Chapter 41: Underneath

CASSIAN

The meeting had been a waste of time from the moment it began. Two hours of Hendrix Corporation executives cycling through projections, reports, and strategic summaries I already knew by heart, all of them speaking in careful, moderated tones as if one wrong syllable might set me off.

They watched me the way people watched explosives… politely, nervously, always aware of the potential damage.

They were right to be cautious.

Alexander Hendrix himself… the golden boy, the heir apparent, the man everyone bent around… had not even bothered to show up. That omission had not been accidental. It had been deliberate, calculated, and insultingly transparent.

“Mr. Hendrix sends his apologies. He’s addressing urgent matters in Geneva but will arrive tomorrow.”

The excuse had been delivered smoothly, rehearsed to sound sincere.

It was bullshit.

He was making me wait, drawing a line in the sand, reminding me that he operated on his own timeline and expected everyone else to adapt accordingly. It was a power play, nothing more and nothing less, and for now, I had allowed it to stand.

For now.

I always remembered slights. I simply chose when to respond to them.

The penthouse was silent when I returned, the kind of quiet that pressed against the ears rather than soothed them.

Noah had disappeared into his room hours earlier, the door shut firmly enough to suggest he was either already asleep or pretending to be.

I didn’t bother checking which. The staff had laid out dinner on the counter… carefully plated, still warm, untouched. I passed it without slowing. Hunger wasn’t something I felt at the moment.

I poured myself two fingers of whiskey and downed it in a single swallow, the burn sharp and grounding as it slid down my throat. I poured another before the warmth had fully settled, then reached for my phone.

The call connected on the second ring.

“Mr. Wolfe.”

Reid’s voice was calm and professional, as always, with the faint restraint of someone who never forgot that even encrypted lines could betray you if you grew careless.

“Update,” I said flatly.

There was a brief pause, the soft shuffle of papers in the background, the sound of him organizing information he already knew I wouldn’t like.

“They’re active in the region,” Reid said carefully. “Coastal cities.”

My jaw tightened despite myself.

The Lorenzo family.

The name alone was enough to make something hot and volatile stir in my blood.

“How active?” I asked.

“Enough to leave traces,” he replied.

“Financial channels. Real estate acquisitions. The usual methods for…” He hesitated, clearly choosing his words. “…cleaning operations.”

Money laundering, then. Of course it was.

Luxury developments always made the perfect cover… high cash flow, inflated valuations, international buyers with money to move and no interest in asking where it came from. Respectability built on corruption, polished until it passed inspections.

“Send me everything,” I said. “Names. Properties. Transactions. I want a full map.”

“Understood. It’ll take a few days to compile… ”

“You have twenty-four hours.”

The silence that followed was brief but loaded, the kind that acknowledged the order and the impossibility of it in the same breath.

Then, quietly, “Yes, sir.”

I ended the call and set the phone down on the bar, my gaze drifting to the amber liquid in my glass. The whiskey caught the light, steady and untroubled, unlike the thoughts tightening behind my eyes.

I had come to Spain for my father’s deal.

But I would use the time for something far more important.

I opened my laptop and let it boot while I loosened my tie, the silence of the penthouse settling around me again.

The file was already waiting on the desktop, impossible to miss, labeled with clinical simplicity: ALEXANDER HENDRIX … BACKGROUND.

I had commissioned it weeks earlier, the moment my father first mentioned Hendrix Corporation as a potential partner. It was standard procedure, ingrained habit rather than paranoia.

You never sat across the table from someone powerful without knowing exactly who they were when no one was watching.

I clicked the file open.

The first page was a summary, clean and immaculately curated, exactly what you would expect from a man who had spent his entire life being groomed for public consumption. Every line read like a press release polished by a dozen handlers who understood optics better than truth.

Education: Harvard MBA at twenty-one. Rhodes Scholar. Summa cum laude.

Achievements: Single-handedly turned around a failing division. Pioneered sustainable business models. Featured repeatedly on Forbes lists. TIME magazine profiles that framed him as the future of ethical leadership.

Public Image: Philanthropist. Humanitarian. An angel in a tailored suit.

I scrolled past it without slowing.

The surface meant nothing to me. Anyone with enough money and discipline could manufacture perfection. What mattered was what had been cut out, what had been smoothed over until it disappeared.

And there it was, buried halfway through the file, subtle enough to escape casual review but glaring to anyone who knew what to look for.

2019: A six-month absence from the public record. No appearances. No interviews. No official statements. No travel logs.

My fingers stilled on the trackpad.

Below it, sealed court records from the same year. Multiple nondisclosure agreements signed within a tight time frame, all linked to former employees… executive assistants, project managers, junior staff.

All women.

My eyes narrowed as something cold and familiar settled in my chest.

What are you hiding, Hendrix?

Nobody built a reputation that clean without burying something first. Nobody smiled that easily, gave that generously, performed goodness that publicly without compensating for something rotten underneath.

I had seen men like him before… charming, warm, universally adored… right up until you looked too closely and started finding the bodies.

I reached for my phone again and dialed a different number.

It rang two times before a clipped voice answered. “Wolfe.”

“I need deeper research,” I said without preamble. “Alexander Hendrix. Sealed records from 2019. NDAs. I want to know what he’s covering up.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

“That’ll require some… creative access.”

“I don’t care what it requires. Get it done.”

Another beat. “Understood. Timeline?”

“Soon.”

I ended the call and leaned back in my chair, lifting my glass and taking another slow sip of whiskey. The burn barely registered.

He wasn’t what he pretended to be.

And I was going to prove it.

My gaze drifted toward the hallway, toward Noah’s closed door, and something darker threaded through my thoughts.

I had noticed it on the plane… the way he had been smiling down at his tablet, that stupid, hopeful expression he got when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.

At first, I had assumed he was simply distracted, daydreaming, being his usual self.

Then I had seen the screen from where I sat.

Alexander Hendrix.

Articles. Photos. Interviews. That warm, flawless smile that made people think they were safe.

And Noah… naïve, desperate, starving for even the smallest scrap of kindness… had already decided Alexander was some kind of savior.

Of course he had.

I was halfway through my third glass when I heard it… the soft click of a door opening, followed by cautious footsteps in the hallway.

I didn’t turn around. I didn’t need to. I simply waited, letting the silence stretch long enough to make the intruder second-guess every step.

The footsteps slowed near the kitchen, hesitated, then continued forward.

“Mr. Wolfe?”

Noah’s voice was quiet, uncertain, edged with nerves.

I glanced over my shoulder.

He stood in the doorway, dressed in a loose T-shirt and sweatpants, his hair slightly mussed from lying down

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