Cain's office was on the forty-second floor of a building in Midtown that his family had owned since the seventies. Floor-to-ceiling windows. View of the East River. The kind of space that made people sit up straighter without realizing they were doing it.
Rafael arrived at four o'clock. Exactly on time. He was in a dark suit, no tie, his expression calm and unreadable in the way Cain had come to recognize as Rafael's default setting.
"Thank you for coming," Cain said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.
Rafael sat. "You said it was about the gala."
"Security," Cain said. He pulled a folder from his desk drawer and slid it across. "Guest list. Entry protocols. I've flagged a few names."
Rafael opened the folder. His eyes moved down the page. He paused on two names.
"Travis Howell," Rafael said. "And Dayana Perkins."
"Alyssa insisted," Cain said. His voice was flat. "She wants them there."
Rafael nodded slowly. He turned the page. Read the security notes. Then he closed the folder and looked up.
"I'm aware Dayana has been sending photographs to Alyssa's phone," Rafael said. His tone was even. Factual. "Anonymous number. Four messages over the past two weeks. All taken inside Travis's apartment. All timestamped during the period when Alyssa and Travis were still together."
Cain went very still.
Rafael continued. "I had the number traced. It's registered to a prepaid account purchased at a bodega in Tribeca three weeks ago. No name. Cash transaction. But the metadata on the photos traces back to Dayana's cloud account."
Cain stared at him. "How long have you known this?"
"Since the second message arrived."
"And you didn't tell me?"
"I told Alyssa," Rafael said. "She asked me not to involve you."
Cain leaned back in his chair. He looked at Rafael for a long moment. "How long have you been this involved?"
Rafael's expression didn't change. "Long enough."
The answer sat between them. Cain processed it. The security arrangements. The traced number. The fact that Rafael had known about the photos before Cain did. The fact that Alyssa had gone to Rafael first.
"She trusts you," Cain said.
"I hope so," Rafael replied.
Cain picked up the folder. Set it down again. "What else do I need to know?"
"Dayana has been planting rumors in your social circle for three weeks," Rafael said. "Small things. Suggestions. The kind of whispers that sound like concern. She's been positioning herself as the wronged party and Alyssa as the interloper. It's deliberate. It's systematic. And it's escalating."
"How do you know all this?"
"I've been paying attention," Rafael said.
Cain looked at him. Really looked at him. The composure. The precision. The way Rafael spoke about Alyssa — not possessively, but protectively, like her wellbeing was a fact he'd already integrated into the structure of his life.
Cain had made a lot of decisions over the years. Some of them had been wrong. This one, he realized, was exactly right.
"The gala is tomorrow," Cain said. "What do you need from me?"
"Nothing," Rafael said. "I'll handle it."
Cain nodded. Rafael stood. He picked up the folder and walked to the door. Then he paused and looked back.
"She's stronger than you think," Rafael said quietly. "But she shouldn't have to be."
He left.
Cain sat at his desk for a long time after that. Then he picked up his phone and sent Alyssa a single text: *You chose well.*
She didn't reply. But twenty minutes later, she sent a single heart emoji.
That night, Alyssa sat alone in her apartment.
The guest list was on the coffee table in front of her. Cream cardstock. Black ink. A hundred and forty names. She'd reviewed it three times already. She picked it up again.
Travis Howell. Dayana Perkins.
She'd written those names herself. In her own hand. Serena had asked her twice if she was sure. Cain had asked her once and then stopped when he saw her face.
She was sure.
This was her gala. Her venue. Her terms. If there was going to be a detonation, she would be the one to set the charge.
Mochi jumped onto the couch and headbutted her wrist. Alyssa set down the list and scratched behind his ears. He purred and curled into her lap, his weight warm and solid.
"Big day tomorrow," she said softly.
Mochi blinked at her. His eyes were half-closed. Unbothered.
She traced the rim of her wine glass without thinking. Then she realized what she was doing and stopped. She picked up the glass and finished it in two swallows.
Tomorrow, she would walk into that room in the midnight blue Alaïa. Tomorrow, Rafael would be beside her. Tomorrow, Travis and Dayana would see exactly what they had lost and exactly what they would never touch again.
She set down the glass. Stood. Mochi made a small sound of protest and resettled on the couch cushion.
Alyssa walked to the window. The city spread out below her — lights and movement and a thousand lives she would never know. She pressed her palm against the glass. It was cold.
She thought about the photos on her phone. The whispers at the Morgan Library. The three years she'd spent believing a lie.
She thought about Rafael's steady gaze across the dinner table. The lavender he hadn't explained. The dress he'd remembered.
She thought about tomorrow.
Then she turned away from the window, picked up Mochi, and went to bed.
