Chapter Five
The sunlight stabbed through the curtains like a cruel joke.
Cassie winced, buried under a dull headache and a tangled mess of last night's mistakes. Whiskey. Or tequila? She couldn't remember, only that it was cheap and her mouth still tasted like regret. Someone—probably one of the staff—had pressed a cold glass of water into her hand that morning and mumbled, "Your fiancé's waiting."
Her what?
She didn't respond. She didn't ask. What was the point? Questions didn't change things anymore. They only reminded her how little say she had left in her life. So she drank the water, pulled a black dress from the closet like it was battle gear, and stepped out of her room with the resignation of someone heading into war.
The house looked the same. It always did—grand, spotless, and empty in all the ways that counted. Cassie moved down the marble staircase like she was walking a plank. Her heels clicked sharply against the stone, echoing in a way that felt too final. The Kensington estate had never felt more like a mausoleum. Everything was too quiet, too clean, too staged. A perfect lie.
She wasn't nervous.
She was angry.
She held her head high, shoulders back, pretending she didn't feel like a pawn being marched into her father's next power move. The girl who thought she could choose her future was long gone. This—whatever this was—was her last performance.
The study door was open.
Inside, a fire crackled even though the spring morning air was warm. Her father had always had a flair for the dramatic. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight, casting shadows across the leather-bound books and the massive desk she used to be scared of. Everything in the room screamed control.
And then she saw him.
He stood near the fireplace, back turned to her. Tall. Composed. Dressed in black like the devil at a funeral.
She stopped dead in her tracks. Every hair on her body stood on end. Something shifted in the air—something she couldn't name but instantly recognized.
No. It couldn't be.
He turned slowly, like he'd been waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Her stomach dropped.
It was him.
The alley. The smirk. The way he looked at her like she was a puzzle he already knew how to solve. The man who let her unravel without saying a word. She'd cursed him. He'd smiled. And now he stood here like he belonged in her world—like he'd always belonged.
He smiled like he was remembering every word she'd thrown at him.
"Princess," he said smoothly. "Nice to see you survived your little tantrum."
She yanked her sunglasses off. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Nope," he replied, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Though, I'll admit—I was looking forward to this part."
"You—" Cassie's voice broke off. Her thoughts scrambled to catch up.
He walked toward her slowly, not a hint of urgency in his step. Just the steady confidence of a man who never rushed because he never had to.
"Christian Masters," he said. "CEO. Investor. Fiancé. Among other things."
She stared at him, throat tightening. "This is some kind of sick joke."
"I wish," he said with a shrug. "But unfortunately, your father isn't exactly known for his sense of humor."
"I insulted you."
"Brutally." He seemed almost impressed. "It was entertaining."
"You let me?"
"I enjoyed it," he said. "Watching you burn everything down with your words. I wanted to see what you'd do when you thought you had nothing to lose."
She clenched her fists. "So, what? You're here for revenge?"
He gave a lazy smile. "I'm here for business."
She didn't move. She couldn't. He felt like gravity—pulling, suffocating, unrelenting.
"I don't care what deal you made," she said through gritted teeth. "I'm not marrying you."
"Funny," he said, pulling a folded paper from his jacket. "Because according to this, you already are. Binding contract. Signed and sealed."
She didn't reach for it. Didn't have to. She knew what it was. Her father's signature might as well have been a death sentence.
"This is insane."
"No. This is legacy," he replied. "Yours. Mine. Your father's. And unfortunately for you, you're the glue holding it together."
She took a step back.
He stepped forward.
"You don't get to own me," she said, chin raised.
Christian didn't blink. "I don't have to. The name does. The deal does."
"Touch me, and I swear to God—"
He stopped. His gaze dropped slowly to her lips —then lower.
Not yet, his look seemed to say. Not like that.
"I won't lay a hand on you," he said softly, voice almost amused. "But I will own every moment you spend under my name. You don't even see the cage, do you?"
"You're sick."
"No," he said. "I'm practical."
"Why me?" she snapped."
He tilted his head, like the question actually required thought. "Because I saw you. The real you. The fire. The self-destruction. The rage. And I thought... now that's a woman worth ruining."
Cassie's breath caught. Her hands were trembling.
"You could've stopped it," she whispered. "You knew who I was that night."
"I did."
"And you let it happen."
"I wanted to see how far you'd go," he said, his voice dropping. "How far you would let yourself fall before you looked around for someone to blame."
"I'm not some toy for you to pull apart."
"No," he said. "You're something much more interesting."
She spun on her heel, ready to leave.
But his voice followed like a shadow. "This isn't over."
"Oh, it's so over."
Christian's tone darkened. "It hasn't even begun."
She turned back slowly, eyes burning. "I'll burn every part of this deal to the ground. You don't scare me."
He took a single step toward her, close enough that she could feel the heat coming off him.
"Good," he murmured. "Because I don't want obedience. I want fire. I want the fight."
Their eyes locked, the tension stretched so tight it felt like it might snap.
"I will ruin you," she said, voice shaking with fury.
Christian grinned, something feral flickering behind his gaze. "God, I hope so."
He reached for the glass of scotch on the mantel, raising it like a toast.
"To regret," he said.
He took a slow sip, then looked over the rim of the glass with a calm that chilled her.
"And to the pleasure of breaking you in."