Page 65 of The Art of Ruin

The file open on my desk isn’t new. In fact, it’s one I’ve already seen in part before, pulled as a matter of routine when Casey first came into my orbit. I make it a point to know the people who exist in close proximity to my daughter’s life, and Jasper Cole had been a name I recognized even before that.

Not personally, but enough. When he made a move to approach Casey at the skating rink, he put himself squarely in my crosshairs. He may not have done anything outwardly untoward, but his presence and the fact that he’d had someone find Casey and then flew here from L.A. to stalk her means he’s a threat. Which is why the file I have now is more than twicethe size. I could have asked Casey but I have a feeling she’ll downplay it as nothing more than an intense ex.

Family money. Wealth and power he was born into. The kind of man who appears in the same circles often enough to be known without ever being relevant.

At the time, there’d been nothing in his file that warranted further attention beyond confirmation that he was exactly what he appeared to be—successful, well-connected, unremarkable in any way that would intersect with my world. Our paths don’t cross. His domain is L.A. and California; mine is New York.

That assessment no longer stands. Now he’s firmly on my radar and that’s not something most people want. Nico might be the fixer of the family, the leader, and Matteo the face, but I’m the one who will take your life and twist it until you wish you’d never been born without even leaving my desk. The art of ruining someone without them even seeing it happen is my gift.

I scroll through the updated report slowly, not skimming this time but reading with intent, letting the new information settle into place against what I already know. Always looking for the angle or the piece that doesn’t fit.

There it is.

A primary residence listed under his name in Los Angeles, not New York—Beverly Hills, from the address, the kind of property that signals established wealth rather than recent success. Large footprint, private grounds, recent renovations. The images attached are consistent with someone settled, not passing through.

I pull up the extended details without hesitation.

Shared occupancy.

A second name is attached to the property, tied to utilities and insurance records that stretch back long enough to establish permanence.

There’s also a dependent listed.

Five months old.

I pause there, my attention narrowing slightly as the timeline aligns in a way that doesn’t sit well. Which means he didn’t come to New York because he had nothing keeping him in Los Angeles.

He came with a purpose.

I lean back slowly, considering that.

A man with a partner and a newborn doesn’t cross the country repeatedly unless something is pulling him hard enough to justify it in his own mind.

Or unless he doesn’t see a reason not to.

Neither possibility is acceptable.

My jaw tightens slightly as the implications rearrange themselves.

That isn’t a man trying to reconcile with an ex. That’s a man who never closed one situation before starting another, which explains far more about his behavior than anything else in the report.

It also raises a question I don’t particularly like the direction of. Because from the outside, there are only a limited number of ways that kind of situation overlaps.

And one of them reflects poorly on Casey.

I lean back slightly in my chair, the movement slow, deliberate, as I consider that possibility with more attention than it should warrant.

Casey doesn’t present as someone careless or callous. Nothing about her says other woman.

Everything about her—her boundaries, her awareness, the way she moves through a space with my daughter—suggests loyalty and trust, not impulsiveness or dishonesty. That doesn’t align with the idea that she would willingly place herself in the middle of something like that.

And yet—

I’ve been wrong about people before. Casey was very flirty with me at Thanksgiving dinner, very forward. The thought settles in, unwelcome but not one I can dismiss without more information. What I saw at the market doesn’t suggest a woman trying to maintain contact.

It suggests someone who has already drawn a line firmly in the sand.

The way she repositioned Letty without thinking, the way she disengaged without escalating the situation, the fact that she left immediately rather than engaging further—all of it points in one direction.