"And that's just the beginning," he continues with a predatory smile. "I've also learned that her company's financials aren't as clean as they should be. Tax discrepancies. Improperly classified expenses. The kind of things the IRS finds very interesting."
I whistle low. "You've been busy."
"When someone comes after what's mine, I don't play games." The possessiveness in his tone doesn't bother me the way it once might have. We've all found our equilibrium in this unusual relationship, each caring for Camille in our own ways.
"What about legally?" I ask. "Can we sue her for defamation?"
Alex nods. "We can but lawsuits are slow, public, and give her a platform. I prefer methods that are faster and more... direct."
"And what does Camille think about all this?"
His hesitation tells me everything.
"You haven't told her."
"Not yet." He picks up his glass again, studying the amber liquid. "I wanted to be sure first. And I wanted to discuss strategy with you and Tristan before bringing it to her."
I understand his reasoning. Camille is already stressed enough about the media attention. Learning that someone she knows personally orchestrated it might push her anxiety even higher—a state that’s not good for her or the baby.
"She needs to know," I say finally. "But maybe not every detail of how you plan to dismantle Fiona's life."
Alex nods, a silent acknowledgment of the balance we're all trying to strike—protecting Camille without making decisions for her.
"I assume Tristan knows?" I ask.
"I spoke with him earlier. He's talking to some of his contacts, looking for additional pressure points."
I shake my head, a reluctant smile forming. "You two and your methodical approach. Sometimes a direct hit works better."
"Like buying a tabloid?" His eyebrow raises, amusement briefly replacing the cold fury.
"Exactly like that." I lean back, considering. "You know, it might be interesting to run a feature on 'Interior Design's Dirty Secrets' with Fiona as the star. Fight fire with fire."
"Too obvious," Alex dismisses. "She'd use it to play victim. Better to let her destruction appear to come from multiple, unrelated directions."
"Need any help?" I offer.
His smile is small but genuine. "I wouldn't say no to your contacts in sports media. Several of her high-profile clients are athletes."
"Consider it done." I reach for the scotch bottle, refreshing his glass. "To taking down backstabbing bitches."
He raises his glass to me. "And protecting what matters."
We drink in companionable silence, united in purpose if not in method. By morning, the first pieces of Alex's plan will be in motion. And Fiona Astor will learn what happens when you target someone under the protection of not one, but three men with virtually unlimited resources.
God help her.
I find Camille sitting on my couch the next day, a letter clutched in her hands. Her eyes are red-rimmed but dry, as if she's moved beyond tears to something else—something quieter but deeper.
She doesn't look up when I enter, her gaze fixed on whatever words have put that wounded look on her face. I know immediately it must be bad. Camille doesn't do quiet sadness. She's all bright smiles or passionate tears or determined focus.
"Hey," I say softly, dropping my gym bag by the door. "What's wrong?"
She looks up, and the hollow smile she offers twists something in my chest.
"My parents sent me a letter." She holds up the paper, its crisp folds and embossed letterhead visible even from where I stand. "Like I'm a business associate rather than their daughter."
I sit beside her, close enough that our thighs touch. "May I?"
