Caspian's POV
I saw her, and the world stopped.
One second I was making small talk with my father's business partner, nodding at something about quarterly returns. The next second, she turned around, and every thought in my head vanished.
Auburn hair catching the light. Emerald eyes that sparkled when she smiled at something my father said. A dress that hugged curves that made my mouth go dry and my hands clench into fists.
Beautiful didn't cover it. She was devastating.
And I wanted her with a force that terrified me.
"Caspian? Did you hear me?"
I blinked, tearing my eyes away from her. "What?"
"I asked about the Tokyo deal." My father's partner looked annoyed.
"It's handled," I said automatically. My gaze drifted back to her like a magnet. She was laughing now, covering her mouth with one hand, and I wondered what she sounded like. What made her happy. What would make her laugh like that for me.
Stop it. Stop thinking like that.
This was Isla. The gold-digger's daughter. The woman I'd promised myself to hate.
Except my body hadn't gotten the memo.
I watched her move through the reception, greeting guests, hugging my father. She was graceful, confident, but there was something fragile underneath. Something broken that she was trying to hide.
I knew that feeling. I'd felt it every day for six years, since Mom died.
No. I wasn't doing this. Wasn't finding common ground with her. Wasn't making her human in my mind.
I pulled out my phone and did what I should have done two weeks ago—I searched for her.
Isla Monroe engagement scandal
The results made my stomach drop.
Dozens of articles. Photos. Videos. All from six months ago.
I clicked the first one. A gossip site with the headline: "Monroe Heiress Dumped at Own Engagement Party—For Her Sister!"
The article loaded, and there she was. Isla in a white gown, standing frozen in a ballroom while a man—her fiancé—announced he was in love with someone else. The photographer had caught the exact moment her heart broke. You could see it in her eyes.
I should have felt satisfied. Proof she was damaged goods, a social climber who couldn't even keep her own man.
Instead, rage flooded through me so hot I nearly crushed my phone.
Some bastard had humiliated her in front of hundreds of people. Had broken her publicly, cruelly, in the worst possible way.
I clicked another article. This one had a video.
Against my better judgment, I pressed play.
"—calling off the engagement," the man was saying. Derek Ashford, according to the caption. Investment banker. Weak chin. The kind of guy who looked good on paper but had no spine.
"I'm in love with someone else," Derek continued. "Someone real, not a cold statue who cares more about her art than her future husband."
The camera panned to Isla's face. She looked like she'd been shot.
Then Derek reached out his hand, and a younger woman joined him. Beautiful, blonde, triumphant.
"Natasha, come here."
The sister. I recognized her from Dad's descriptions—Natasha, twenty-one, the father's favorite.
They kissed while Isla stood there, and the crowd murmured. Some people looked shocked. Others looked excited, like this was the best entertainment they'd had all year.
The video cut off, but I found another one. Isla running from the ballroom, mascara streaking down her face, photographers chasing her like wolves.
I watched it three times, and each time, the anger grew stronger.
This wasn't some calculating gold-digger. This was a woman who'd been destroyed by the people who should have protected her.
I searched more. Found articles about her father cutting her off, calling her "too difficult to love." Found society blogs speculating about her fall from grace. Found cruel memes mocking her tears.
The internet had torn her apart for sport.
My phone rang. Liam's name flashed on the screen.
"What?" I answered.
"Wow, friendly. I'm at the reception, where are you?"
"Bar. Outside."
"Come back in. Your dad's about to give a toast, and you're being rude."
I hung up and headed back inside, my mind spinning.
Everything I thought I knew about Isla was wrong. She wasn't a gold-digger. She was a survivor. A woman who'd lost everything and was trying to rebuild.
Which made her a thousand times more dangerous.
Because now I didn't just want her. I respected her.
And that was a problem I didn't know how to solve.
---
Dad found me twenty minutes later, practically dragging me across the room.
"Caspian, stop hiding. Come meet Victoria properly. And Isla."
No. Absolutely not. I wasn't ready to face her, wasn't ready to pretend I didn't know everything about her destruction, wasn't ready to stand close to her without—
But Dad was already pulling me over.
Victoria was exactly what I'd expected. Polished, elegant, warm in a way that felt practiced. I shook her hand and said something polite.
Then Isla turned, and up close, she was even more beautiful.
I could see the gold flecks in her green eyes. Could smell her perfume—something light and floral. Could see the tiny freckles across her nose that makeup didn't quite hide.
And I panicked.
Because standing this close to her, I wanted to touch her. Wanted to pull her against me and promise nobody would ever hurt her again. Wanted to kiss her until she forgot every cruel thing anyone had ever said.
I wanted her, and she was about to become my stepsister.
So I did the only thing I could think of. I attacked.
"The daughter," I said, my voice coming out cold and sharp. "How convenient that your mother found a billionaire right after your father cut you off."
Direct hit. Her eyes went wide, hurt flashing across her face so fast I almost missed it.
Good. Let her hate me. It was the only way to keep us both safe.
"Excuse me?" she said, and her voice shook slightly.
I stepped closer, close enough to see her pulse jumping in her throat. Close enough to catch the sharp intake of her breath. Close enough to drown in her eyes.
"Let me be clear," I said quietly, so only she could hear. "I don't care what story you've told yourself, but I know exactly what you are. A gold-digger's daughter learning the trade. Stay out of my way, don't embarrass my father, and we'll coexist peacefully."
I walked away before she could respond. Before I could see if I'd made her cry. Before I could apologize and beg her to forgive me for being a monster.
My hands were shaking.
I made it to the bathroom, locked myself in a stall, and tried to breathe.
What was wrong with me? I'd just verbally attacked an innocent woman who'd already been through hell. I'd become exactly the kind of cruel bastard I despised.
But I couldn't take it back. Couldn't explain that I was terrified of how much I wanted her. Couldn't tell her that the moment I saw her, something fundamental shifted inside me.
She was forbidden. Wrong on every possible level.
And I wanted her anyway.
I pulled out my phone and looked at her picture again. The one from the engagement party, tears on her face, her world falling apart.
I'd just added to her pain. Made myself another person who hurt her for no reason.
The bathroom door opened. Footsteps. Then Liam's voice: "Caspian? You in here?"
"Go away."
"Not a chance." He knocked on the stall door. "What's going on? You just made your new stepsister cry."
My stomach twisted. "She's crying?"
"No, actually. That's what's weird. She looked furious instead. Like she wanted to stab you." He paused. "What did you say to her?"
"Nothing."
"Liar. Come out here."
I unlocked the door. Liam stood there, arms crossed, looking at me like I was a puzzle he couldn't solve.
"I saw how you looked at her," he said quietly. "Before you went over there. You looked at Isla Monroe like you'd been struck by lightning."
"Don't."
"And then you went over there and apparently said something cruel enough to make her hate you." Liam's eyes narrowed. "Oh. Oh. You like her. You actually like her, and you're trying to—"
"She's my stepsister now," I interrupted. "As of today. So whatever you think you saw, forget it."
"Step. Not related. Not blood. Just—"
"It doesn't matter!" The words came out too loud. I lowered my voice. "It doesn't matter, Liam. She's living in my house. She's family now. End of story."
"But you want her."
I didn't answer. Couldn't lie to my best friend.
"You're an idiot," Liam said, but his voice was gentle. "You know that, right? You just declared war on the one woman who actually made you feel something in six years."
He was right. I was an idiot.
But it was too late to take it back now.
I avoided Isla for the rest of the reception. Watched her from across the room, hating myself a little more each time she smiled at someone else.
She never looked at me. Not once.
Good. That was good. We'd stay away from each other. I'd be cold and distant. She'd hate me. And eventually, this insane attraction would fade.
It had to.
The reception finally ended. Dad and Victoria left for their honeymoon—two weeks in Paris. Which meant for the next two weeks, it would just be me and Isla in the penthouse.
Alone.
I drove home, gave the staff the night off, and poured myself three fingers of whiskey.
An hour later, I heard the front door open.
Footsteps in the hallway. Soft, hesitant.
Then Isla's voice, quiet and awed: "Wow."
I shouldn't have gone to look. Should have stayed in my study and ignored her.
But I stood up and walked to the hallway anyway.
She stood in the entryway, two suitcases beside her, staring up at the high ceilings with wide eyes. She looked small and lost and beautiful, and every protective instinct I had roared to life.
Then she saw me.
Her expression hardened im
mediately. "Don't worry. I'll stay out of your way."
She grabbed her suitcases and headed toward the guest wing.
I watched her go, whiskey burning in my hand, and knew with absolute certainty:
I was in serious trouble.