24. Cassian
CASSIAN
The recording device sits in my jacket pocket, small enough to be invisible but heavy enough that I'm aware of it with every breath. Walt assured me it works—voice-activated, crystal clear audio, battery life good for six hours. More than enough time to get what I need.
I've spent the last week building this moment. Calling Raylin with apologies that tasted like ash, telling her she was right about Amara, that I'd been blind to manipulation disguised as love. Each lie came easier than the last, and by yesterday she was eager to meet, convinced she'd finally won.
Tonight's dinner at Marea, her favorite spot. She insisted on driving, said she wanted to talk without the pressure of a public restaurant, somewhere we could be alone. Perfect. A car gives me time, gives me the captive audience I need to extract a confession.
My phone buzzes. Raylin: “Outside in five.”
I pocket it, check the recording device one more time. The small red light blinks twice. Active. I slide it back into my jacket, positioned so the microphone faces outward.
Walt's final instructions echo in my head: Get her talking. Let her brag. People like Raylin can't help themselves once they think they've won.
Headlights sweep across the lobby windows. A black Mercedes pulls up to the curb, Raylin behind the wheel. She waves, all teeth and satisfaction.
I head outside. Cold air hits immediately, October sliding into November with the kind of bitter wind that cuts through wool coats. I open the passenger door, slide into leather seats that smell like her perfume and new money.
"Hey." She's dressed up—silk blouse, diamond studs that probably cost more than most people's cars. Her hair's perfect, makeup flawless. She looks like someone going to war wearing Chanel.
"Hey."
She pulls away from the curb, merges into traffic with the confidence of someone who's never worried about consequences. "I'm glad you called. I wasn't sure you would after everything."
"I needed time to think."
"And?"
"You were right. About Amara, about the whole situation. I let my feelings cloud my judgment."
Her smile widens. "I know how hard that must be to admit."
"It is." I lean back, watch the city slide past through tinted windows. "The collaboration got tabled. My father's rebuilding investor confidence."
"I heard. My dad pulled out and convinced a few others to follow. Strategic move."
"Your father did that because of you."
She glances over, reads my tone carefully.
"He did it because it was good business.
Black Lake was bleeding money into a partnership built on nepotism.
That's not right. Amara's work is alright, but her presence destabilizes everything.
Your focus, the company's reputation, relationships that took decades to build.
" She turns onto Fifth Avenue, heading uptown.
"You see that now though, right? That she was using you? "
This is it. The opening I need. I keep my voice neutral, slightly bitter. "June complicates things."
"June was always a complication. A five-year-old you didn't know existed showing up right when her mother needs a career boost? That's a trap if I've ever seen one."
"You think Amara planned it?"
"I think she saw an opportunity and took it. Can't blame her, really. Single mother, struggling artist, suddenly discovers the father of her child is a billionaire with connections? Of course she came running back. The bitch got desperate."
The words make my jaw clench. I force myself to relax, to play into her narrative. "So what should I have done?"
"Exactly what you did. Step back, let the professionals handle it, protect yourself legally. June deserves financial support obviously, but that doesn't mean Amara gets access to your life." She changes lanes smoothly. "You were too close to it. That's why I had to intervene."
My pulse kicks up. "Intervene how?"
"By showing everyone the truth. That photo of them in the park, the timeline, all of it. People needed to see what was really happening before you made irreversible mistakes."
"You leaked the photos."
She doesn't even hesitate. "Someone had to. You wouldn't listen to reason, your father was letting sentiment override business sense. The media exposure forced everyone to see clearly."
The recording device in my pocket captures every word. I keep my breathing steady, my expression carefully neutral.
"That was risky."
"It was necessary. And it worked." She glances over, reaches across the console to touch my hand. "I did it for you. Because I care about you, because our families are connected, because I couldn't stand watching her destroy everything you've built."
"What about June? She's five years old, Raylin. Her face was all over gossip sites."
"Collateral damage. Unfortunate but unavoidable." Her fingers squeeze mine. "She'll be fine. Kids are resilient. And honestly, Amara should've thought about that before she tried manipulating her way into your life. This is on her, not me."
The casual cruelty in her voice makes the rage in my veins unfurl. June isn't collateral damage. She's my daughter, and this woman sitting beside me treated her like a chess piece to be sacrificed.
"I even considered calling CPS," Raylin continues. "Anonymous tip about Amara's fitness as a mother, her unstable living situation. But that felt too aggressive. The media leak was cleaner."
My hand goes still under hers. "You thought about reporting Amara to CPS?"
"Just exploring options. I wanted her gone, Cassian.
Out of New York, out of your life, back to whatever European city she crawled out of.
" She pulls her hand back, both on the wheel now as traffic thickens.
"She doesn't belong here. Never did. And now that everyone knows what she is, she'll leave on her own. "
Perfect. Every word, every admission, captured on audio that will destroy her credibility permanently.
I pull out my phone, open the recording app Walt set up, hit stop. The file uploads immediately to cloud storage, sends copies to Walt's secure server. Insurance.
Raylin notices the movement. "What are you doing?"
"Texting Walt. Letting him know I'll be late."
"We're just having dinner."
"I know. But after everything that's happened, he worries."
She accepts this, focuses back on driving. We're heading toward the Upper East Side now, brownstones and expensive cars lining streets that look like film sets.
"Where are we going? I thought you said Marea."
"Change of plans. I have a better spot in mind. Quieter, more private. We can actually talk without interruptions."
Something cold slides down my spine. "Raylin?—"
"Trust me. You'll like it."
I don't like it. Don't like the way her voice shifted, the too-casual tone that feels calculated. My hand moves toward my phone again.
She catches the movement. "Who are you texting now?"
"No one. Just checking the time."
"You're lying." Her hands tighten on the wheel. "You've been acting weird since you got in the car. What's going on?"
"Nothing's going on. I'm just tired."
"You recorded me." Not a question. Her voice goes flat. "That whole conversation, you were recording me."
My heart slams against my ribs. "Raylin, just pull over?—"
"You bastard. You came here to trap me, to get me to admit what I did so you could—what? Expose me? Ruin me? After everything I did for you?"
"You didn't do anything for me! You leaked photos of my daughter, tried to destroy Amara's reputation, sabotaged a business deal because you're jealous and vindictive?—"
"I'm in love with you!"
The scream fills the car. She jerks the wheel, swerves around a taxi. Horns blare. I grab the door handle, brace against the dashboard.
"Raylin, calm down?—"
"Don't tell me to calm down! I have spent years, years you asshole, waiting for you to see me.
Waiting for you to realize we're supposed to be together.
Our families, our history, everything pointing to us.
And then she shows up with her sob story and her convenient daughter and you just—" Her voice cracks. "You threw me away like I'm nothing!"
"I never led you on. I told you repeatedly there was nothing between us?—"
"You smiled at me! You danced with me at galas, you let me sit next to you at dinners, you were always there when I needed you. That meant something!"
"It meant I was being polite because our families know each other. That's it."
Her hands shake on the wheel. Tears stream down her face, mascara running in black streaks. We're going too fast now, weaving through traffic with reckless desperation.
"Raylin, slow the fuck down!"
"Why should I? So you can expose me? So you can play hero for Amara while I become the villain everyone hates?" She laughs, her knuckles going white on the steering wheel. "I'm going to be destroyed anyway. Might as well make it count."
"What are you talking about?"
"You're going to release that recording. Show everyone what I did. My reputation, my career, my father's business relationships, all of it gone. Because I loved you and you chose her."
"This isn't about choosing anyone?—"
"It's about everything!"
She jerks the wheel hard. The car lurches left, crossing lanes. More horns, headlights flashing. I reach for the wheel but she bats my hand away.
"If I can't have you, she doesn't get to either. None of us get happy endings."
The words land like stones. I watch her face, see the calculation behind the tears, the decision she's already made.
"Raylin, don't?—"
She guns the engine. The speedometer needle climbs past seventy on a street lined with brownstones and parked cars.
Trees and brick facades blur into streaks of shadow and amber streetlight.
My hand shoots out, grabs the wheel, tries to wrest control from her grip.
She fights back immediately, nails digging into my wrist hard enough to break skin.
"Let go!"
"Stop the fucking car!"
We're grappling now, both hands on the wheel, her weight thrown against mine. The car swerves wildly between lanes, tires squealing as they lose traction on asphalt. A parked sedan looms ahead on the right, dark and immobile. She twists the wheel toward it. Not away from it. Toward it.
I yank the wheel hard right with everything I have.
The Mercedes spins, tires screaming their protest into the night.
We clip the parked car's bumper with a metallic crunch that reverberates through the frame.
Momentum carries us forward, the world tilting as we slide across the pavement.
A wrought-iron fence rushes up to meet us.
It buckles under the impact, black iron posts bending inward like ribs caving under pressure.
Metal shrieks. Glass explodes outward in a shower of glittering fragments. The airbag deploys, slamming into my face with the force of a punch and the acrid chemical smell of propellant.
Then everything stops.