ChapterFour
She picked red.
Not the kind of red meant to invite a kiss—the kind that left a scar.
Cassie stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in silk and attitude. The fabric clung to her like it had been stitched onto her skin, the slit teasing up her thigh, the neckline plunging like a dare. Her lipstick matched—deep, unapologetic crimson that gleamed under the hazy glow of Maddie's vanity bulbs.
"Holy hell," Maddie breathed, lying belly-down on the bed in her vintage leather mini and thigh-high boots, legs kicking slowly in the air. "You look like you're about to destroy lives."
Cassie gave a half-smile, sliding on diamond earrings her father hadn't even noticed were gone from the safe. "That's the plan."
She tossed her hair back and gave the mirror one last look, her expression unreadable. No hesitation. No nerves. Just fire.
They left the house like they were storming a battlefield—heels sharp, eyes sharper. The town car reeked of new money and rebellion, bass thumping from the speakers as the girls passed a bottle of champagne between them, laughing like the night owed them something.
"One night," Maddie toasted, holding up her glass. "No regrets. No rules."
Cassie's smile deepened as she clinked hers. "No names."
By the time they arrived, the rooftop club was already alive—music bleeding through the walls, a heartbeat of neon and hunger. The bouncer barely glanced at them before lifting the velvet rope. Why would he? They weren't just pretty. They looked like consequences.
Inside, everything pulsed. Lights swept across the floor like lightning, bodies swayed like waves, and the air felt thick enough to drown in.
Cassie shrugged off her coat, tossed it to the nearest valet, and walked straight to the bar like she owned the place. She tipped the bartender in hundreds, took the shot he poured her, and swallowed it down like it was part of her bloodstream.
The second burned less. The third? That wasn't drinking anymore—it was war paint.
Maddie disappeared into the crowd, her laughter trailing behind her as she locked eyes with a tall guy in a Tom Ford suit and the kind of jawline that screamed trust fund. Cassie stayed on the dance floor, alone.
She didn't dance to be seen. She danced to feel unseen.
Her hips moved like smoke. Her heels pounded the ground with sharp, deliberate clicks. Every motion said: Don't touch me unless you want to bleed.
One man tried anyway, his hand drifting to her waist like he had the right.
She spun out of reach before he could say a word.
Another offered her a drink. She met his eyes and stared until he blinked, flustered, and backed away.
She didn't need saving. She wasn't a girl in distress. She was the warning, not the siren.
And still, she laughed—high and sweet and jagged around the edges, the laugh of someone who once belonged to something softer but didn't anymore.
Not tonight.
Not after what was waiting back home.
Cassie made her way outside to the balcony, where the air was colder and the music faded into background noise. She leaned over the railing, curls whipping into her face, lips parted as if to exhale everything she couldn't say out loud.
She looked out at the skyline and didn't think of freedom.
She thought of chains dressed as diamonds.
She thought of the contract with her name on it, inked in lies and parental greed.
She thought of the price of her silence—an arranged marriage, an empire soaked in blood, and a last name that was starting to feel like a coffin.
Cassie didn't want to forget.
She wanted to remember who she was before they tried to sell her like a prized possession.
She emptied the rest of her drink and walked back inside, then down the winding stairs. The music faded with each step until all that remained was the sound of her heels clicking against concrete.
The alley behind the club was quiet—slick with mist, lit by a dying streetlamp, and lined with shadows that felt alive.
She took the shortcut.
Her pace was steady, heels echoing like a countdown on the pavement.
She turned the corner—and collided with something solid.
Or rather, someone.
He didn't stumble. He didn't move. Just stood there, rooted like the darkness belonged to him.
He wore black—sharp suit, unbuttoned collar, no tie. The kind of tailored perfection that came with generational money and dangerous intentions. His posture didn't scream power. It whispered it.
And his face?
Chiseled, cold, unreadable.
Cassie took a step back, her breath hitching before she could stop it. Not from fear.
From something else. Something rougher. Stranger.
He looked at her like he already knew her. Like he knew what she was wearing under that dress, what she had in her purse, what she'd whispered to herself in the mirror before walking out the door.
"You lost?" she asked, keeping her tone light, dismissive.
"Not anymore," he said, his voice smooth, deep, and without an ounce of hesitation.
She narrowed her eyes. "That line usually comes with a smile."
"That line usually works on girls who smile back."
She blinked, surprised. And then—against her better judgment—smiled. Barely. Just a flicker of teeth and defiance.
He didn't react. Just watched.
"You look like a man used to getting what he wants," she said, stepping closer. One pace. Two. The air between them cracked like static.
"Only when what I want walks into my reach," he replied, voice soft but deliberate.
"And what if it walks away?"
His lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
"Then I wait. Until it forgets it's being watched."
That did something to her.
Cassie felt the chill crawl up her spine—but it wasn't cold. It was thrill. Her pulse picked up, humming beneath her skin.
He was too calm. Too steady. The kind of man you only notice when he wants you to notice him. And now, he had her full attention.
She could smell his cologne—clean and woodsy, expensive in the kind of way that didn't brag.
His eyes were hard to read. Steel drowning in water. They didn't drift to her legs or chest. They stayed on her face.
That made it worse.
She hated that she couldn't tell what he was thinking. Hated that her body responded before her brain did.
Cassie held his gaze for a second longer.
Then turned.
"Good luck with that," she called over her shoulder, walking away.
She didn't run. Didn't glance back. But she felt him still watching her.
Every step back to the car buzzed with heat. Her hands trembled slightly as she pulled the door open.
Maddie was stretched across the hood, chewing gum and scrolling through her phone. Her dress glittered like a disco ball.
"There you are," she grinned. "Thought maybe you got married or murdered."
"You'd have texted a driver."
"Only if you didn't come back bloody or kissed."
Cassie laughed as she climbed into the car. But it wasn't full. It didn't reach her chest. Her hands were still shaking.
Two blocks away, the man stepped into the light.
Christian Masters.
He pulled out his phone and tapped into a folder already labeled Cassie Kensington.
He added a new photo—her walking away in that red dress, her spine straight, her back bare.
He typed one word beneath it:
Confirmed.
Then, under his breath, he murmured to no one:
"I wanted fire. I was right."
He didn't stop her tonight. Not because he couldn't.
But because she was already playing the game—and didn't even know the rules yet.
And Christian? He liked games.
Especially when the prize thought it had already escaped.
He smiled—just a little. Just enough.
Let the hunt begin.