Public property

“Your son is trending. Again.”

Taryn Hollis didn’t flinch as she spoke. She’d worked for Preston Wexley long enough to know that flinching only made things worse.

She placed the tablet on his glass desk with two fingers, like she was dropping a bomb. And in many ways, she was.

Preston looked up from the financial reports with a sharp inhale, expression flat but his jaw ticked. That single, almost imperceptible muscle had warned board members, investors, and his own wife when to brace for impact.

The tablet lit up with a still frame from a viral video: Cassian Wexley, shirt halfway open, eyes glassy, holding a man by the collar outside a neon-lit club while shouting in his face.

A fight. Loud. Dramatic. Caught on camera by three angles.

#WexleyMeltdown was already the top hashtag on two platforms.

“Play it,” Preston said coldly.

Taryn did.

The audio was shaky, but the voices were clear.

“You think I’m scared of cameras? Take a fucking picture!”

“Cassian, calm down ”

“Don’t touch me. You used me to get in, now get the hell out!”

Then, a shove. The man stumbled, the crowd gasped, and Cassian disappeared into the backseat of a red Lamborghini, slamming the door like a gavel.

When the video ended, the silence in the office pulsed like a heartbeat.

Preston closed his eyes briefly. Then opened them with ice.

“Get him here. Now.”

“I’ve already called him. No answer,” Taryn replied, smooth as steel. “I was about to call Mrs. Wexley.”

Preston didn’t respond. Just stood, walked to the window, and stared out over the Manhattan skyline like it was the only thing worth talking to.

Wexley Penthouse, Upper East Side

Sloane Wexley’s heels echoed across the marble floor as she stormed through the elevator doors and into her son’s penthouse.

It reeked of sweat, alcohol, and something unnameable like expensive self-destruction.

She found Cassian sprawled on the velvet sectional, shirtless, his lower lip swollen and bruised. One eye was slightly puffy, his cheekbone scraped. Next to him, a half-naked man barely awake mumbled something and rolled over.

Sloane’s voice was sharp enough to cut through the haze.

“Get up.”

Cassian blinked slowly, barely turning his head. “You’re early for brunch.”

“I said get up,” she snapped. “You’re a headline again. And this time, your father is ready to do more than just pull funding.”

He groaned and sat up slowly, wincing.

“Jesus, Mom. It was just a fight. I was defending myself. He got handsy, and I told him to back off. But of course, I’m the one on camera.”

She crossed the room and sat beside him, gently lifting a bag of frozen peas she’d brought and pressing it to his face.

Cassian didn’t fight her.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“You need to be at the board meeting in two hours,” she finally said. “Preston is furious. I wouldn’t go if I didn’t have to, but… this one’s bad, Cass.”

He exhaled, bitter. “They don’t care what happened. They care what it looked like. Same old story.”

“That may be true. But you don’t have to keep proving them right.”

Her voice cracked just a little.

Cassian didn’t answer. He just stared ahead, eyes bloodshot but blank.

“Cassian…” she added quietly. “You could’ve been arrested. Or worse. You need to start protecting yourself.”

He muttered, “Why? No one else does.”

Wexley Global Headquarters – Executive Boardroom

Cassian arrived fashionably late, of course wearing sunglasses indoors and a smirk he didn’t feel.

He strolled into the glass boardroom like it was a runway, dropping into a chair at the far end of the table while the board members looked anywhere but at him. Except Preston. Preston looked directly at his son, every inch of his posture a cold indictment.

“Glad you could join us,” he said flatly. “Care to explain to the board how your bruises became our latest PR crisis?”

Cassian removed his sunglasses slowly. One eye was still visibly swollen.

“You should see the other guy.”

A few members coughed awkwardly. Preston didn’t blink.

“We are not in the business of headlines, Cassian. We are in the business of legacy.”

“Then stop attaching my name to everything,” Cassian replied evenly. “Let me live how I want. You don’t get to sell me to the public and then get mad when they actually look.”

Sloane pressed her lips together from the far end of the table. Taryn, behind Preston, remained still.

The room was quiet.

Until Preston finally turned to his assistant. “Options?”

Taryn stepped forward. “We’ve spoken with image consultants. But I believe we need more than PR damage control.”

“Go on,” Preston said.

“I recommend hiring a private bodyguard. A professional. Someone trained to de-escalate and enforce discipline.”

Cassian barked a laugh. “What, like a babysitter with muscles?”

“Like someone who keeps you out of handcuffs,” Preston replied. “And out of the headlines.”

Cassian leaned back. “You think throwing someone at me with a clipboard and a taser is going to fix all this?”

“No,” his father said, voice low and final. “But it might fix you.”

A tense silence followed.

Cassian crossed his arms. “And if I say no?”

Preston didn’t blink. “Then I’m cutting you off. Financially. Publicly. Legally. You’ll be removed from the trust, disinherited from the Wexley portfolio, and listed as a liability in our next quarterly disclosure.”

Sloane’s head whipped toward her husband. “Preston.”

He raised a hand. “No more second chances. No more optics teams. I’ve indulged enough of his antics.”

Cassian blinked, stunned but only for a second. “So that’s it. I either play along or disappear.”

“You already disappeared,” Preston said icily. “Now I’m giving you one last chance to return as something useful.”

His words echoed. Not someone loved. Not someone understood. Just something useful.

Cassian swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth.

“I want your answer by tomorrow morning,” Preston added, standing to dismiss the room. “Either you accept the bodyguard, or you find out how far your name can carry you without mine behind it.”

Board members shifted uncomfortably in their chairs. One coughed. Another gathered papers like they were suddenly fragile.

Cassian said nothing. He rose, slow and silent, then slipped his sunglasses back on like armor.

As he turned to leave, his voice echoed back across the table.

“Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll think about it. Between now and whatever I’m drinking tonight.”

And then he was gone.

Sloane stared at the closed door for a long moment.

Taryn, watching quietly from the shadows of the room, didn’t move at all.