Cassandra had never felt so exposed in her life.
The red dress clung to her curves, elegant but daring, designed to attract attention without revealing weakness. She hated it. Hated the way it made her legs look longer, her shoulders sharper, her presence impossible to ignore. Yet when Lucien stepped up beside her, the effect was amplified a hundred times.
He moved through the crowd as if the room bent to his will. Heads turned. Murmurs followed. Every glance was calculated, every smile measured. Cassandra kept close, mimicking his movements, trying desperately to be invisible within the spotlight he carried.
"She's stunning," a voice whispered near her ear. Cassandra looked sideways to see a man studying her with far too much interest. Lucien's grip on her waist tightened imperceptibly.
"She's mine," he said, low and dangerous. The words were barely audible, yet the effect was immediate. The man froze, eyes narrowing, and slunk away. Cassandra's stomach flipped. Every word Lucien spoke carried weight, and every action was a warning.
"Relax," he murmured again. "They'll test you."
Cassandra's lips pressed into a thin line. Test her? She had no clue what rules governed this world, yet somehow Lucien navigated it like a king among pawns.
Her eyes flicked across the room. Cameras flashed. Women whispered. Men leaned in, curious, some even bold enough to approach. Lucien didn't move a muscle unless he wanted to. He was calm, composed, terrifyingly in control. Cassandra felt both drawn to him and suffocated.
A familiar sharp laugh rang out from the other side of the hall. Isabella.
Lucien noticed instantly. Her eyes met Cassandra's briefly, then narrowed. Cassandra's pulse raced. She wasn't ready for this. Not yet.
"Stay close," Lucien murmured, tilting his head slightly toward the approaching woman.
Isabella stopped in front of them, a glass of champagne in her hand, her smile too bright, too sharp. "Lucien, darling," she said, voice syrupy sweet. "So this is your new fiancée?"
Cassandra's mouth went dry. Every muscle in her body wanted to run. But Lucien's arm tightened around her waist, subtle but firm, and she realized—running was impossible. Not tonight. Not ever in this world.
Lucien's gaze was ice. "Cassandra," he said, introducing her formally, "is my fiancée. And I would appreciate it if you respected that."
Isabella tilted her head, studying her. "Charming," she said lightly. "But I wonder—does she understand what she's walking into?"
Cassandra felt her cheeks burn. Did she understand? She didn't even understand half the rules of this world, but she knew enough to sense the danger radiating from both women.
Lucien's lips brushed Cassandra's temple again, a public display of possession that drew attention from nearby guests. "She understands more than you'll ever know," he said softly, yet the words carried a sting sharp enough to cut.
Cassandra's breath hitched. His closeness, the subtle pressure of his hand, the way he claimed her in front of everyone—it was intoxicating and terrifying. Her pulse raced, her mind spinning.
"And you," Isabella continued, voice smooth, "are the one keeping him… entertained?"
Lucien didn't answer immediately. Instead, he leaned slightly closer to Cassandra, his dark eyes locking with hers. "Watch and learn," he murmured.
Cassandra understood instantly. He was teaching her how to survive, but survival here was more than etiquette. Survival was about control, about asserting dominance without hesitation. And Lucien was a master of the game.
The next hour passed like a blur. Cassandra was introduced to influential socialites, navigated delicate conversations, and managed to avoid any direct faux pas—all under Lucien's watchful eye. She began to understand his rules: speak only when necessary, allow him to take the lead, and never, ever let fear show.
Yet beneath that understanding, a dangerous thrill grew inside her. She hated him. She hated that his presence made her tremble. She hated that part of her ached for the warmth of his hand, for the calm in his dark gaze.
And yet… she couldn't deny the pull.
Toward the end of the night, as they were leaving the grand ballroom, Isabella tried one last provocation.
"You'll regret this, Cassandra," she said, lips curved into a malicious smile. "He doesn't… choose lightly."
Lucien's hand tightened around Cassandra's waist. "I already chose," he said, voice low and dangerous. The words were meant only for Cassandra, but the chill they carried silenced Isabella instantly. She blinked, reevaluating her power in the room, and walked away, defeated for the moment.
Cassandra's knees felt weak. She wanted to sink to the floor, to escape this whirlwind of luxury, obsession, and danger. She wanted the world to pause so she could breathe. But Lucien didn't give space. Not for weakness. Not for mistakes.
"You did well tonight," he said finally, his voice soft, almost intimate.
She glanced at him, unsure if she should feel relief or fear. He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that promised both pleasure and punishment. "Do you understand why appearances matter now?"
"Yes," she whispered, voice barely audible.
He didn't speak again. Instead, he guided her toward the sleek car waiting outside. Cassandra's mind was racing, her heart still hammering from the encounter with Isabella and the realization of just how dangerous—and possessive—Lucien truly was.
As the city lights blurred past the tinted windows, Cassandra realized something chilling. This was only the beginning. The game had already started, and she was caught in it completely.
She wasn't just a fiancée. She was a piece on his chessboard. And for once in her life, she didn't want to escape—because she was already trapped.
And the devil she had agreed to love… was watching.