7
OH, FUUUUUUUUUCCCCKKKKKK
Margot
I textCyril before I start vacuuming because I want to know if Rhys’s story about his stepbrother and his ex is true, or if he’s figured out who I am and he’s using my own story to manipulate me into giving myself away.
What are the odds?
Very slim. That’s what the odds are.
Cyril’s deeper research this week into Rhys’s past revealed that his stepfather owns the security firm Technique Group, which was founded by Rhys’s mother and grandfather, and around the time Rhys quit, they each filed lawsuits against the other and have very different stories in their filings about the circumstances of Rhys leaving the company and what financial obligations Technique Group failed to meet.
Both suits were dropped, but that’s all Cyril has found.
So this new story about his stepbrother and ex?
That’s an avenue to explore.
With my request for more information sent to Cyril, I pop in earbuds and get to work vacuuming.
Once I get my father removed as CEO of Aurora Gardens and the dust has settled, assuming all goes well with every part of my plan, we should have our next corporate retreat out here.
I’d get to see the triplets, and the setting couldn’t be better.
Between the chalets and other lodging options, there’s room for around eighty guests, plus independent and group work spaces scattered through several various-sized buildings on the property. The dining room, kitchen, and staff offices are in a single log building, and the mountain views are spectacular nearly everywhere.
Add in the hiking trails and the gondola that will take guests the rest of the way up the mountain to more work areas, a wine tasting room, and the spa, and it’s pure magic.
It’s not something I’d want to invest in—given the pricing sheets I’ve seen and what I know about real estate and wages in this area, I suspect this is a tax write-off venture, or even a passion project, rather than a profit-generating model, which is unsurprising considering what I know about the owners—but the center here is speaking to my soul.
Soothing the parts of me that I didn’t realize were agitated by city life.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m absolutely returning to New York in the next few weeks, once I’ve done what I need to do here—but I like this place as a getaway.
It reminds me of my house in the Sierra Nevada.
I always feel an extra bit of peace there too.
And then I happily return to the city when the quiet gets to be too much. Because the quiet sometimes is too much.
That’s what I’m contemplating—my own private vacation retreat in California and how it’s different from the constant hum of a busy city—when I realize I’m not alone as I vacuum the dining room.
Two men have entered as well, one of them with heavily tattooed arms who’s gently bouncing a tiny bundle of a baby against his shoulder.
Fine on its own, except I personally know the non-tatted of the two men, and what the actual fuck?
Why is Jonas Rutherford here?
Yes, he’s one-third owner of this place, but Cyril told me that he wouldn’t be here.
That Jonas was on a vacation with his family for a month. Something about a major anniversary or a retirement with not just his wife and kids, but also with his parents and his brother’s family.
I know his entire family.
They run the Razzle Dazzle movie and entertainment conglomerate, and while I’ve had more face-to-face time with Jonas’s older brother than I have with Jonas himself, we aren’t strangers.
My skin starts buzzing and my pulse shoots into the heavens and I reach up to double-check that I’m wearing my glasses.
