Chapter 2They Can Hear Every Savage Thought

Dinner that evening was conducted in absolute, suffocating silence.

Arthur tried to clear his throat and speak three separate times, only for Eleanor to kick his shin under the mahogany table with an audible thud. Preston, meanwhile, sat diagonally across from me, his silver eyes fixed on my face with an intensity so unblinking he managed to miss a piece of roasted asparagus entirely with his fork.

I subtly nudged my dining chair two inches to the left.

The way Preston is staring at me, you’d think I broke into his penthouse and stole his lucky boxer shorts.

Snap.

The silver fork in Preston’s fist bent slightly against the bone china.

I shifted my chair another inch away.

Clearly, the original Paige had torched whatever sibling affection existed years ago. The man couldn't even stand watching me chew without entering a homicidal rage.

Directly across from me, Gwen kept her head bowed over her plate. Her napkin was pressed to her mouth, her shoulders trembling with small, rhythmic spasms. She was probably overwhelmed, I reasoned. Adapting to old money after a lifetime of poverty was an emotional minefield.

Midway through the roast chicken, Arthur’s executive assistant slipped into the dining room, placing a thick leather-bound folder beside the patriarch's elbow. Arthur slid it across to Preston. "Review the Cross Industries joint venture. The signing ceremony is scheduled for ten tomorrow morning. Make sure the indemnification clauses hold."

Preston skimmed the first two pages, then, with an uncharacteristic hesitation, slid the contract across the linen toward me.

"I don't understand corporate restructuring," I said quickly, pushing my hands into my lap. "You shouldn't ask me."

My eyes, however, had already caught the header on page three, and a burst of genuine amusement bubbled up inside me.

Here it comes. The thirty-million-dollar express train straight to bankruptcy court.

On paper, it’s a joint development project for the South Harbor waterfront. In reality, the contracting entity is a shell LLC Damian Cross bought off the shelf last month in Delaware. The Harringtons put up the prime commercial acreage and forty million in liquid escrow; Cross contributes a handsome face and empty promises.

In ninety days, the funds will be wired to a dummy account in the Caymans. Old Man Arthur will be hauled away in handcuffs for unlawful securities guarantees, spending his golden years sewing prison jumpsuits. If he’s lucky, he can stitch a matching set for the whole family.

Arthur’s hand gripped the stem of his wine glass so hard the crystal groaned.

Preston’s fingers slowed over the pages. He pulled out his phone, his thumbs blurring across the keyboard as he fired off three urgent messages under the table.

Within minutes, the screen on his lap lit up with replies.

Preston leaned over, showing the screen to his father. Arthur read the messages, and the color drained from his skin until he looked like chalk.

"Cancel tomorrow's signing," Arthur said, his voice raw and gravelly. "Hire an independent forensic auditor. I want that holding company’s financial trail unraveled by sunrise."

I nearly choked on my jasmine rice.

In the novel, the Harringtons had thrown an extravagant gala to celebrate inking the deal with Damian Cross, treating him like an economic savior. Why on earth were they backing out over a routine contract review?

Before I could puzzle it out, Gwen’s elbow accidentally brushed against Preston’s key ring resting near the centerpiece.

It was the fob to his black Porsche 911 GT3.

I stared at the silver crest, and a chill went down my spine as a forgotten plot point flickered in my memory.

Isn't Preston driving that exact car up Mulholland Highway tonight for that midnight charity rally?

Have fun, big brother. Your golden-boy assistant Paul already snipped the primary brake line in the garage this afternoon. Look on the bright side: once you cartwheel off the canyon wall, you'll save a fortune on monthly parking fees.

Preston’s hand stopped an inch above the keys.

He didn't pick them up. Instead, he turned his head slowly toward the butler standing by the sideboard. "Did Paul handle my car today?"

The butler blinked, caught off guard. "Yes, Mr. Preston. Mr. Paul took the keys around two o'clock to take it for a detailing and routine inspection."

Preston stood up so fast his chair screeched against the hardwood. He signaled two private security guards from the foyer and walked straight toward the subterranean garage.

Thirty minutes later, he returned with two uniformed LAPD officers. Behind them walked Paul, handcuffed, his face the color of damp parchment.

The brake lines had indeed been severed with wire cutters, held together by a thin sleeve of heat-shrink plastic designed to fail under high pressure. They had also found a magnetic GPS tracker clamped to the rear subframe.

Paul had maintained his innocence until the officers pulled up his offshore bank records, revealing a wire transfer that originated from a holding firm linked to Cross Industries.

As the squad car’s red-and-blue lights painted the driveway, a strange, prickling sensation crawled up the back of my neck.

The plot had derailed. Drastically.

And the Harrington family’s reactions were bizarrely, impossibly sharp.

Beside me, Gwen set a freshly peeled jumbo prawn onto my porcelain plate.

I glanced at her, surprised, then popped the shrimp into my mouth.

Gwen really is the best, I thought happily. The lone sane, non-moronic entity in the entire Harrington gene pool.

Across the table, Arthur, Eleanor, and Preston stiffened simultaneously, their faces darkening in unison.

Gwen pressed her napkin to her lips, unable to stop a tiny, delighted snort from escaping.