Casey & Alexander
For a moment, this place—the private gym tucked behind the pool—feels like the only square inch of the city where he can breathe. Until he senses it: movement at the entrance. The door creaks open. Mid-rep, Casey lets the weights drop to the mat. Sits up. Wipes the sweat from his brow.
Footsteps. He hears them now. Someone’s there. The guy’s out of place—sweater vest over a button-down, cuffed gray chinos. It takes a second to place him. The therapist from upstairs. Gareth name-dropped him once at happy hour, somewhere between tequila shots. Shrink to the Hollywood elite, or something like that.
But up close, there’s something off. Watchful. Like he’s conducting research. Now the man approaches, calm, like this was prearranged.
“Casey, right?”
Casey forces a grin. “Yeah. How’s it going?”
“Dr. Alexander Beacham.” No handshake. Just a small, unreadable smile. “We’re neighbors.”
“Casey Stoneman,” he replies, more cautious now.
“Indeed,” Alexander says with a chuckle. He picks up a dumbbell from the rack, testing its weight in his hand. “You look like a man with a lot on his shoulders.”
Casey wipes sweat from his brow. “Is that so? What gave me away?”
“Just an observation,” Alexander says. Then, quieter: “Maybe a little informed.”
Casey’s stare sharpens, less curiosity now, more quiet appraisal. Alexander places the dumbbell back.
“Daphne, isn’t it? The blonde. Hard to mistake her for your wife.”
Casey stands from the bench, towel twisting in his hands, sweat glinting on his skin. He squares up to Alexander. “What the fuck are you getting at?”
“Your wife’s fragile these days,” Alexander says, unmoved, like he’s testing how far Casey will go. “It’s made me… concerned.”
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Casey lunges. No warning. He slams Alexander against the wall, fist twisted in the collar of his shirt. Alexander stares back, unfazed. Then, a sharp pivot. He wrenches free and shoves Casey backward in one clean motion.
Casey stumbles. Catches himself. Takes a breath. Dude’s stronger than he looks.
Alexander smooths his shirt. Calm. He pulls out his phone and starts scrolling.
A buzz.
Casey’s phone vibrates in his pocket. Alexander doesn’t look up. Taps once on his phone screen, then locks it again.
“Might want to check that.”
Casey stiffens. What the hell is happening?
He reaches for his phone. Pulls it out. Then he freezes. An airdrop request. Photos?
He accepts. A breath catches in his throat. His pulse ticks up. One by one, the images load.
Images of him and Daphne. Together. Slipping out of that rundown Art Deco hotel. Different angles. Multiple shots. No room for doubt.
“Hotel sex in the middle of the day?” Alexander murmurs, not trying to provoke, just enjoying how little he has to. “How romantic.”
The edges of everything start to blur as Casey’s mind races, trying to stitch together the impossible. How the hell does this guy know so much? How could he have tracked him and Daphne? How long has he been watching? Why? The questions pile up, overlapping, none landing, as he forces himself to meet Alexander’s eyes.
“How… how do you know?” he asks, betrayed by the tremor in his voice. “Why me? Why her? Why this?”
“I know what people don’t say aloud,” Alexander whispers. “I know what they try to hide. You were sloppy.”
Casey wants to deny it. Wants to explain it away. But the photos say everything. Proof. Undeniable. No spin, no escape.
“I don’t understand,” he says. “Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?”
“What I want is simple. You manage fortunes, right? You hear things. You see things. About the stock market. I’m offering a partnership.”
“Are you out of your mind? I don’t do insider trading.”
“Of course not. Luckily, this isn’t a trade.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then we part ways. I keep the photos. Lili gets them. You lose everything.”
Casey’s gaze drifts, searching for the right response. “I don’t think you understand. You’re asking me to risk my career.”
“Are you willing to risk your marriage instead? Lili forgave the last affair. But this one? With her friend? She’ll break.”
A short, unsteady breath. Casey’s expression shifts from recognition to dread. “How do you know about that?”
“I listen.”
To who? How long? How long has he been watching? How much does he know?
He should walk out. Call his bluff. Pretend none of this is happening. But the photos prove otherwise. And in his head, Lili’s voice is already screaming through her tears: What did you do, Casey?
His voice is barely audible. Just a panicked whisper. “I’ll think about it.”
“Sure,” Alexander says. “Buy yourself some time. Just let me know by end of day.”
He nods at the phone, still gripped tight in Casey’s hand. “You have my number.” He starts to turn, just enough to hide the gleam in his eye. “And now I’ve got yours.”