Chapter Five
Her mouth tasted like regret—and red wine. Her phone, like fire against her cheek.
Cassie groaned as a cruel beam of sunlight sliced through the silk curtains and landed directly across her bed. It painted golden scars over the floor, exposing the aftermath of another night she shouldn't have had. Her head throbbed in rhythm with her pulse. Her heels were still on, dangling awkwardly off the edge of the bed, and the dress she'd worn had twisted around her hips like a war-torn flag.
She reached blindly for her phone, which was vibrating insistently on the nightstand like a bee trapped in glass.
46 messages. 12 missed calls.
Her stomach dropped.
Squinting through the hangover haze, she blinked at the screen as one horrifying headline after another screamed back at her.
"Billionaire Christian Masters to Marry Fallen Kensington Heiress."
"Power Play or Love Match? Christian Masters Engaged to Scandal-Surrounded Socialite."
"Engagement Bombshell: Masters Empire Acquires the Kensington Name."
And beneath the headlines—a photo.
Her. Laughing. Dressed in red.
Cassie sat upright like she'd been punched. Her stomach knotted, and the cracked remnants of last night's mascara tightened at the corners of her mouth.
"No," she whispered, already knowing. "No, no, no."
Last night hadn't been a blur. Not entirely. Maddie. The rooftop. That alley.
Him.
He hadn't been a hallucination.
The way he'd watched her—still and certain, like he'd already decided she was his next move.
Cassie closed her eyes, but the image burned behind them. His voice, his shadow, the way his presence had pressed against her skin like an omen.
She hadn't dreamed it.
And now? He was everywhere.
A knock broke the air like a slap.
"Cassandra," her father's voice came through the door, clipped and cold. "Downstairs. Now."
She moved like her limbs didn't belong to her. Her body hurt—everything hurt—from the dancing, the wine, and the stupid, fleeting hope that she'd somehow escaped it all.
She hadn't. She'd walked straight into it. Gift-wrapped.
Downstairs, the drawing room was already soaked in morning light—and tension.
She descended slowly, each step deliberate. A girl walking to her fate, but with her head held high. The air smelled like espresso and freshly printed news—inked disasters waiting to be picked apart.
And then she saw him.
Standing near the window like he owned the damn view.
Christian Masters.
Cassie stopped walking. She didn't flinch.
His suit was quiet power—charcoal gray, not a thread out of place. No cufflinks. No jewelry. Nothing flashy.
But the look in his eyes?
That glinted.
He turned toward her with the grace of someone who knew the world turned for him. Not to greet her—just to acknowledge.
And when his gaze landed on her, it was like hands closing around her throat—lightly. Leisurely. As if he had all the time in the world to squeeze.
Cassie forced a smile, cool as glass. "We've met."
Christian didn't blink. "You just didn't know who was watching."
Her father cleared his throat from near the fireplace, clearly uncomfortable. "Christian Masters. Cassandra, I believe you remember—"
"I said," she cut in, "we've met."
She didn't bother to hide the steel in her voice.
She studied Christian now, really studied him—the exact tilt of his chin, the lack of surprise in his eyes. He'd known exactly what he was doing last night. He'd known who she was.
And he'd said nothing.
Because he hadn't needed to.
He'd already been watching.
He was closing the trap.
She walked forward with slow, precise steps. No shake. No nerves.
Her mother had once told her, "If you can't hide the fear, wrap it in satin. No one notices panic when it looks like perfection."
Christian held out a hand.
Cassie folded her arms. "Hope you enjoyed the show."
He raised an eyebrow. "I enjoyed the ending."
Her father shifted again. "We need to review the agreement. Christian's brought the draft."
Of course he had.
On the coffee table sat a thick folder. Cream cardstock, silver-embossed. No Kensington crest—hers had been stripped away. But the Masters name glared up at her like a branding iron.
Cassie sat and crossed her legs. Slowly. Deliberately.
She opened the folder, flipping through it with the calm detachment of someone reading a eulogy.
Every line a chain.
Mandatory public appearances.
Exclusive romantic narrative.
No other entanglements.
Three-year minimum term.
Conditional inheritance clause.
It was framed like a partnership, but every margin screamed ownership.
"You write this before or after you followed me through downtown like a creep?" she asked, not looking up.
Christian didn't even flinch. "Before. But your little performance confirmed I was right to trust my instincts."
She placed the folder down, her movements too calm to be casual.
She wasn't upset about the contract. Not really. Not even the engagement.
She was upset because she'd let him see her. The real her. Not the porcelain Kensington doll.
The real Cassie. Wild. Raw. Barely held together.
She'd showed him everything in that alley—and he'd eaten it up in silence.
And now? He was here for more.
"Why me?" she asked.
"Legacy," he replied, like it was obvious. "And spectacle. You're a beautiful disaster, Cassandra. People can't look away from a house fire—especially when it still smells like roses."
Her cheeks burned, but she didn't blink.
"Let me guess," she said, voice light, sharp, "your father's threatening to cut you off unless you play nice with a woman. So you chose the most disgraced socialite you could find and called it strategy."
He smiled faintly. "Wrong. I chose the most dangerous one. Desperation's just an added benefit."
Cassie laughed softly. A little dark. A little broken.
Then she stood. Smoothed her blouse. Every motion fluid, practiced. The picture of poise.
But inside, her veins were ice.
Christian watched her like a surgeon watches a scalpel.
"You think I'm afraid of you," she said evenly.
"I know you are."
"I'd rather set fire to this entire arrangement than play trophy fiancée."
"I'm counting on that."
She froze.
He stepped forward, slow, measured.
"I don't need a puppet, Cassandra. I need noise. Public, private, constant. You're excellent at spectacle."
She swallowed hard. Her mouth had gone dry.
But her voice?
Still steady.
"Go to hell."
Christian tilted his head. "We'll be neighbors."
She should've left then.
But she didn't.
She held his gaze three beats longer than necessary—long enough to make sure he saw nothing behind her eyes. Then she nodded, just once.
He wouldn't get the satisfaction of seeing her crumble.
Not now. Not ever.
She turned.
And just as she reached the doorway, his voice slipped in like a knife.
"I will ruin you, Cassandra."
Her breath caught.
She turned slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Smiled—soft. Dangerous.
"God, I hope so."
Then she left.
The hallway swallowed her, but her legs shook with every step.
Still, she didn't stop.