Chapter Seven
The wallpaper hadn't changed.
Blush cream and gold—just like her old bedroom. Back then, it had felt like magic. A princess's room. Now, the edges peeled like tired skin, yellowed where time had touched. Cassie stood in the doorway of her mother's suite, and for a second, she was ten years old again, caught in a swirl of memories that didn't have names yet. The kind that sat heavy on your chest without ever asking for permission.
Her heels stopped at the edge of the rug. One more step, and this wasn't just a visit.
It was a return. A reckoning.
Because today wasn't about tea or catching up. It was about strategy. Christian had invited her to a board dinner—one where last names carried more weight than opinions and the wrong dress could be a political misstep. She'd walk in as Cassie Kensington, fiancée of the CFO, every eye waiting to see if she belonged. If she was worth the title.
And there was no better battlefield coach than Victoria Kensington.
Cassie stepped inside.
Her mother sat by the window, upright in a velvet-backed chair like a relic that had never dared collect dust. Her lipstick was slightly too pink, carefully outlined. Not modern, but sharp. Intentional. She wore pearls, the same ones Cassie had seen in every childhood photo, each bead gleaming like it had been scrubbed of history.
"Darling," Victoria said. Her voice, smooth and slow, clung to the air like syrup that had steeped too long. "You came."
Cassie's heels clicked softly across the floor, even and controlled. "Of course I did."
Her voice didn't waver. Her shoulders didn't bend. But her gut was tight.
Victoria gestured toward the chaise across from her. Cassie sat with composure trained from years of being told to cross her ankles, not her knees. Her hands rested in her lap like she hadn't clenched them moments ago.
The room smelled like roses, faint and artificial, clinging under a layer of something deeper—like antiseptic and nostalgia, like the faint rot of old ambition.
"You look lovely," Victoria said, eyes flicking toward her daughter with a faint smile. "The engagement's everywhere. And the ring…" Her eyes paused on the diamond. "It suits you."
Cassie looked down at the ring. Big. Cold. Beautiful. And meaningless.
"It's not real," she said.
Victoria let out a short laugh. Not amused. Just… knowing. "Neither is most of what holds this world together, darling. That's never mattered."
Cassie watched her mother stir sugar into her tea. Slow circles. Elegant. She'd done it a thousand times, and Cassie had never once seen her drink it.
"Christian isn't what you think," Cassie said.
"It's irrelevant what I think." Victoria placed the spoon down with a delicate clink. "What matters is what they see."
Cassie blinked.
Christian had said nearly the same thing.
The words didn't surprise her. But hearing them in her mother's voice—they hit different. More personal. More dangerous.
"Men like him don't fall in love," Victoria said, voice like velvet laced with poison. "They claim. And once they've claimed you, they protect what's theirs. Sometimes, that looks like affection. If you know how to play your role."
Cassie's jaw tightened.
"And if I don't want to be owned?"
Victoria tilted her head. Her smile didn't change, but something behind her eyes sharpened.
"Then you'll learn," she said softly. "Just like I did."
Her hand rose, brushing along her pearls. Not fondly. Almost absentmindedly, like muscle memory. "These aren't jewelry. They're chains. You wear them right, and no one knows the difference."
Cassie looked at her, really looked. The woman who once commanded every room in Manhattan now sat in a fading chair in a fading room, still elegant—but preserved, not alive.
"Do you regret it?" Cassie asked.
Victoria stared out the window.
Her reflection, ghostlike, shimmered against the glass. For a second, she looked like she might answer. Like something real had cracked through the practiced calm. But all she gave was a quiet breath. Soft. Unsteady.
"I don't regret surviving."
Cassie heard it—the tremor under the words. Small, but there.
Silence bloomed in the room, heavy and unrelenting.
Cassie stood. She straightened her skirt with a practiced hand. Every movement was calculated, but her heartbeat kicked in her chest like it was trying to escape.
"I won't become you," she said. Quiet. Certain.
Victoria didn't turn. "No," she replied. "You'll become something else. But remember this—beauty is armor. Kindness is a shield. Don't strip off either unless you're ready to bleed for it."
Cassie walked to the door.
Her mother's voice followed—slower, softer. And maybe… maybe afraid.
"You think this dinner is your rebellion. It's not. It's a test. And if you fail, Christian won't protect you. He'll replace you."
Cassie didn't answer.
But something in her settled. Or hardened.
Outside, the once-manicured garden had gone wild. Ivy stretched over the old walls like it had somewhere better to be. The roses had clawed past the fences. The air was cooler out here, and the crunch of gravel under her heels was almost a relief.
She walked until she found the stone bench.
It was cold beneath her, soaking through her dress, but she didn't move.
She twisted the engagement ring around her finger, watching it catch the light and toss it back like a mirror with teeth. Her mother's words echoed, too loud to ignore:
Give them what they want, and they'll protect you.
But Cassie didn't want protection.
She didn't want to survive Christian.
She wanted to win.
Not because she hated him. Not because of pride. But because she refused to be another woman molded to fit beside a man's ambition. She would not be anyone's accessory, not even his.
Christian didn't know it yet, but he hadn't gotten himself a polished trophy.
He'd found a challenger.
By the time she reached the car, her fingers had already curled around her phone. Her thumb hovered over his name. Then she typed, fast and clear:
To: Christian Masters
Tell your assistant to clear my calendar. I'm attending the next board dinner.
No emojis. No explanation. Just certainty.
She hit send.
As the car pulled away from the Kensington estate, Cassie turned her face to the window. Her reflection stared back—composed, still. But there was a difference now. A flicker in her eyes. Something colder.
Not numb.
Prepared.
Not her mother's daughter anymore.
Something new.
Something dangerous.