in an instant. “You don’t get it,” he says, voice rough. “If I tell you what’s really happening, you’ll want to fix it. And this—” he gestures around him, at the office, the company, everything “—this can’t be fixed.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“You don’t have to.” He steps back, hands on his hips, head bowed. The fight drains out of him, but the distance doesn’t.
And that’s the part that hurts—the way he can shut a door mid-sentence and lock it from the inside.
I stare at him for a long moment, trying to find the right word, the right key to get through. But before I can, a voice breaks the tension—soft, warm, familiar.
“You two know you’re standing under the mistletoe, right?”
Both of us turn. She’s leaning against the doorframe, one eyebrow raised, mug of cocoa in her hands, the faintest smile curving her mouth. Her tone is teasing, but there’s a flicker of caution in her eyes—like she can feel how close this almost was to breaking.
“You have to kiss and make up,” she says, stepping fully into the room. “House rules. I don’t make them; I just enforce them.”
For a second, neither of us moves. Vincent’s chest still rises and falls too fast, and my pulse hasn’t settled since he told me to mind my business. The mistletoe hangs above us, innocent, absurdly out of place amid all the broken glass and tension.
I drag a hand through my hair, scoffing. “Seriously?”
Willow shrugs, smiling. “Seriously.”
Vincent exhales through his nose, the faintest ghost of a laugh catching in it. “You’re joking.”
She lifts her mug in mock solemnity. “It’s bad luck to fight under it and not make peace.”
I groan. “I’m not kissing him, Willow.”
Vincent’s mouth curves, sharp and humorless. “You think I’d kiss a sourpuss like you?”
“Then kiss someone,” Willow shoots back, rolling her eyes.
He doesn’t even hesitate. He turns toward her, leans down, and presses a tender kiss to her lips—soft, but the touch was needed enough that I can see the tension bleed from his shoulders.
“There,” he murmurs against her skin. “Mistletoe honored.”
Willow blinks, caught between amusement and surprise, and I swear I see a flicker of color rise in her cheeks.
Vincent straightens, jaw tight, just as the watch on his wrists buzzes, signaling a call to his now broken phone. The sound slices through the silence like a blade. He glances down, and whatever flashes across the screen wipes the last trace of calm from his face.
He doesn’t move for a heartbeat—just stares at his wrist—then swipes to answer, voice dropping low. “Give me a minute to find a phone.”
Willow and I exchange a look. The warmth that had just started to creep back into the room drains fast.
“Vincent,” Willow says softly, trying again, “what’s wrong?”
He shakes his head without looking at us, running a hand through his hair. “It’s fine. Just work.”
She takes a small step closer. “Work shouldn’t sound like that.”
He exhales through his nose, that sharp, frustrated sound that always means stop asking. “I said it’s fine, Willow.”
He storms out of the room, door swinging shut, cold air spilling into the room for a brief second before it seals again. The echo of it lingers longer than it should, that hollow thud that makes the walls feel too close, too still.
Willow stands there for a beat, staring at the empty doorway as though she can will him back through it. The soft hum of the heater stirs to life again, the sound filling the silence he leaves behind. I can see the small rise and fall of her shoulders as she exhales heavily.
Before she can sag all the way, I move. I cross the space, loop an arm around her waist, and pull her in close enough that her hair brushes against my jaw. Her skin is cold from the draft, the tip of her nose pink, but she melts into the warmth without hesitation. I press a kiss to her temple.
“I just don’t know—” she starts, voice fragile, threaded with worry.
“I’ll figure it out, Angel,” I whisper against her hair. “Don’t worry about that.”
She exhales again, softer this time, and sags into me completely—trusting, believing, even when she shouldn’t have to.
I squeeze her waist gently. “You still want to go Christmas shopping?”
She lingers on him a heartbeat longer, the blue glow of his phone reflected in her eyes. Then she nods.“Yeah,” she says finally. “Let’s go before the roads freeze over.”