Eden Wessex, daughter of billionaire investor James Wessex, was a pretty heiress and therefore a ready-built product, capable of making capital out of intangibles like beauty and influence alone. It had been Tristan himself who’d advised the Wessex board to consider investing in Lightning, the magical version of a mortal social media app. Eden had been the face of the company ever since.
“Right, thanks,” Tristan said, clearing his throat. He was probably missing messages from her as they spoke. “I’ll be done soon. Is that all?”
“You know I can’t leave until you do, mate.” Rupesh winked at him. “Can’t very well leave before the golden boy, can I?”
“Right, well, you’re doing yourself no favors, then,” Tristan said, gesturing to the door. Two more, he thought, glancing at the paperwork. Well, one. One of them was clearly unsuitable. “Run along, Rup. And do something about that coffee stain.”
“What?” Rupesh asked, glancing down, and Tristan looked up from the file.
“Been letting your illusions get stale,” he noted, pointing to the mark at the bottom of Rupesh’s tie. “You can’t spend five hundred quid on a designer belt and then rummage your stain spells out of a bin.” Though, even as he said it, Tristan knew it was a very Rupesh quality to do precisely that. Some people cared only about what others could see, and Rupesh in particular was unaware of the extent to which Tristan saw through him.
“God, you’re a pain, you know that?” Rupesh said, rolling his eyes. “No one else is paying attention to whether my charms have worn through or not.”
“That you know of.” For Tristan, there was little else to pay attention to.
“Just another reason to loathe you, mate,” Rupesh said, grinning. “Anyway, finish up, Tris. Do us all a favor and go be picturesque by the sea so the rest of us can take it easy for a few days, would you?”
“Trying,” Tristan assured him, and then the door shut, leaving him alone at last.
He tossed one pitch aside, picking up the promising one. The figures looked reliable. Not a lot of capital required upfront, which meant—
The door opened, and Tristan groaned.
“For the last time, Rupesh—”
“Not quite Rupesh,” came a deep voice in reply, and Tristan looked up, eyeing the stranger in the room. He was a tall, dark-skinned man in a nondescript tweed suit, and he was glancing around at the vaulted ceilings of Tristan’s office.
“Well,” the man observed, letting the door fall shut as he meandered inside. “This is a far cry from where you started, isn’t it?”
Anyone who knew where Tristan had started was trouble, and he braced himself, souring.
“If you’re a—” He bit down on the word friend, grinding it between his teeth. “An associate of my father’s—”
“Not quite that,” the man assured him. “Though we all know about Adrian Caine in some capacity, don’t we?”
We. Tristan fought a grimace.
“I’m not a Caine here,” he said. It was still the name on his desk, but people here would likely never make the connection. The wealthy cared little for the filth underfoot if it was cleaned up from time to time and mostly left out of sight. “There’s nothing I can do for you.”
“I’m not asking for anything,” the man said, pausing for a moment. ?
?Though, I do have to wonder how you came upon this particular path. After all, you were heir to your own empire of sorts, weren’t you?” he asked, and Tristan said nothing. “I’m not sure how the only Caine son came to play for the Wessex fortune.”
“Some things aren’t about money,” Tristan muttered. “And if you don’t mind—”
“What’s it about, then?” the man asked, and Tristan sighed loudly.
“Look, I don’t know who let you in, but—”
“You can do more than this.” The man fixed him with a solemn stare. “You and I both know this won’t satisfy you for long.”
“You don’t actually know me,” Tristan pointed out. “Knowing my name is only a very small piece, and not a particularly persuasive one.”
“I know you’re rarer than you think you are,” the man countered. “Your father may think your gifts a waste, but I know better. Anyone could be an illusionist. Anyone can be a thug. Anyone can be Adrian Caine.” His lips thinned. “What you have, no one can do.”
“What exactly do I have?” Tristan asked drily. “And don’t say potential.”
“Potential? Hardly. Certainly not here.” The man waved a hand around the palatial office. “It’s a very nice cage, but a cage nonetheless.”