Victor was wheels-up to Narita at 9:07 p.m., texting Cameron from the Gulfstream that he’d be offline for the eleven-hour flight and to “keep an eye on things.”
Cameron read the message in the same second Serena’s next text lit his screen.
Penthouse. Now. Door’s open.
Attached: a photo of her bare feet on Victor’s white cashmere throw, legs spread wide, the Voss crest embroidered between her ankles like a joke.
Cameron was there in eighteen minutes.
He let himself in with the keycard she’d slipped into his pocket the week before. The elevator opened directly into the foyer—black marble, a single Basquiat screaming on the wall, the faint smell of Victor’s Tom Ford cologne already losing ground to her perfume.
Serena waited in the archway to the living room wearing one of Victor’s
