ChapterEight
Cassie had always known that beauty could be armor. But tonight, it was her weapon of choice.
Her dress was white silk—cut like sin, styled like defiance. Sleeveless, backless, with a slit daringly high and a neckline that danced on the edge of propriety. It shimmered when she moved, rippling like moonlight on water, drawing eyes whether she wanted them or not. But it wasn't just the dress. It was *her*—the way she walked, head high, lips set in that faint, dangerous curve. She didn't come to be seen.
She came to own the room.
Christian spotted her the second she stepped into the ballroom. His expression didn't change, not even a flicker. No smile. No reaction. But his gaze didn't waver either, didn't stray for a second as she approached.
When she reached him, he helped her out of her coat without a word. His fingers brushed her shoulder—too brief to be a touch, too long to be an accident.
"Interesting choice," he murmured under his breath.
She tilted her head just slightly, lips curling. "I figured I'd give the board something to focus on while they debate the future of your empire."
His eyes flicked down, then up. A shift in his jaw. "They came for answers. Not a spectacle."
She leaned in, her voice soft as velvet. "Then maybe they should've picked a less entertaining bride."
---
Dinner unfolded with practiced grace—silver clinks, crystal stems, polished conversation. Christian, ever the strategist, answered questions with smooth precision. Cassie played her part, all charm and poise, but beneath her calm smile, her mind was working double-time. Gauging reactions. Measuring power. Watching Christian.
The real act began with the press conference.
A journalist lobbed a question about the upcoming engagement party.
Cassie didn't wait for Christian. She leaned forward slightly, her tone light, teasing. "Christian's always been full of surprises."
All heads turned. Cameras clicked. She had their full attention—and she knew it.
"I didn't expect our relationship to become headline material," she went on, casting a sideways glance at Christian. "But I suppose it's hard to ignore a man like him. Especially when he makes you feel like you're the only one in the room."
Christian didn't interrupt. But his stare was a weight—sharp, unreadable, heavy with warning.
Cassie's smile never wavered.
"He challenges me," she said quietly, as if confessing something sacred. "Pushes me, frustrates me. And I love that. Because I didn't fall in love with Christian Masters… I learned how to stand beside him."
A moment of silence. Then the wave hit—flashbulbs, nods, murmurs of approval. The board members looked pleased. Reporters were already drafting headlines in their heads.
Cassie sat back slowly, like a queen returning to her throne.
Under the table, Christian's hand found her knee. Firm. Steady. Possessive. He didn't squeeze. He didn't move. Just rested there like a silent claim.
Mine.
---
The limo ride back to the penthouse was suffocating with tension. The city flickered by outside the window. Cassie sat with her legs crossed, eyes fixed on the passing lights, pulse still high with adrenaline.
"I didn't realize we were telling bedtime stories tonight," Christian said finally, voice low and unreadable.
She didn't turn. "I told the version that got the job done."
"I told you to stay on script. Not write your own fairytale."
Now she looked at him. Calm, collected. Then, in one fluid movement, she crossed her legs the other way. The slit of her dress shifted, revealing a glimpse of pale pink lace—delicate, nearly transparent.
His eyes dropped, lingered, then rose again—cool, unreadable.
"I thought improvisation was your thing," she said, her voice soft but pointed.
He didn't respond at first. Just watched her.
Then—"Take off your seatbelt."
Cassie's breath hitched. She hesitated. Then obeyed.
Click.
Christian leaned in, brushing the strap from her body. But his hand didn't stop. It slid up her thigh—slow, certain. Under the slit, tracing the curve of her leg until it met lace.
"You wore these," he said, voice rough velvet. "Knowing I'd see them."
She swallowed. "They matched the dress."
His gaze darkened. "They match one thing only—the color of your surrender."
His fingers grazed the seam. She felt the heat rise instantly, her breath catching in her throat.
"You're wet," he murmured, more observation than praise. "Not because they clapped for you. Because *I* didn't."
Her lips parted, air shallow. "You don't control what turns me on."
"No?" He leaned closer. "Then why are you shaking?"
Then his fingers slipped beneath the lace—slow, devastating. A single stroke, deliberate. Enough to make her gasp, arch.
Still soft. Still wet.
"Responsive," he said, his tone almost clinical. "Predictable."
And just like that, he pulled away.
He reached into his jacket, took out a handkerchief, and wiped his fingers clean—efficient, detached. Then folded it neatly and slid it back into his pocket.
Cassie stared at him, stunned.
"That's it?"
He didn't even look at her. "Don't confuse indulgence with submission."
---
Back at the penthouse, he dropped his keys on the marble tray and walked straight to the windows. The city was laid out beneath them—bright, humming, oblivious.
"Come here," he said, without turning.
She stood in the doorway, uncertain.
He didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. "Now."
Barefoot, she crossed the room. The silk of her dress brushed her thighs like a whisper.
"Face the glass."
She did.
He stepped in behind her. Lifted the hem of her dress slowly. Let it pool around her hips.
One hand found her lower back, pushed gently until her palms met the glass. The window was cool against her skin. Her reflection stared back—vulnerable, flushed, breath fogging the surface.
"You like attention," he said, voice low. "So let me show you what mine feels like."
His fingers returned, parting her thighs. He touched her—not to tease, not to please, but with calculated intent. Each movement precise, dragging her breath out in shallow gasps.
Outside, the city watched. Inside, she burned.
He built her slowly. Ruthlessly. Her fingers curled against the glass. Her knees trembled.
And then—he stopped.
Her head dropped forward. "No," she whispered.
He leaned in, his mouth at her ear. "I told you," he said softly. "Control has a cost."
She was trembling now. "This isn't control. It's cruelty."
He kissed the shell of her ear. "No. This is power."
And then he started again—agonizingly slow. She moaned, legs shaking.
"Beg," he said.
She bit her lip. Shook her head. "No."
And just like that—his hand left her. Gone.
Cassie spun to face him, eyes wild. "Why do you even—"
He didn't reply. Just knelt, retrieved her panties from the floor, folded them once, then slid them into his jacket pocket like a keepsake.
"You don't get to finish," he said calmly. "Not until you admit you already belong to me."
And he walked out, leaving her shaking, aching, furious.
---
Cassie sat at her vanity, half-dressed, hair falling from its pins. Her cheeks were still flushed. Her thighs still tingled. Her heart refused to settle.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Really looked.
Not polished. Not perfect. *Real*. And wrecked.
He had pocketed her lace like a prize. A reminder. A taunt.
Her fingers curled on the vanity. She leaned in, lips parted, eyes fierce.
"You think you have control?" she whispered. "You've barely seen what I'm capable of."
But her body betrayed her—still thrumming, still needy.
She picked up her phone. Scrolled to Maddie's name. Paused. Then set it down.
Instead, she slid the engagement ring from her finger. Held it up to the light.
Let it glint.
She wasn't done.
---
In his bedroom, Christian stood in the dark, a glass of bourbon untouched in his hand. His phone was pressed to his ear.
"Masters," his father's voice barked. "That girl of yours? She's the best thing you've ever done. Board voted. The wedding's moving up."
Christian said nothing.
Edmund chuckled. "She makes you look... human. Hell, she might actually be the first thing you've ever *wanted*."
Christian hung up.
He reached into his pocket. Pulled out the lace. Ran his thumb along the seam. Then folded it once, slid it into the drawer by his bed.
"She's not interesting," he said quietly.
His jaw tightened.
"She's mine."
And she would never forget it.
Not when the war had only just begun.