Page 17 of The Devil’s Lair

Always. It’s basically my whole personality at this point. Cheaper than therapy.

I add a winking emoji.

He doesn’t reply. I didn’t expect him to. Frank was among my first hires when I bought this place, and he’s been by my side ever since. Like Benton and Caleb, he’s close enough to read me now, at least in a professional sense. He knows when the conversation is over.

I run my hand over the table. An image of Rebecca splayed out while her husband violated her enters my mind. Those fucking horrific scars on her back tell a story of sustained abuse. For as long as I live, I will never understand how a man can abuse a woman, any woman, let alone his fucking wife and the mother of his child. Someone he is supposed to love and cherish.

Ah, hell.

I promised Rebecca I’d organize legal help, and I haven’t yet. There’s plenty of time, though. Her sentencing hearing isn’t for a few weeks. With a final glance around PR3, I shut the door and make my way to my office. I have just the guy for this job. I want those charges dropped.

Two minutes later, I hang up. It’s done. By Monday, Rebecca should have this albatross off her back, and she can begin to rebuild her life, and the life of her daughter.

That little girl. Damn, she pulled on my heartstrings. Rebecca volunteered that she doesn’t talk but didn’t comment further. Is it a physical issue or a mental one? What horrors has that sweet baby witnessed in that house?

There are few people I can say with honesty that I hate. I’m pretty genial as it goes. I mean, sure, there are people I dislike or who aren’t my bag, but hate? Dad’s brother George makes the list, as do the men who raped and killed my oldest sister more than two decades ago. Now, Marcus La Salle is right up there. Not because he shot and almost killed me. For what he did to his wife.

I shouldn’t care. I don’t understand why I do. It’s not as though I owe her anything, yet I can’t stop thinking about her and Isla. I might’ve been born into a family built on questionable morals, yet I’ve always been softer compared to my siblings, and I’m including my sister Saskia in that. She’s tougher than the rest of us put together.

I hope Rebecca calls me. If she doesn’t, I’ll call her. No, not call. I’ll go see her. It’s harder to refuse someone when they’re standing right in front of you. I want to help, but my instincts tell me Rebecca is a proud woman who will fight to stand on her own two feet. She won’t take kindly to charity.

Which is why I don’t plan to offer charity. Instead, I’ll offer her a job. The De Vil empire is vast, with a hundred different career paths. Despite her self-deprecating “I’m just a waitress” comment, there’s a quiet intelligence about her. All she needs is the right opportunity to prove herself.

Tired, I rub my eyes, knowing I should go home. Everyone will be wondering where I am, but I’m not ready to put the mask back on yet. Instead, I boot up my laptop. Although my assistant has been through my inbox and categorized my emails, it’s still overflowing. I answer a few, but my heart isn’t in it.

What is the press saying about The Lair? For years, I’ve managed to keep the De Vil name away from my club. Not because I’m ashamed of it, but because I know how the world works. The press love a bit of scandal, and the public lap it up. It’s bad enough that I was shot at a sex club. By now they’ll know I own the sex club and that puts a completely different spin on things. I avoided finding out while I was in the hospital, and my family didn’t mention anything, but it’s time.

Typing The Lair into a search engine gives me my answer.

They are vilifying my family and me.

Words such as degrading, obscene, and trashy are splashed about like a child with a paint brush and a blank canvas. Arseholes. There’s nothing degrading or obscene about adults exploring their kinks and desires in a safe and consensual environment. Such antiquated views piss me off. But it’s one headline in particular that draws my eye, from one of Britain’s vilest tabloid newspapers.

WICKED DE VIL! A depraved sex club, a shooting, and a scandal that could bring down a family dynasty.

Over the years, plenty has been written about us—some of it true, most exaggerated and the odd thing an outright lie—but this is the first thing that is all mine. I’ve brought this unwanted attention onto the family. The headline is bollocks. Nothing can bring us down. We’re founding members of The Consortium, and that membership affords us extensive powers. If Dad wanted to, he could put every newspaper in the country out of business. But my father is fiercely defensive of a free press, and as irritating as it is when scandal hits, he’s right. Without the freedom of the press, society slides from democracy into autocracy pretty damn fast.

Against my better judgment, I click in and scan the article. As expected, it’s filled with inaccuracies. There’s one section in particular that holds my attention, and as I read, my blood gets hotter and hotter.

The Lair, an exclusive members-only club, has been described by insiders as a twisted playground for London’s elite. But the glamor turned to horror when shots were fired, injuring Tobias De Vil, the club’s owner and fourth son of illustrious titan Charles De Vil, and killing Marcus La Salle, the eldest son of Tory MP Preston La Salle. Now, questions are being raised about Marcus’s widow, Rebecca La Salle, the woman at the heart of the tragedy. Witnesses describe her as erratic and emotionally unstable, with an associate of Marcus’s claiming she was volatile, violent, and had a taste for the dramatic.

“There’s something off about her,” one unnamed source stated. “She played the victim, but no one knew what she was really capable of.”

A friend of the La Salle family painted Rebecca as a social climber and a woman obsessed with money and status, who relished being seen in powerful circles. Another claimed she was a sexual deviant who coerced her husband into performing degrading acts.

I slam my laptop closed. So, this is their angle. They know they can’t get to my family, so they’re going after the one person who can’t fight back.

She may not be able to, but I can.

And I will. Fucking bank on it.

Chapter Six

REBECCA

Every time I pick up my phone to call Tobias, I lose my nerve. He said to call next week, and now it’s Monday of said week, yet it still feels too early. I should wait until tomorrow, or Wednesday. I’m anxious, though. My sentencing hearing may be weeks away, but it’s hanging over me, patient and poisonous, waiting for me to stumble.

So is Felicity and Preston’s attempts to assume custody of Isla, although I haven’t heard a peep from them in a week. Maybe it was all bluster at an emotional time, and they’ve thought better of their outrageous idea.