ChapterTwo
The scream tore through the house like a bomb.
Cassie was halfway down the grand staircase when the second crash echoed—a vase shattering against the parlor's marble floor, pieces skittering beneath the crushed velvet rug.
Victoria Kensington stood at the heart of the chaos, her silk robe slipping off one shoulder, blonde hair a tangled crown of defiance. She clutched a nearly-empty champagne bottle like a sword. The flat-screen TV behind her was cracked in two, the image flickering violently.
Onscreen, bold crimson headlines blinked like wounds.
KENSINGTON EMPIRE IN RUINS
BEHIND THE FACADE: LIES, DEBT, AND DECEPTION
A photo of Arthur Kensington appeared—aged, pale, the light gone from his eyes.
Cassie stopped cold. "What the hell—?"
Victoria turned toward her, face wild, eyes rimmed red. "They published everything! The failed merger. The offshore accounts. The affairs. Three decades of a perfect empire, demolished in a single headline!"
From the edge of the room, Charlotte stood frozen, arms wrapped around herself. Her pajamas were wrinkled, her lip trembling.
Cassie moved fast, stepping between her mother and sister. "Get upstairs. Now."
Charlotte shook her head, her voice soft. "But I didn't do anything—"
"I know," Cassie said, guiding her gently. "Just go to my room and lock the door."
Charlotte hesitated at the foot of the stairs, the smallest she'd looked in years. "Is it true?" she asked.
Cassie didn't answer. She couldn't. Not yet.
When Charlotte disappeared down the hall, Cassie turned back to her mother. "You're drunk."
"I'm mourning," Victoria said, lifting the bottle like a toast to the dead. "You'd understand if you weren't off in Europe drinking martinis and playing diplomat."
Cassie's jaw tensed. "Tell me what happened."
Victoria gave a shrill laugh, one that cracked in the middle. She collapsed onto the fainting couch, eyes glazed. "Ask your father. He's the one who brokered the deal with the devil."
Cassie turned on her heel and headed straight for the library.
She found Arthur exactly where she expected—behind his desk, scotch in hand, shirt sleeves rolled, tie loosened like a noose.
He didn't bother looking up.
"Tell me this is fixable," she demanded.
He swirled the drink in his glass. "It's not."
The words sank into her like stones. She stepped closer, heat rising in her chest. "The last quarterly report was clean. What happened?"
"Fraud," he said simply. "Hidden debts. Your grandfather's shell companies came back to haunt us. Carrington Tech pulled out of the merger the second their legal team caught wind."
Cassie's mouth went dry. "You let them go to press with that?"
"They didn't ask permission," he muttered.
She stared at him in disbelief. "What's the plan now?"
Arthur finally looked up, and Cassie didn't recognize the man behind those eyes—his calm was only a mask now, barely clinging to the face she'd known all her life.
"We still have leverage," he said slowly.
There was a pause. One that made her stomach knot.
"You," he finished.
Her chest went cold. "Excuse me?"
Arthur slid a manila folder across the table. Cassie opened it. Her own face stared back at her from a gossip site, but it was the man beside her that made her stomach churn.
Christian Masters.
He looked infuriatingly smug, as always—jet-black hair combed with surgical precision, jawline sharp enough to cut glass. His charcoal-gray suit fit like a second skin. The caption read:
MASTERS TO ACQUIRE KENSINGTON HOLDINGS?
Cassie's hands clenched the paper. "No. Absolutely not."
"He made an offer."
"No," she repeated, louder. "I would rather sell the damn company to the Russian mafia than let him anywhere near it."
Arthur's expression didn't change. "He's offering a bailout. Full financial backing. But only under one condition."
She already knew what was coming. Still, when he said it, it felt like being slapped.
"A merger," he said.
"A marriage," she spat.
"An alliance."
"You mean I marry the devil's heir in exchange for your kingdom of lies?" Her voice cracked. "He hates me. He has always hated me."
"He doesn't hate you," Arthur said with cool detachment. "He sees value. That's all that matters."
"I'm not for sale."
"You're a Kensington," he said. "You don't get to choose."
The silence between them was worse than any argument.
Cassie turned and walked away.
Outside, the wind tore through the hedges like knives. The iron front gates were already crowded with paparazzi. Flashbulbs flared like lightning.
Cassie spotted Charlotte peeking out through the upstairs window.
She rushed to her. "Step back. Don't look."
"But they're yelling my name," Charlotte whispered.
"I know." She pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Stay away from the windows. Don't come out unless I say."
Cassie didn't wait. She marched outside, ignoring the roar of questions.
"Cassie! Is your father going to prison?"
"Is the company bankrupt?"
"Are you marrying Christian Masters?"
That last one nearly knocked her breath out.
She pushed through the mob, cameras clicking furiously. She didn't stop until she reached the rose garden. The air there was thick with the scent of decay—petals browning, thorns curling. A fitting metaphor.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Social media had exploded.
Trending tags: #KensingtonCollapse, #PawnedPrincess, #MastersMove
And then, like a blade, she saw the quote.
"I don't inherit trash. But I'll repurpose it." – Christian Masters
Her hand trembled. She hurled the phone. It cracked against the sundial, shattering.
Blood welled from her palm, a clean slice. She stared at it numbly, then wiped it on her skirt.
Back inside, she stormed to her childhood vanity. The drawers were still lined with rose-colored paper. She dug until her fingers closed around something cool—her old locket. The Kensington crest was still etched on the surface, golden and gleaming.
She snapped it shut and threw it across the room.
"Let the name burn," she muttered. "But I'll choose how it dies."
The house eventually fell into silence. A stillness hung in the air like smoke after a fire.
Then came the knock.
She didn't look when the door opened.
Arthur entered, footsteps deliberate. He didn't ask permission.
"You leave in five days," he said.
Cassie didn't look up. "To meet the man you sold me to?"
"For the negotiation."
Cassie let out a bitter laugh. "What's next, Dad? A goat as dowry? Maybe throw in some antique china while you're at it."
He didn't answer.
"I'm not wearing white," she added.
"I doubt he cares."
Cassie turned to him, finally, studying the cracks in his perfect composure. He looked older. Defeated. But nowhere in his face was there shame.
"Why him?" she asked.
"He's smart. Vicious. He knows how to protect a legacy. And he has enemies, which makes us valuable allies."
"Convenient," she murmured. "So I'm a shield. A bargaining chip in a war I didn't choose."
Arthur hesitated. "You're more than that."
She tilted her head. "Then prove it."
He didn't.
Cassie waited until the door closed behind him. Then she bent down and picked up the shattered remains of her phone. The screen barely worked, but it was enough.
Christian Masters was everywhere—headlines, photos, quotes.
Always smiling like he owned the world.
Like he'd already won.
She stared at one image in particular. His eyes, dark as storm clouds, seemed to look straight through her.
She remembered the last time she saw him—years ago, at some formal event. They'd argued over champagne, traded barbed words like daggers.
And now, she was supposed to stand beside him. Smile for the cameras. Share his name.
"They didn't just sell my name," she whispered. "They sold my soul."
And in five days, she'd wear a ring to prove it.