Part of me is okay with that. Maybe I should let him strip this away from me like he does everything else. I’ve been dreaming up a life with Grace where I’m not spending my days trying to fill my father’s footsteps. Where we just exist together. Maybe we’ll travel, check off every destination on her bucket list, or maybe we’ll buy a house outside of the city and have a quiet life.
But it’s just a dream. It doesn’t exist, and I don’t think it ever will.
I try Wallace again, and it goes to voicemail.
“Dammit.”
"Need a ride?"
I whip around to face my older brother. Gabe stands there stoically. We haven’t talked much since the gala. Father still thinks he had something to do with it, and I’m not sure he’s wrong, so Gabe has been left out of a lot. But not the family dinner our parents hosted tonight. No, it was very important to our father that we all be here. He wants us all on the same page before the board meeting next week, making it clear that he’ll be taking over the firm again as soon as we get through this scandal, something he seems confident will blow over before the meeting.
"I can't get a hold of Wallace." I look down at my phone again, confusion twisting with all the pain in my head. I rub at my temple. It's strange, in all the years Wallace has worked for me, he's never not picked up when I call. He wears one of those old-school Bluetooth earpieces so he can take my calls promptly. Even after I offered to buy him air pods or something from this decade. But he likes what he likes.
So why isn't he answering?
"That normal?" Gabe leans against the facade of my parents’ building. I run a hand through my hair, disheveling the perfectly gelled locks.
My heart races. "No."
"Hey." Gabe steps closer to me, his hand coming to my shoulder, an anchor that pulls me back down to earth. "Talk to me."
"Wallace always answers." The words spill out. It's vulnerable talking to my siblings; I'm used to them using my words to betray me. But Gabe hasn't even been around for years, and my mind flashes back to the early years when we were a team, constantly together. Back when he was the only person I trusted. My chest aches, desperately wanting that again. So I push down the discomfort that would normally have me telling him to fuck off, and tell him more. "He has Grace, and they left about thirty minutes ago. She's not answering either. Something…. something doesn't feel right."
"Let's go." Gabe presses on my shoulder, ushering me toward the door.
"No, you don't?—"
"I want to, Ash," Gabe cuts me off. His words and face both read as sincere. It feels uncomfortable, leaning on him. "Let me help you."
I nod, unable to form words. And for the first time since we were kids, I let Gabe in. He leads me out to his car, where the valet has Lucid Air, the overpriced electric car he drives, ready. Gabe hands the kid some money before getting in and driving off in the direction of my penthouse.
"Did you call security, see if she got home?"
That's a good idea, and I'm annoyed with myself for not thinking of it as I pull out my phone and call.
"Mr. Caine," the security guard answers in a crisp voice.
"Did my wife arrive home?" I don't bother with pleasantries, getting right to the important part.
A pause as I hear some hushed whispers on his end. "No, sir. We haven't seen Mrs. Caine this evening."
Ice floods my veins. My fears are confirmed. Where the hell would she and Wallace be that they aren't home and they aren't answering their phones? "Pull the security footage. Now," I order harshly.
"Of course. One moment."
I feel trapped in Gabe's small sedan as I wait, hoping they'll come back and tell me they were wrong. That she walked through the door and is currently upstairs in the penthouse. I imagine her already changed into her pajamas, not the luxurious ones Vivian purchased, but the old, ratty ones that I know she prefers. Shorts too small and a t-shirt that's seen better days. She's probably on the couch, a book open, eyes glued to the page. The vision brings me comfort.
And then the next words out of the security guard’s mouth have it all crashing down.
"Sir. I'm sorry, we must have missed it?—"
"Tell me," I interrupt his nervous rambling.
"The car pulled up five minutes ago. Neither your wife nor the driver exited the vehicle, but someone else entered it. He's dressed in all black. We don't have a good view of his face. Shortly after he gets in, the car speeds off."
"Send me the footage." I feel like I’m going to be sick. "And see if you can find a better angle. I want to see his face."
"Yes, sir."
