Chapter Nine
Cassie stepped into the private boardroom lounge ten minutes early.
The place looked like it had been carved out of a billionaire's dream—glass walls, sleek marble floors, and leather seats that probably cost more than her college tuition. It perched above Manhattan like it ruled the city. But for all its shine, it felt cold. Lifeless. Like a tomb built for men who thought legacy meant never dying.
She caught her reflection in the glass wall and studied it. Lipstick—perfect. Hair—immaculate. Diamond on her hand—blinding. She adjusted the ring instinctively, the way one might slide a knife into the perfect angle before a fight.
Was this just a meeting?
Or was it a quiet war?
She straightened her spine and braced herself for Christian.
But the man who entered wasn't her fiancé.
He was older, taller, and disturbingly thin in that deliberate, aristocratic way that made aging look like a weapon. His silver hair was trimmed with military precision, and his suit—midnight blue and likely handmade—fit like armor. His eyes were the worst of all. Icy. Sharp. Cold enough to cut steel.
"You're prettier than I expected," Edmund Masters said, his voice smooth as velvet and just as suffocating. "That won't help."
Cassie didn't blink. "Neither will flattery, apparently."
A trace of a smirk played at the corner of his mouth, vanishing as quickly as it came.
He moved around the room slowly, methodically, like a predator circling something it didn't quite believe was a threat. She stayed still. If he was trying to intimidate her, he'd need to dig deeper.
"Cassiopeia Kensington," he said, drawing out her name like he was tasting something bitter. "Your father built an empire, then threw it to the wolves. And you—princess of the golden brand—how the mighty have been reduced. I remember the headlines. The debutante gracing Paris Fashion Week. Your photo plastered across the financial pages as Kensington Estates glittered in its final days."
"I still smile in photos," she said coolly.
"Yes, but now it's to survive."
His words sliced like razors.
"You're here because I allowed it. Don't confuse Christian's proposal with affection. He didn't choose you out of love. He needed a name—one that wouldn't taint the optics of our legacy. You were convenient."
Cassie's pulse didn't quicken, but her spine straightened.
"Funny," she said. "He didn't seem very fond of your choices, if memory serves."
"He doesn't have to be fond," Edmund replied. "He has to obey."
The door opened before she could respond.
Christian walked in.
Tension clung to his frame. His jaw was tight, every movement clipped and careful, as if he was wearing control like a second skin.
His eyes met hers for only a heartbeat before he turned to his father.
"Father."
"You're late," Edmund said. "By seven minutes."
Christian's jaw clenched. "There was traffic."
"Discipline should not be traffic-dependent."
The air thickened with unspoken history. Cassie felt it pressing on her chest. This wasn't a conversation—it was a power struggle wrapped in civility. Every word was a jab dressed in etiquette.
Edmund stepped closer, not to greet his son, but to examine him. Dissect him.
"I was clear about my expectations," Edmund said. "Discretion. Unity. Clean headlines. Instead, I get front-page scandals. Emotional instability. A woman who refuses to bow."
Cassie lifted her brow. "You say that like it's a flaw."
"Not a flaw," Edmund said, his voice as cold as the glass around them. "A liability."
He turned back to Christian, eyes narrowing like a general inspecting a failed soldier.
"You don't marry softness. You don't marry desire. You marry loyalty. Silence."
Cassie waited. Expected Christian to say something. Anything.
But he didn't.
He stood there—still, silent, absorbing the blows without a flinch. To anyone else, he might have seemed unshaken. But Cassie saw it—the flicker of pain, the subtle twitch in his jaw, the way his eyes dulled like lights dimming under pressure.
He wasn't born cruel. He had been shaped—carved by expectation and force.
And against her will, a thread of sympathy tugged at her heart.
When Edmund finally turned and walked out, the air shifted, like the room exhaled in relief.
Cassie didn't wait.
She walked past Christian without a word, heels clicking like gunshots across the marble. She didn't stop until she reached the guest bedroom of the penthouse and sat on the edge of the bed, every breath suddenly heavy.
The ring still sparkled on her finger.
But now it felt like a manacle.
She pulled out her phone. Stared at the screen. Her thumb hovered. Then, without letting herself second-guess, she hit a contact and lifted the phone to her ear.
It only rang once.
"Holy shit," Maddie said. "It lives."
Cassie let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sigh.
"I didn't know who else to call."
"Start talking," Maddie said. "Before I assume you've been kidnapped by a rich cult and can't blink twice for help."
Cassie lay back on the bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
"I think I'm falling for him."
Silence.
And then—
"Oh no, no, no. You don't drop that like it's weather talk. What the hell happened?"
Cassie told her. Not everything. But enough.
Christian's father. The boardroom full of ice. The kiss last night that felt like fire. The ring that sat heavy on her hand. And Christian—standing there, saying nothing while his father shredded her dignity piece by piece.
Maddie didn't interrupt. Not once. When Cassie finished, there was a long pause.
Then, softly:
"Cass... you're not here to rescue a broken man."
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are. You're trying to explain him. To make sense of why he's distant, why he disappears and reappears like a storm. You see the cracks and call them beauty. You think if you stay long enough, you can glue him back together."
"I don't—"
"You're the fire, Cass. You were before he ever touched you. Don't turn to ash trying to keep him warm."
Cassie blinked hard.
Maddie's voice softened. "You don't have to break him. But don't let him break you."
A knock pulled her upright.
She knew who it was before she even moved.
She didn't say goodbye—just hung up and set the phone aside. Then she stood, slowly, and walked to the door.
Christian was there.
But he wasn't the polished man from the boardroom. His eyes were stormy, his suit disheveled. He looked... wrecked.
Without a word, he stepped forward and cupped her face like she was the only thing holding him upright. Then he kissed her.
Not gently. Not carefully.
It was all need. No finesse. Just desperation.
His hands shook. His mouth was wild, hungry. There was nothing rehearsed in it—no charm, no performance. Just a man falling apart, trying to hold onto the one thing that made him feel real.
She didn't kiss him back.
Her fingers curled into his shirt, but her lips stayed still. Her body stiff, caught in the tide of his unraveling.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched hers like he was drowning.
"I didn't know what it would feel like," he said, voice cracked. "To lose you. Not until I saw him try to take you from me."
His breath hitched.
"Tell me you're still mine."
She didn't speak.
The silence stretched, heavy and thick. Her chest rose and fell between them, lips parted, eyes shining.
But still—nothing.
And that silence?
It broke him.
He stepped back like she'd struck him. His chest heaved once before he masked it, but she'd already seen the crack.
She walked past him without a word, stopped at the marble counter, and looked out over the glittering skyline.
The city looked like a sea of diamonds.
Each one sharp enough to bleed.
"You don't get to own me," she said, voice low. "Not just because you're afraid to lose me."
He didn't answer.
And that silence told her everything.
She slipped off the ring. Set it on the counter with trembling fingers.
Then walked away.
Behind her, she heard it—
The quiet, gutted sound of his breath catching—
Then breaking.
If Christian Royal wanted her loyalty, he'd have to earn it.
And she'd make him bleed for every inch.