Chapter One
"I wore white, smiled for the cameras, and lied through my teeth"
The hostess didn't even look up when Cassie Kensington stepped into the hush of the restaurant.
It was the kind of place that whispered power. Low lights, polished crystal, waiters who moved like they didn't exist. Every detail curated to make the rich feel untouchable. Safe. Above.
It was barely half full.
Just the right amount of empty to say: you don't get in unless you belong.
Cassie didn't. Not anymore.
She tugged her Burberry coat tighter around her, the fabric still smooth, still expensive—but it felt like a costume now. The last relic of a life she no longer had. A Kensington. A name that used to open doors. Now? It got her pity looks and closed accounts.
She spotted him instantly.
Arthur Kensington sat alone at a table by the window, a single glass of wine in front of him. Untouched. His tie was loosened just enough to seem relaxed—but she knew better. Nothing about Arthur Kensington was casual.
He didn't stand. Didn't smile.
"Cassandra," he said, like he was greeting a junior associate he barely remembered hiring.
She sat down without waiting to be invited.
"I almost didn't come," she said, unclasping her coat, voice clipped. "But I figured if you were desperate enough to reach out, it'd be something worth laughing about."
Arthur gave a small nod to the sommelier.
"You'll want the wine," he said.
"I'll take the whole bottle, since you're paying." Her hands folded on the table like she was waiting for a verdict.
He poured her a glass himself.
That was her first red flag.
"I have a proposal," he said.
Cassie arched a brow. "Of course you do. You always did love a good boardroom pitch."
Arthur didn't blink. "Christian Masters has agreed to marry you."
The words didn't register at first. Then they did—and she barked out a laugh, sharp and disbelieving.
"Excuse me?"
"It's finalized in principle. The preliminary agreement is signed. What's left is your signature."
She stared at him. "You can't be serious."
Arthur adjusted his cuff. "It's a strategic alliance. The Kensington name still holds cultural capital. The Masters empire is looking for legacy. In exchange for the match, they've agreed to clear our remaining debts. Restore a few assets. Including the Hampton estate."
She froze.
That house—the family's pride—gone last year in a public auction that had made the gossip pages. Generations of history, sold for pennies.
Her throat burned.
"No."
Arthur didn't flinch. "Don't be dramatic. Think of it as a merger."
She scoffed. "I'm not a startup, Arthur."
He reached into his jacket and slid a folder across the table. "You won't need to read it. I already negotiated the best terms you'll get."
Cassie stared at it. Cold paper. Hot rage.
"You absolute bastard," she muttered, fingertips brushing the edge. "You're selling me off like a corporate asset."
Arthur's face remained still. "You're protecting the brand. Our legacy."
"Our legacy is a goddamn tombstone," she snapped. "You buried it years ago."
He finally looked her in the eye.
"Then this is your resurrection."
Her stomach turned. She drained the wine, the burn almost welcome. She didn't care what year it was or what vineyard it came from. It tasted like control.
"Why me?" she asked quietly. "Why not Charlotte?"
Arthur didn't hesitate. "Charlotte's a scandal waiting to happen. You"—he gestured at her, like she was a mannequin on display—"still look the part."
She looked away. Bit her cheek to keep from saying something worse.
"And Christian?" she said finally. "What does he get out of marrying a disgraced heiress?"
"Stability. Credibility. His father's pushing him to settle down. He needs polish. You need a lifeline. It's mutually beneficial."
Cassie exhaled slowly, eyes locked on the folder.
She could already hear the headlines. Heiress Redeems Empire Through Marriage.
As if this was a fairy tale.
As if she hadn't been dragged out of her life, her name turned into tabloid fodder, her mother's pearls pawned to cover legal fees. Now she was going to be tied to Christian Masters?
She'd never met him. Only seen his name in Forbes and Bloomberg. Cold. Calculating. The kind of man who didn't blink while buying out failing companies or cutting hundreds of jobs to boost his stock price.
The kind of man who didn't need a wife—he needed a symbol.
"This is blackmail," she whispered.
"No," Arthur said, voice smooth. "This is your opportunity to come home."
She stood. The chair scraped the floor sharply, turning a few heads.
"I'd rather burn the whole name to the ground."
Arthur didn't move. "You do this, or you disappear. Quietly. Forever."
Cassie didn't answer. She turned and walked out.
The subway platform was crowded and stale and buzzing with noise. She leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, ignoring the glances, the noise, the fluorescent flicker of overhead lights.
When the train came, she boarded without thinking. Didn't even check where it was going. Didn't care.
The city swallowed her whole.
Cassie's apartment smelled like citrus cleaner and exhaustion. She dropped her keys into the bowl by the door, peeled off her heels, and collapsed onto the couch. Her coat slid off and pooled around her like a second skin she was finally allowed to shed.
She reached for the bottle of cheap whiskey on the coffee table.
The pour was generous. No crystal glass. Just an old mug with a chipped handle.
Marriage.
To Christian. Freaking. Masters.
She set the drink down and pulled out her laptop.
Her fingers hovered above the keyboard.
She typed:
Christian Masters CEO bio
The search results exploded instantly—images, articles, headlines. She clicked the first photo.
And froze.
He was... sharp.
Dark hair combed back, jawline carved like it had something to prove. Three-piece suit, midnight gray, tailored like armor. Not a hair out of place. Not a single thread out of line.
But it was his expression that hit hardest.
That half-smirk. A knowing, quiet sort of smugness. The look of a man who'd walk into a war room and come out with the deed to the battlefield.
Then the eyes.
Ice-blue. Sharp enough to flay. Eyes that didn't blink, didn't soften. They assessed. Measured. Moved on.
Not cruel.
Worse.
Indifferent.
Cassie snapped the laptop shut.
Her hand shook.
She stared at her untouched drink, watching the amber swirl in the cup.
Her chest ached.
And still, somewhere deep beneath the layers of anger and disbelief and panic—she felt it settle.
The shift.
The inevitability.
This was happening.
Whether she liked it or not.