Cassian never expected to see Isolde in his father's house. As far as he knew, they had never even met. So when he received the unexpected call, something felt off.
After years of silence, why now?
Isolde had been doing well in the business—brilliant, cunning, but dangerously unpredictable. He had learned early on that sleeping with one eye open was barely enough.
And this morning had been no different. One moment she was in bed, the next—gone.
Cassian knew he was playing a dangerous game. One that could very well end with his head on a platter.
The butler led him through the grand estate, past the familiar walls of his childhood, and straight to his father's room.
The moment he stepped inside, his blood ran cold.
There she was.
Isolde lay sprawled across his father's lap, eyes half-lidded, a cigarette hanging between her lips. His father's aged fingers raked through her disheveled hair, his touch almost tender.
But the real horror came when Cassian noticed the small vial pressed to her lips—his father was feeding her drugs.
Rage clawed at his throat, but neither of them acknowledged his presence.
His father's voice broke the silence first.
"Well, well… Cassian, you're finally here. Look at her—blissed out, pliant. You clearly don't take care of your wife properly."
Cassian's hands clenched into fists. He could rip his father apart for this.
His father smirked, his grip on Isolde tightening. "Who would've thought? A murderess, and yet, absolutely divine in bed." He clicked his tongue in mock disappointment. "For once, Cassian, you have failed beyond repair."
Cassian's breath came slow and steady, the only thing keeping his fury in check.
Older Cassian cocked his head, as if savoring the moment. "Let Daddy take care of this one," he said, wiping a stray bead of sweat from Isolde's face. "Focus on rebuilding your tarnished career."
Cassian swallowed the acid burning up his throat. He stepped forward, his voice sharp, controlled.
"I don't recall ever following your advice," he said smoothly. "But I do appreciate the… father-in-law affection toward his son's wife." His smile was cold. "If you don't mind, I'll be taking my wife now.
Cassian's hand latched onto her arm, yanking her away from his father with a force that made her stumble.
His scowl deepened when, in her dazed state, she leaned forward and pressed a fleeting kiss to his cheek—absentminded, almost mocking.
Without a glance back, he scooped her into his arms, his grip firm, unyielding. The sharp click of her heels against the transparent glass floor echoed through the silence as he carried her out.
Their mansion loomed ahead, dark and imposing against the night sky. The moment he stepped inside, he didn't pause—he went straight to the bedroom, crossing the threshold like a man possessed.
With no warning, he dumped her onto the bed.
She didn't react. Not a flinch, not a word. She just lay there, sprawled against the silk sheets, her body utterly still—almost lifeless. The only sign of life was the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest.
His gaze flickered down for a brief moment, his jaw tightening. A chest modest in size, but enough to tease.
So this was what she liked? Older men in her bed while she toyed with younger ones like him?
His hands curled into fists. A bitter chuckle scraped at his throat.
Fine.
If she thought she could play games with him, she was wrong.
Turning on his heel, he strode toward the bathroom, filled a crystal jug with ice-cold water, and returned.
She was going to wake up. Whether she liked it or not
__
A groan. A hand to her head. Isolde cracked one eye open, squinting at him before sighing and blinking both open.
"How did I get here?"
Cassian didn't answer immediately. He remained seated on the sofa across from her, casually swirling a glass of wine in his hand before taking a slow sip.
He could tell her the truth. But why would he?
"You walked, of course," he said smoothly. "Went out. Came back."
Isolde frowned, glancing down at herself. "Then why am I wet?"
"Maybe my room has a leak," he deadpanned. "Or maybe I just don't like corpses in my bed."
She studied him, as if weighing the truth in his words, before pushing herself up—only to wince slightly. "Ah, I never knew I had such a caring husband."
With a lazy smile, she sauntered over and slid onto his lap, arms looping around his neck.
Cassian's fingers twitched. He fought the urge to yank her off, instead leaning back slightly, his expression unreadable.
"Your meeting," he murmured. "Did it go well? I assume you brought them over."
She hummed, fingers tracing the sides of his face, then pinching the bridge of his nose as if testing his patience. "It was great. I never miss a target, darling."
His jaw ticked. "And that business—" his voice cooled, "—involved an elderly man, right?"
Her hands slid to his lips, pressing against them with a featherlight touch.
"I guess so," she murmured, voice almost playful.
Cassian clenched his jaw, shutting his mouth, but that only made her chuckle.
Peering up at him, she crinkled her eyes at the corners in amusement. "Is darling mad that I came home late, or was the bed just too cold for you?"
"You really think—"
A single finger slipped between his lips.
Cassian shot her a look.
"Mommy's here now, hmm?" she cooed. "Would you punish me by sucking this tiny finger?"
His face twisted in exasperation. "Seriously? You're impossible." He pulled back slightly. "Besides, I don't suck fingers that have been places."
Isolde cackled, clearly entertained. "There's the original Cassian!" She leaned back slightly, tilting her head as if in deep thought.
Cassian, however, had a different problem—her inability to sit still. She shifted, squirmed, adjusted, sending a slow, frustrating heat curling through his veins.
"So," she drawled at last, "I've come to a conclusion. I'm going to rate all the food you cook for me. How about that?"
Cassian chuckled. "I see the point you're making, Isolde. I like it." Then, with a raised brow, he added, "But could you stop grinding against me?"
"Am I?" She blinked innocently. Then, with faux curiosity, she tilted her hips slightly. "Then why does it poke me?"
His patience snapped.
In one smooth motion, he lifted her off him and unceremoniously deposited her onto the floor.
"I have arthritis in my knees," he said dryly. "That was quite the fall. Landed on your rear, didn't you? Should be painful…" He eyed her mockingly. "Guess not."
If looks could kill, Isolde would have burned him alive.
Liar.
She was a goddamned liar.
''
Isolde got up from the bed, glancing down at her clothes. Damp, wrinkled. She didn't remember ever walking home.
Which meant Cassian had lied.
Again.
She clicked her tongue but didn't dwell on it. Instead, she stripped out of her clothes, casually tossing them aside before searching for something new to wear. Somewhere in the distance, she heard the clattering of pots.
Cassian was cooking.
Interesting.
she finally had an opening to get her hands on her drugs. If he hadn't stopped her earlier, she wouldn't have ended up at his father's place at all.
Wouldn't have found herself lying dazed on that old man's lap, feeling his wrinkled hands in her hair, hearing his whispered offers.
Cassian's father was no good man.
Triple the money. That's what he'd promised her.
All she had to do was divorce Cassian, marry him, destroy his own son in the process.
And then what?
Isolde scoffed. As if she'd entertain that nonsense.
She wasn't so reckless as to swap one devil for another.
Besides, Cassian was tolerable.
Barely.
It would be such a shame if her dear husband's father ended up dead by her hands. Perhaps he'd thank her. Perhaps he wouldn't. Either way, it wouldn't matter.
A voice interrupted her thoughts.
"If you want to eat, you'd better be present," Cassian called from the kitchen. "Serving you breakfast in bed wasn't engraved in any wall. Just a well-done for your not-so-little endeavors."
Isolde smirked.
So he was irritated.
Good.
She pulled on a loose shirt—his, probably—before padding barefoot toward the kitchen, her mind already calculating her next move.
Cassian narrowed his eyes the moment she stepped into the kitchen.
"I don't recall that being your shirt," he remarked, arms crossed. "Quit stealing."
Isolde rolled her eyes, sauntering over to the counter like she owned the place.
"Well, seeing that my shirt was wet..." she trailed off, picking up a knife and twirling it between her fingers.
Her eyes flicked up to meet his, sharp with amusement. "By no means someone," she added pointedly. "I thought it best to wear this one. Don't you think?"
Cassian exhaled through his nose, unamused. "I think you like pushing your luck."
Isolde smirked, plucking a piece of fruit from the counter and biting into it, juice slipping down her fingers. She licked it off slowly.
"Maybe," let's not violate kitchen rules. Please continue. Pleased to offer assistance.
Cassian's grip on the spatula tightened.
This woman would be the death of him.