20 Target Three
The headlines screamed from the desktop like open wounds.
Financial Prodigy Ronan Wick Indicted for Tax Evasion and Embezzlement
Jerico Thorne Forgery Scandal Implicates LA's Elite
Caius Valmont didn't read the stories. He already knew the facts, or at least the parts that mattered. The rest was noise, and he'd spent a lifetime learning how to tune that out.
After flicking through several more online articles, he got up from his office chair and paced around his desk.
His long strides devoured the Aubusson rug.
He had his phone cradled so hard in his palm that the casing flexed.
The home office was so clean you could perform surgery on the floor.
The only clutter was the controlled sprawl of newsprint on his desk—evidence that reality itself was coming apart.
Earlier, he'd received an interesting call from Jerico Thorne.
They hadn't been in touch for a long while, ever since Caius decided it was time to get into politics.
Being seen with someone like Thorne wouldn't be beneficial to his future.
He hadn't been a part of the high society.
His family was middle-class and all the wealth and status Thorne had right now was thanks to his friendship with Caius and Ronan.
But Thorne had an interesting theory, and Caius thought it was best to hear him out and get some insurance.
Even though he didn't quite believe Thorne's story.
The woman who'd cost Caius almost half a million to silence was possibly involved in the demise of both Jerico and Ronan? And she had help too?
After a minute of deliberation over the story, Caius had chuckled.
That woman, whoever she was, had a death wish if she thought she could get back at a Valmont.
Jerico's theory was absurd.
"You remember who I'm talking about, right?" Jerico had asked. "Kimberly Holt."
Caius's memory floated to the forefront of his mind.
"Ronan has had a PI following her for a few weeks and I'm digging for more info."
"And?"
"Nothing so far."
"Tell Ronan to stop. You too," Caius had said in a voice that brooked no argument. He hadn't explained that he'd do it his way.
The call had ended and Caius had been thinking ever since while browsing the Internet and reading the news about Jerico and Ronan.
Finally, he pulled up a certain contact on his phone and hit the call button.
"Bale Security," a woman chirped on the line.
"I need to speak to Aaron."
"Mr. Bale isn't in his office right no—"
"Tell him this is Caius Valmont."
There was a moment of silence. Most people reacted to his name the same. They didn't know what to say to him because two seconds ago they'd been rude, and now they were risking losing their job.
"I'll try to get a hold of him," the woman said in a sweeter tone as predicted.
Caius waited. A minute later, a voice jabbed from the other end of the line. "Mr. Valmont. It's been a long time."
"I need you to look into Jerico Thorne's scandal and Ronan Wick's arrest," Caius demanded without any preemptive. He wasn't a man who wasted time when time was of the essence.
"Any particular reason?"
"Could be foul play. Too much of a coincidence they both went down almost simultaneously."
"I understand."
"If anyone had a hand in it, bring that piece of shit to me alive."
"Copy."
"And do a quick check on Kimberly Holt. See what she's up to these days."
"Understood."
The call ended.
Caius flicked his gaze to the bank of security monitors mounted above the bar in the corner. Every screen split in quarters, a mosaic of his entire property: driveway, perimeter, rooftop, the hidden garden on the east side, the pool deck that glowed ghostly blue in the dusk.
All clear.
All quiet.
He was paranoid for no reason, he realized. No one unauthorized would be able to access his property.
But then again, a real Picasso had been swapped for a fake one in one of the most secure venues in the country just a few weeks ago.
It didn't hurt to be safe than sorry.
Caius heard the knock and the measured click of Louboutin heels on the floor. She never waited for his answer before entering. She knocked only because it was a polite thing to do, but if he were to tell her she couldn't come in, she would anyway.
The Vandermeres never listened to anyone.
It was a small price to pay for the kind of power this marriage had brought to Caius.
He stayed where he was, hunched over the desk, eyes pinned to the screen, a finger drifting across the mouse as he swapped between two articles about Wick's case.
Celine stopped in the center of his home office and cleared her throat.
He shifted his gaze from the desktop to his wife.
She wore a fitted dress in dark teal, her chestnut hair swept back, not a single strand out of line.
In another world, she could have been a talk show host or a cellist at the Kennedy Center.
But in this life, she was his ticket to the greater power.
Her every movement was as calculated as his own, though she made it look like grace instead of strategy.
She looked right at him. "Are you planning to eat? The dinner is getting cold."
"Not hungry."
She smiled politely, but it didn't touch her eyes. "Your mother called. Twice. She wanted to remind you to be at the gala this Saturday."
"What's this Saturday again?" he asked. He never remembered his social schedule. Celine took care of it for him.
"It's the Women Against Violence Foundation. You didn't forget, did you?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he switched his attention to his desk, reached for the stack of folders near the corner, and flipped the top one open just to keep himself busy. He hated these types of charity events, but they were necessary for his political future.
Celine walked to the edge of the desk, stopping exactly a foot away—her signature distance. "I'll be wearing the midnight blue Versace," she supplied, each word polished and neutral. "The one you said you liked. If you wear the navy tux with the silver cufflinks, we'll match."
He grunted out an affirmative.
"Then it's settled."
He didn't answer. She retreated, heels tapping a countdown to silence.
When the door closed, Caius slumped in his chair, suddenly aware of how stiff his neck was. He looked up at the security monitors. Nothing was out of the ordinary.