I don’t know if I’ll need all of them in public or if I can just speak all the truths out loud and that’ll be enough. In this town, with how much the elites love to watch their own fall and then pick at the carcasses like vultures, I’m guessing I won’t need any of it.
But I’m not about to be called a liar and not be able to back up my claims.
Cohen looks tired. Orchestrating the total collapse of the Thornton empire and the surgical removal of my own heir in the span of a few weeks is taxing work, even for him.
Plus, he’s got a toddler and a new baby at home, and the lack of sleep is etched into the lines around his eyes.
His phone buzzes on the arm of the chair. He snatches it up immediately, his indifferent mask slipping into a soft, devoted expression that looks entirely out of place on a man known for being an absolute demon in the courtroom.
And then there’s the way he absolutely destroyed his ex-wife and took the spoils of her kingdom for himself.
"Emerald?" I ask, leaning back in my chair.
"Always." He types a quick reply, then shoves the phone back into his pocket. "She sent a video of the baby.”
I smirk at him. "Speaking of the little guy, I’ve been meaning to tell you that you look like shit." I nod at the dark circles under his eyes.
Cohen huffs a laugh, rubbing a hand over his face. "I spent the morning destroying a man’s life on paper, and now I’m watching a video of my son learning to blow raspberries."
"The duality of man," I drawl.
"It’s absurd," Cohen agrees, shaking his head. "We’re monsters, Gabe. We ruin people for a living. We cut throats for a living. Metaphorically, mostly." He gestures to the phone. "And then we go home and play peek-a-boo like we don't have blood under our fingernails."
"We do it so they don't have to," I say. It’s the justification I’ve used for years.
"Maybe." Cohen’s expression turns serious. "Or maybe we just found the only people on earth who can look at all the blood and not run away."
"Blair won’t run," I say, the certainty of it settling in my chest.
"Neither will Emerald." Cohen taps the stack of files. "So let’s finish this. I have nap time to get home to, and you have an heir to destroy."
He leans forward, sliding the files from his lap over to me.
"It’s all here. Forensic accounting on the forty-two grand Ryder siphoned from Blair’s accounts. Documentation of theclient sabotage, complete with the emails he sent from her server. A lovely portfolio of his extracurriculars at the Mulberry motel." His lip curls up in disgust as he tosses a glossy photo on top of the pile. Ryder, looking sloppy and smug, walking out of a grimy motel room with a woman who isn’t Blair. "And the police report from the accident. The state trooper is prepared to testify whatever you need him to, if it comes to that.”
"Good." I pick up the photo, my thumb tracing the outline of Ryder’s face that looks so much like his mother’s. Maybe if I’d felt anything more than indifference toward her, things would’ve been different. "I don't want him to have a damn thing left. He can’t have any possible way to spin this or weasel out of it."
"He won’t. After tonight, the only thing he’ll have is the clothes on his back and a criminal record, if you choose to go that route." Cohen closes his folder. "The disinheritance papers are filed and sealed until your announcement. Thornton is a smoking crater. All that’s left is to light the match on the next bomb."
"And our guests?"
"Emerald is looking forward to it. Cole and Fallon are coming. Beckett and Ellery, too. Xander and Romeo are flying solo." Cohen leans back, a grim smile on his face. "It’s a full house. A show of force. Anyone in that room who ever thought about crossing you is going to piss themselves when they see who’s in your corner."
"I want witnesses. I want everyone who matters in this town to see what happens when you cross me."
On a tablet next to the files are the notes for my speech. It’s not long, but every word is a bullet.
It’s a comprehensive demolition. A kill shot I plan to deliver in a twelve-thousand-dollar custom suit.
"Thornton is still coming," Cohen says. "He’s trying to save face, rally support."
"Let him come. Let him watch his protégé fall."
The office door creaks open.
Blair stands in the doorway, a vision in another one of my cashmere sweaters and leggings. This has become her favorite way to dress when we’re at home. Her hair is in a messy bun, and she’s holding a mug of tea. She looks soft, comfortable, and completely out of place in this room full of violence and destruction.
Even if right now, she’s the reason for all of it.
