ChapterTen
The penthouse was still—too still. The kind of silence that sat heavy in the air, daring anyone to shatter it.
Cassie stepped into the kitchen barefoot, the fabric of her silk robe brushing against her skin, smooth and sinfully soft. The pale rose slip she wore clung to her like a second skin, whispering secrets she wasn't ready to share. She didn't look at him. She didn't need to.
Christian was at the marble island, coffee in hand, the dark liquid as black as the storm brewing in his mind. His gaze flicked up as she passed, lingering just a second too long. She could feel it—the heat buried beneath that icy façade, the war he was too proud to admit he was losing.
She ignored him. That was the game now.
"Where's the Kenyan roast I asked for?" he demanded, not even bothering to look up at the housekeeper. "This is Ethiopian."
The woman hurried to apologize and retreat. Cassie didn't respond, though she couldn't help but smile just a little. He hadn't acknowledged her presence, hadn't asked where she'd been, hadn't commented on the robe she wore so intentionally. But still, his eyes followed her, calculating, dissecting, searching for something.
He was unraveling, thread by thread.
Cassie leaned against the counter, taking a slow sip from her mug. The robe parted just enough to make his jaw tighten. He said nothing, but the silence between them spoke louder than any words could.
He touches like a man who wants. He looks like a man who doesn't feel. So why does he keep looking?
"Who's attending the engagement party?" she asked casually, her voice sharp as a knife slicing through the thick air.
Christian didn't look up from his tablet, still absorbed in whatever world he was pretending to be a part of.
"It's irrelevant. You'll smile. You'll wear red. You'll be mine."
Cassie blinked, the words settling into her like stones sinking in deep water. There was no question there, no room for argument. Just a command wrapped in the cool exterior of control.
"Is that what this is about?" she asked, narrowing her eyes. "Ownership?"
He finally met her gaze, cold and calculating, his expression unreadable, a mask she had learned to fear.
"No," he replied, his tone smooth, precise. "It's about performance. And I don't tolerate understudies."
Her fingers tightened around her mug. Silence hung heavy between them, thick with the weight of unspoken truths.
Cassie moved closer, a predator toying with her prey. "You're bleeding control," she said softly, her eyes never leaving his. "You just don't see it yet."
He flashed a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Careful."
"I'm not," she retorted. "Or what? You'll throw another tantrum over the coffee roast?"
The mug in his hand cracked, the sound splitting the tension between them. Neither of them moved. The quiet was almost unbearable.
Then, without warning, Cassie spun on her heel and hurled her own mug into the sink. The sound of breaking porcelain shattered the silence, echoing around the vast, empty space.
In an instant, he was across the room.
Not touching her. Not yelling. Just occupying every inch of the space between them, as if he could devour her whole with his presence alone.
His breath brushed against her cheek. His eyes, dark and hungry, locked onto hers. The world around them stilled, as if nothing else existed but the two of them.
Her back hit the wall with a soft thud.
And then his lips were on hers, claiming, dominating. No warning. No permission.
It was savage. Selfish. Consuming. He kissed like a man possessed—not by love, but by something darker. Something that made her heart beat faster and her body respond against her will.
Cassie kissed him back before she could think. Anger, desire, hunger—everything tangled inside her like a storm she couldn't escape. She bit his bottom lip, tasting the metallic tang of copper, feeling the fire flare between them. He gripped her hips, lifted her effortlessly, and set her on the counter, the cold marble biting into her skin as he anchored her there.
His hand slid to her throat—not to choke, just to hold. Just to remind her who had the power.
She kissed him harder, fighting for dominance, fighting for something she wasn't sure she wanted.
She hated him. She needed him.
Her hands shook, but not from fear. From the heat. From the fire that burned between them.
This wasn't surrender.
This was survival.
This was war.
Her mind raced. She was on fire and frozen at the same time. His mouth tasted like ruin, like everything she knew was slipping away. Her thighs ached from the hard edge of the counter, and her pulse throbbed with the speed of a runaway train.
Is this what wanting him felt like? A losing game she refused to stop playing?
His thumb brushed the hollow of her throat, as if he were trying to remember something, or maybe trying to forget.
Then, just as quickly as it began, he pulled away. Not roughly, but with a quiet force, like the kiss had burned him.
Cassie's chest heaved, and she could feel the unevenness of his breath. For just a moment, they both faltered. Then, the ice was back.
Christian adjusted his cufflinks—twice. He never adjusted them twice. That was the first crack in the mask.
He didn't look at her when he spoke, his voice low, controlled. "You're not ready," he said, as if that somehow explained everything. "Or maybe I'm not done punishing you yet."
She didn't respond. Didn't look away. Just held his gaze.
Then he turned and walked out of the kitchen, his footsteps echoing through the space. He didn't glance back. Didn't say her name.
Just disappeared, leaving behind the crack in the mirror that was them.
Cassie sat on the cold counter, her robe falling open, silk riding high on her thighs. Her heart was a shattered thing, but not from heartbreak.
She didn't cry. She wouldn't give him that.
Her eyes moved slowly—first to the floor, then to the broken shards in the sink. Then, finally, to the hallway where he'd vanished.
He didn't want her.
He wanted the power she gave him when she bent.
But she wasn't bending anymore.
She slid off the counter slowly, grounding herself, her knees trembling but her spine straight as steel. She walked barefoot through the penthouse, passing rooms that felt more like a museum than a home. Too clean. Too staged. Just like him.
She entered the walk-in closet, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her lips were flushed, her collarbone bruised with fingerprints, her eyes hard and cold as glass.
She didn't recognize the girl in the silk robe.
Maybe that was the point.
She stood there for a long time, her fingers gripping the vanity as she caught her breath, trying to steady herself. Then she moved, with purpose.
Back to her bedroom.
The red dress hung on the door, just where he'd left it.
She looked at it for a long time, her gaze drifting over the crimson fabric. Provocative. Strategic.
She ran her fingers down the silk, letting the weight of it settle over her.
Letting the robe fall to the floor, a small rebellion in the grand scheme of things.
Let him choke on the performance.
Let the world believe whatever it wanted.
He thought this war was about lust.
Let him think that.
But folding? No. Folding was just the beginning.
She picked up her phone, fingers flying over the screen as she typed a single message to Maddie:
Time to make them all look at me.
She was going to wear that dress.
But not for him.
For herself.
For the game.
For the throne.
And the next time he touched her, he'd know:
The fire he lit wasn't his to control anymore.