ChapterSix
She hadn't expected to move in—not like this.
Not after that morning.
Not after the kiss he didn't finish.
Not after the ache he left behind.
But the vanishing space between them? That had been the real warning.
The penthouse mansion carried his imprint in every polished edge and brutal detail.
Steel. Black marble. Smoked glass.
Everything sleek, everything expensive—every inch a statement.
But underneath all the curated luxury lived the scent of him.
Christian Masters.
His presence lingered in the leather furniture, the soft hum of silence, even the air she breathed. It wrapped around her like an invisible collar.
Cassie stepped into the bedroom that had been labeled hers. Not "theirs." Not shared. Not yet.
She dropped her suitcase near the foot of the bed and stood still, arms folded across her chest.
The room was gorgeous—warm lighting, soft carpets, and a balcony view that overlooked the city like a queen surveying her kingdom.
But it was cold.
Decorated like a hotel suite designed to impress, not to welcome.
Just like him.
"You'll find the closet stocked," Christian's voice came from behind her. No knock. No announcement. Just a shadow entering the space like he already owned it.
His tone was dry, professional. "Stylists were briefed on your profile. There's formalwear, daywear, activewear… All curated to maintain your image."
Cassie turned slightly, just enough to see him from the corner of her eye. "Efficient."
He didn't crack a smile. "Necessary."
They hadn't spoken about the kiss. Not the one that hovered halfway between desire and destruction.
They hadn't spoken about her tears in the bathtub either—silent, furious sobs while he watched videos of her laughing like it was some kind of memory worth owning.
They wouldn't speak about it.
They were both too proud. Too broken in the right ways.
He hadn't touched her since. Not a brush of fingers. Not a stolen glance.
Not yet.
Instead, he turned and led her down the hallway. The living room opened like a scene in a glossy magazine: floor-to-ceiling windows, dark hardwood floors, and the glittering city stretching wide and endless below.
On the coffee table sat a sleek black folder.
Cassie didn't need to open it to know what waited inside.
Contracts. Clauses. Schedules.
And something new. A list.
Christian sat on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees. His shirt sleeves were rolled up now, forearms exposed, veins tracing the strong lines of control.
He didn't invite her to sit.
Didn't need to.
"There are rules," he said, gaze steady.
Cassie raised a brow. "Of course there are."
"You live here. You attend events with me. You will answer calls and messages within one hour, regardless of time or circumstance."
She walked toward him slowly, each step deliberate. "Should I expect roll call, too? Maybe scheduled bathroom breaks?"
His expression didn't flinch. "You'll maintain the image we agreed upon. In public, you are my fiancée. Polished. Poised. Present. In private, you're an asset. Valuable. Accountable."
Cassie scoffed lightly. "You mean controllable."
He didn't rise to the bait. Just lifted his chin. "No disappearing. No scandals. No outbursts. No insubordination."
She stopped a few feet away, arms crossed. "And if I don't follow your precious list?"
His gaze sharpened. His jaw ticked once. Then he stood.
And the air shifted.
Cassie didn't step back. But her heart skipped.
Christian moved in—slow, intentional, predatory. He towered over her, his voice low, rough velvet dragged over steel.
"Then I won't hesitate," he said, "to bend you over the nearest surface and spank your spoiled little ass until you remember who makes the rules here."
Cassie's breath caught.
The silence pulsed between them.
"You think that's supposed to scare me?" she asked, voice low, tight.
He leaned down, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear.
"No," he murmured. "It's supposed to make you wet."
Cassie's skin flamed, her pulse racing. Her hands curled at her sides to keep from shaking.
She refused to give him the satisfaction.
"You really think I'd let you touch me?" she whispered, turning her head enough to lock eyes with him.
A smirk tugged at the edge of his mouth. "Princess, you already want me to."
Her spine went rigid. She stepped around him and walked straight down the hallway.
Past the dining area.
Past the master bedroom—the one with the sprawling skyline view and the bed big enough for royalty.
The bed she'd pictured herself in.
The bed she wasn't going to let him see her in.
She stopped in front of the room he'd assigned to her and pushed open the door.
Then she stepped inside and slammed it shut.
Hard.
Let him hear that.
Let him think she'd surrendered.
She stood in the dark, hands braced against the door, breathing heavy.
She didn't cry.
She didn't scream.
But her whole body shook with something she didn't have a name for.
Desire?
Defiance?
Damnation?
Maybe all three.
She slid down to the floor beside the bed and pulled her knees to her chest. The silk dress bunched awkwardly around her thighs, but she didn't care.
Every nerve was lit like a fuse.
Every thought circled back to him.
Christian's words still echoed in her mind—vicious and intimate, spoken like a promise.
She hated him.
She hated that she wanted him.
And she hated that deep down, she wanted him to follow her.
To push the door open.
To ignore every boundary and devour her like he wanted to.
But he didn't.
The hallway outside stayed quiet.
That silence was worse than anything he could've said.
He hadn't called her bluff.
He hadn't broken the space between them.
And somehow, that burned more than anything.
Cassie sat there for minutes—maybe hours—staring at nothing.
Until finally, she stood. Walked to the window.
The city sparkled outside. Beautiful. Distant. Free.
She pressed her forehead to the glass and closed her eyes.
She'd stepped into his world.
Into his game.
And no matter how hard she tried to stay above it, she was already drowning.
Still, if he wanted obedience—
He picked the wrong girl.
Because Cassie Kensington?
She didn't just follow rules.
She rewrote them.