Chapter One
There should've been applause. Or at the very least, a damn chauffeur.
Cassie Kensington stepped out of the cab and into the gravel driveway of what once passed for her kingdom. She half-expected camera flashes or someone to throw open the balcony doors and announce her arrival like a scene ripped from a Jane Austen novel—the prodigal daughter returns.
Instead, the only greeting she got was the soft groan of wind against the rusted iron gates. The Kensington crest, once a gleaming symbol of wealth and power, had succumbed to time and weather—its gold now a dull, bleeding red from rust. The fountain in the center of the circular driveway was cracked down the middle like a broken promise, the bowl bone dry, its marble cherubs discolored and chipped. Weeds had grown through the gravel in slow, quiet rebellion.
At the top of the grand staircase stood Albert.
The same Albert who once taught her to waltz on rainy afternoons by balancing a silver tray on her head. The man who used to tuck a cloth napkin under her chin like she was royalty.
Now, he stood stiff as a statue, eyes dull and tired. He offered her a small nod—no hug, no outstretched arms to carry her luggage. Not even a smile.
"Rough morning, Albert?" she said, trying to inject lightness into her voice.
"Miss Kensington," he replied, and though the words were technically a greeting, they fell flat. "Welcome home."
That was all.
Cassie's smile faltered. A part of her had expected things to have shifted in her absence—but not like this. Not this hollow.
She rolled her suitcase up the stone steps herself, past Albert, who didn't so much as glance at her bag. Her heels clicked sharply against the granite, and the sound echoed louder than it should have.
Inside, the front door groaned on its hinges as she pushed it open.
The air hit her like a punch—stale, heavy, slightly metallic. The kind of stillness that only comes when a house has stopped being a home.
Sheets were draped over the furniture like ghosts trying to remember their place. Paintings hung crooked on the walls. The chandelier, once the glittering heart of the entryway, now had three bulbs flickering like weak fireflies on the verge of death.
She wrapped her designer coat tighter around herself.
Something was off.
"Hello?" she called into the silence, her voice sounding small in the vastness.
No reply. No footsteps. No familiar perfume trails.
Then, faintly, voices.
Hushed. Urgent.
She couldn't make out the words, just the tone—tense, secretive. She moved toward them on instinct, her feet carrying her down the hallway without conscious thought. But just as she reached the door, it clicked shut. The conversation cut off like a blade slicing through fabric.
She paused, hand hovering over the doorknob, when she heard someone behind her.
"Miss Cassie."
Rosa.
Cassie turned and felt her heart tug. The older woman's face was drawn, her eyes puffy like she'd been crying. Her apron was wrinkled, her steps uncertain.
"Rosa," Cassie breathed, her voice cracking around the name. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around her.
Rosa hesitated—just for a second—but then hugged her back, tighter than Cassie expected.
"Things are… different now," Rosa said quietly, pulling away.
Cassie studied her face. "What does that mean?"
Rosa glanced toward the closed study door. "There were men here this morning. In suits. Not the type you want to invite in for tea. They left angry."
"Who were they?" Cassie asked, tension knotting in her gut.
"I shouldn't say," Rosa whispered. "But they weren't here for pleasantries. Just… be careful, niña. Everything's changed."
Before Cassie could ask more, a soft clink—glass against glass—called her attention from down the hall.
She knew that sound.
The garden door stood ajar, and beyond it, Victoria Kensington reclined like time itself had stopped in 2007. She wore a silk robe with a pattern so bold it could blind, oversized sunglasses that did nothing to hide her expression, and her signature red lipstick painted on with military precision. A half-empty champagne flute rested beside her on a wrought-iron table.
"The prodigal returns," Victoria said dryly, not even bothering to turn her head.
Cassie stepped outside, the breeze tugging at her coat. "The house is falling apart."
Her mother exhaled smoke from a slim cigarette Cassie hadn't noticed at first. "Isn't everything these days?"
"Where's Dad?"
"Busy. Saving the world, I imagine."
Cassie crossed her arms. "Kensington Global was still solid last I checked."
Victoria gave a brittle laugh. "Last you checked was before you ran off to Paris and decided business school was beneath you."
"I did get the degree," Cassie snapped, irritation flaring.
"And missed the slow, ugly collapse of your kingdom," Victoria replied, taking a sip of champagne. "How convenient."
Cassie's voice dropped. "What happened?"
Victoria finally looked at her. The sunglasses came off, revealing the full map of stress and sleepless nights etched across her face.
"Life," she said simply. "Your father placed the wrong bets. Thought he could outpace the market. Thought he could cheat time."
The silence stretched between them, taut and unforgiving.
Cassie blinked. "Are we broke?"
Another laugh—but this one sharper, almost manic. "Broke is for people who can afford to lose. We still have silver. And expectations."
Just then, a blur of motion came from the hallway. Charlotte flung herself into Cassie's arms like a cannonball, knocking the breath out of her.
"You're back," Charlotte whispered, her voice trembling.
Cassie held her tighter, burying her nose in her sister's hair. "Of course I'm back."
Charlotte pulled back slightly, just enough to meet her eyes. "You'll fix it, right? Dad said… maybe you could. That someone might help, if you—"
"Charlotte." Victoria's voice sliced through the moment.
Charlotte stiffened. Cassie kissed her forehead. "It's okay. We'll talk later."
Her sister gave her a small nod and slipped back inside, glancing over her shoulder one last time.
Cassie turned back to her mother. "Help how?"
Victoria waved her off, already reaching for another drink. "Don't be provincial."
"Are we selling assets? What's going on, Mother?"
Victoria's smile was sharp enough to cut. "Darling, when the vultures start circling, no one asks about assets. They just start pecking."
Cassie didn't answer. She was already moving.
Inside, she climbed the grand staircase, ignoring how her boots echoed through the halls like accusations. Generations of Kensington men stared down at her from their oil portraits—Arthur, his father, his grandfather—men who built, who expanded, who conquered.
Men who never had to be used.
She reached her father's study. Locked.
That was new.
Further down the hall, she paused at the sound of voices.
"…she doesn't know yet," said her father's voice—tired, brittle around the edges.
A pause. Then a lower voice, male, unfamiliar. Calm. Calculating.
Arthur again: "She's the only asset left worth anything. Useable leverage."
Cassie's hand flew to her mouth.
Leverage?
Another beat of silence.
"The Masters boy. Yes. If it's the only way."
She didn't breathe.
"The name still holds weight. That's the trade. A last card to play."
Chairs scraped. Footsteps moved.
Cassie turned and hurried back down the hall, heart thudding wildly. Her boots sank into the runner carpet, muffling her retreat. She didn't stop until she reached the top of the stairs.
Her name.
Traded like a stock. Measured for value. Leverage.
Outside, the wind rustled the hedges.
She used to think her name meant protection. A shield. A promise.
Now, it felt like a noose tightening around her throat.
She stood alone on the landing, the eyes of dead men watching.
And for the first time in years, Cassie Kensington realized—
Being a Kensington didn't mean you were safe.
It meant you were for sale.