The first thing Cassandra noticed when she woke was the quiet.
Not the peaceful kind.
The dangerous kind—the silence that follows a storm, when debris hasn't finished falling yet.
She lay still, eyes open, listening.
The penthouse windows stretched floor to ceiling, the city muted beneath early morning fog. Adrian stood at the far end of the room, shirtless, sleeves rolled down his forearms as he stared at his phone like it had personally offended him.
He hadn't slept.
Neither had she, really. Not deeply. Not without waking every hour to make sure this—him—was still real.
"What is it?" she asked softly.
He didn't turn immediately. That pause told her everything.
"They've frozen three more subsidiaries," Adrian said. "And someone leaked internal emails from before the marriage."
Her chest tightened. "Which ones?"
"The ones that make it look like I planned you," he said flatly.
She sat up. "Planned me how?"
He finally faced her.
Like a man standing in front of an unavoidable truth.
"As an asset."
The word sliced.
Cassandra swung her legs over the bed, grounding herself. "You didn't."
"I didn't," he said immediately. "But they've edited just enough to make doubt seductive."
She nodded slowly. She'd learned something important over the past weeks.
Lies didn't have to be perfect.
They just had to be plausible.
"They're not trying to destroy us separately anymore," she said. "They're trying to make us turn on each other."
"Yes."
"And?"
"And it's working," he admitted quietly. "On the board. On the public. On people who want an excuse to believe it."
She stood and walked toward him, stopping inches away. "What about you?"
His jaw tightened. "That's what scares me."
Her heart stuttered. "Say that again."
Adrian exhaled. "I've built my entire life on control. On leverage. On strategy. And now—" He broke off, eyes dark. "Now I care in ways that make me dangerous to myself."
Cassandra placed her hand over his chest.
"You don't get to regret that," she said firmly. "Not with me."
He covered her hand with his. "You should walk away."
Her breath hitched. "That's not what you want."
"No," he said. "It's what's safest."
She laughed once—sharp, humorless. "You think safety is why I stayed?"
Silence stretched.
"You don't get to decide this alone," she continued. "You don't get to protect me by erasing me."
His grip tightened, then loosened.
"God," he muttered. "You're impossible."
"And you love it."
He met her gaze. Something raw flickered there.
"Yes," he said. "I do."
The admission didn't come with fireworks.
It came with gravity.
And that was worse.
⸻
The gala was a mistake.
They both knew it the moment they arrived.
Too many eyes. Too many whispers disguised as champagne conversations. The Kane name still carried weight—but now it was weighted with curiosity, scandal, hunger.
Cassandra wore black.
Not the soft kind. The deliberate kind. A dress that said I see you watching and I don't owe you comfort. Adrian's hand rested lightly at the small of her back—not possessive, not distant. Present.
Victoria watched them from across the room.
She smiled.
That was how Cassandra knew something terrible was about to happen.
"You look beautiful," Adrian murmured.
"So do you," Cassandra replied. "Which means they're about to try something."
Right on cue, Victoria approached.
"Adrian," she said warmly. "Cassandra."
Her gaze lingered. Measuring. Calculating.
"I wanted to congratulate you," Victoria continued. "It takes courage to show up together… given the circumstances."
Cassandra smiled politely. "We find honesty refreshing."
Victoria laughed. "Oh, darling. So do I."
She leaned in just slightly. "Tell me—does he still flinch when you touch his left shoulder?"
Adrian stiffened.
Cassandra felt it instantly.
"What does that mean?" she asked.
Victoria's smile widened. "Oh. He hasn't told you."
"Told me what," Cassandra said, voice sharpening.
Victoria stepped back, satisfied. "Nothing that matters. Enjoy the evening."
She vanished into the crowd.
Cassandra turned slowly toward Adrian. "What haven't you told me?"
He looked away.
That hurt more than any lie.
⸻
They left early.
The car ride back was silent, the city blurring past like it wanted nothing to do with them.
When they reached the penthouse, Cassandra didn't remove her heels. Didn't sit.
She stood in the center of the room like a line drawn in concrete.
"Now," she said. "You talk."
Adrian ran a hand through his hair. "It's not relevant anymore."
"Don't decide that for me."
He closed his eyes briefly.
"There was an investigation," he said. "Years ago. Before you. Before everything."
Her stomach dropped. "What kind of investigation."
"Internal. A former partner. Someone who trusted me."
Cassandra's throat tightened. "And?"
"And I let the company bury it," he said quietly. "To protect the board. To protect momentum."
The words settled heavily between them.
"Did someone get hurt?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Did they deserve it?"
"No."
Silence roared.
"That's what Victoria's holding," Cassandra said. "Not leverage. Guilt."
He nodded.
"You should've told me."
"I know."
"You didn't because you were afraid I'd see you differently."
"Yes."
She stepped closer. "I already do."
He flinched. Just slightly.
"And?" he asked.
"And I'm still here," she said. "But I won't be lied to. Not even gently."
He met her gaze, something breaking open there.
"I want you," he said hoarsely. "But I won't cage you with my shadows."
She reached for him.
"Then let me choose you with all of them."
Their mouths met—not soft this time. Not restrained.
It was hunger sharpened by truth. Teeth. Breath. Hands gripping like they needed proof.
He backed her toward the wall, stopping just before contact became collision.
"Say stop," he whispered.
She didn't.
She kissed him harder.
That was permission.
⸻
They undressed each other slowly—not out of caution, but reverence. Every inch learned, memorized, claimed.
He touched her like she was something precious and dangerous. Like she could ruin him—and he'd already accepted that.
"Look at me," he murmured.
She did.
And in that moment, the world narrowed to heat and trust and the kind of intimacy that isn't just skin.
Later—long after breath returned and bodies stilled—Cassandra lay against him, tracing idle patterns on his chest.
"You're not the man they're trying to make you," she said.
"I know," he replied. "But I am capable of terrible things."
"So am I," she said softly. "That's not the same as choosing them."
He kissed her hair.
For a brief, dangerous moment, peace existed.
⸻
It shattered with a phone vibrating on the nightstand.
Adrian reached for it. Froze.
"What," Cassandra asked.
His face drained of color.
"They found her," he said.
"Who?"
"The woman from the investigation," he whispered. "She's dead."
The room went cold.
"And," he added, voice breaking, "they're tying it to us."
Cassandra sat up slowly.
Outside, sirens wailed.
The past hadn't just caught up.
It had drawn blood.