Casey
He tells Alexander everything. How he “ran into” Raf again. How she nearly shut him down on sight. How he chipped away at her defenses—with jokes, with practiced sincerity, with pieces of his own pain. Little by little, she let him in.
By the end of the night, her voice was raw. She was telling him everything: the drawn-out divorce, how Ethan dragged her through hell—not for love, but control.
And for one brief, shameful moment, Casey admits, he felt something else: a flicker of triumph.
“She’s overwhelmed,” he says, voice dropping. “Barely holding it together. And now I’m supposed to make it worse?”
“And?”
“She agreed to see me again.”
“Good. What else?”
“What else?” Casey shifts, disbelief slipping through despite himself. “You told me to pry. I did. That’s all she gave me.”
Alexander gives a small shrug, almost indifferent. “You’re telling me what I already know. Do better.”
“I won’t keep doing this. She’s…” Casey stops. Reconsiders. “She’s a good person.”
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“And Lili? Is she a good person? How do you think she’ll feel when she finds out about Daphne?”
Casey freezes, one breath away from breaking. From completely losing it.
“It’s time to escalate,” Alexander continues. “I need something compromising. Photos. Video. Something irrefutable. Something that will shatter her world.”
“You’re sick,” Casey says, squinting, like the words didn’t land right. “She’s a single mother in the middle of a divorce. Why do you even need this? What are you planning?”
“Not your concern, Casey. And spare me the outrage. I’ve told you what I want. Your job is to get it.”
Alexander lifts his gaze, slow and clinical.
“Or I stop being patient.”
The threat still echoes as the last streaks of sunset slant through his office window, casting long shadows across the polished mahogany desk. Casey flips his phone’s camera on himself, letting the screen’s glow trace the angles of his jaw, the curve of his lips.
His fingers hover. Then he lifts his shirt just enough to reveal the taut cut of his abs. A slight shift. The light catches the faint line trailing down from his navel, under his pants.
He studies the image. Adjusts. Unbuttons. Tilts his head. Lips part, just slightly. Then, suddenly—
A memory surfaces. Senior year. A cramped dorm room. The dim glow of a desk lamp. The quiet click of a digital camera. Art—the boy. Lying naked, tangled in the sheets, smirking up at him.
“Your turn,” he said, handing Casey the camera.
He can feel it now, the weight of Art’s body. The slow, charged stillness between them. That sense of being seen. The heat of it, the danger.
Casey blinks it away. Puts it back in its box. He thinks of Lili. Of shielding her from the truth. From the fallout. From the storm already on its way.
He taps out the text: I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. His thumb hovers. A pause. A flicker of doubt. Then—
He sends it, anyway.