Chapter Eleven
The makeup artist's brush drifted over Cassie's cheekbone, featherlight, like she was porcelain. Untouchable. Not the girl who'd bled into a champagne flute three nights ago. Not the Kensington daughter who'd been bartered off in pearls and silence. Just another flawless reflection in rose-gold light, her eyes cold steel beneath lashes most people couldn't afford to dream about.
She stared at herself in the mirror.
"He stripped me with silence," she thought. "Now he dresses me up like a gift-wrapped hostage."
The diamonds caught the light. Not just her earrings or the glitter brushed onto her collarbones—but the choker. A solid ring of ice and status he clasped around her neck in the back seat of the limo. Christian's hands had been steady. Too steady.
He fastened the clasp with precision, fingertips grazing her skin at her pulse point.
"Every gem's insured," he murmured. "Just like you."
Her breath caught, sharp and quiet.
He smirked.
Outside, cameras flared like lightning.
The gala looked like someone had taken Versailles, dipped it in gold, and poured it into a glass castle. Ivory drapes cascaded from twenty-foot ceilings. Crystal chandeliers swayed ever so slightly from the vibration of strings and subtle bass. Everything shimmered. Everything lied.
Cassie stepped out first, the slit of her red dress slicing up her thigh like a provocation. The silk moved like it had a pulse. Christian followed—black-on-black, no tie, shirt undone just enough to look feral in the way only money could excuse.
He offered her his arm.
"Smile for the wolves, Princess," he said under his breath. "They want blood. We'll give them theater."
Cassie looped her fingers through his elbow and smiled like she'd been bred for it. Icy. Impeccable. Dangerous.
They swept through the crowd like weapons sheathed in couture. The orchestra didn't miss a note, but the shift was palpable—as if even the music bent to power. Guests turned. Glasses froze mid-air. Flashbulbs snapped.
Christian kept a hand at her lower back—anchored there like a brand. Through silk, she could still feel the press of him, solid and heated.
"Stunning," he said to a senator's wife, eyes never leaving Cassie's.
Cassie smiled, sweet and sharp. "The room, or your fiancée?"
Whispers clung to their wake:
"Didn't she vanish after the scandal?"
"He could've married into old money. Why her?"
Because she was flammable. Because she wasn't afraid to burn. And because Christian Masters didn't want a compliant princess—he wanted something volatile, something he could cage and watch thrash.
Somewhere behind those whispers was another truth—one no one would say aloud. Christian didn't just want a wife. He wanted legacy. Prestige. A name that meant something beyond market dominance. And Cassie Kensington, with her dynasty blood and polished public mask, gave him exactly that.
She was the last daughter of a crumbling empire.
He wanted her like a man picking out a trophy with teeth.
The trap sprang near the bar.
"Cassandra"
The voice curled around her name like smoke. She turned.
Jasper Greer. Son of a media mogul, tabloid poison with a trust fund smile. He held a glass of scotch like it was a stage prop.
"You clean up well," he said. "Though I heard the contract has a fidelity clause. True, or just something for the gossip columns?"
Cassie's spine stiffened. The air between them warped, thick with implication. Flashbulbs caught the tension in her eyes.
Before she could respond, Christian's voice sliced in, low and calm.
"Problem?"
"No," Cassie said, gaze never leaving Jasper. "Just bad reporting."
Then she turned.
And kissed Christian.
No warning. No performance.
She grabbed his lapel and pulled him down into her. It wasn't soft. It wasn't staged. It was teeth and heat and desperation, a kiss that said mine—whether she meant it or not.
Gasps rippled. The music faltered. Cameras clicked like gunfire.
Christian didn't hesitate. His hand slid down. Bold. Deliberate.
To her ass.
He squeezed, slow and sure, like he had all the time in the world to claim what was already his. She gasped—not from shock.
From need.
And he knew it.
His grip shifted, massaging through the silk, fingers digging in just enough to make her tremble. Then his other hand threaded into her hair, tugging her deeper into the kiss until she forgot the crowd, the lights, the contract.
When he finally pulled away, her lipstick was smeared and her mouth was open, breathless.
He leaned in, voice thick at her ear.
"You want to set the stage?"
She swallowed.
"I'll write the second act."
The applause rolled in—staggered at first, then full-blown. Someone raised a toast. Laughter bubbled. A flashbulb exploded.
Christian slid his arm around her waist. His thumb found the bare skin between the dress and the choker.
Cassie tried to step back.
He didn't let her.
"They loved it," he said. "You're electric."
"You're a bastard."
He smiled, all teeth. "But I'm your bastard tonight."
The orchestra picked up. Servers wove through the crowd with trays of caviar and champagne. Guests toasted their engagement like it was a coronation.
As they climbed the staircase toward the balcony, his hand gripped hers tighter. Not enough to bruise. Just enough to tell her who controlled the strings.
"You're not the only one who knows how to perform," he murmured.
Cassie flinched.
It was small. Almost nothing.
But he noticed.
And for just a second, his mask slipped.
There it was. Hunger, curiosity. A raw, unscripted flicker in his eyes. Not about power.
About her.
He wanted to break her in, but some part of him was beginning to wonder what it would feel like to break *with* her.
They reached the second floor. The ballroom glittered below them, a kingdom of champagne and secrets. Cassie stood by the balustrade, a glass in hand she didn't drink from.
Christian stayed close. Not touching now—but near enough to haunt.
She looked out, voice barely audible.
"Do you even know who you're playing with?"
He didn't miss a beat.
"Not yet."
Then quieter, darker:
"But I know I'm winning."
Somewhere far below, the crowd erupted in laughter at a joke she hadn't heard. Up here, it felt like the world had narrowed to the heat between her shoulder blades and the breath just behind her ear.
She turned her head slightly. Just enough for her perfume to catch the air between them.
Christian didn't move.
But she felt the tension tighten like piano wire.
One more inch and they'd fall off the edge.