Chapter Eight
Cassie Kensington looked like a woman who'd chosen this life.
And that was the entire illusion.
The diamond on her finger glinted beneath the soft, diffused lights of the press shoot. Cameras flashed in rapid bursts, sounding more like a thunderstorm than applause. Beyond the lens, the media vultures circled, their questions sharp and eager.
"Cassie, did you know it was love right away?"
"How does it feel to be marrying the most powerful man in New York?"
"Is the wedding this year or next?"
She smiled, calm and polished, tilting her chin slightly so the chandelier's glow kissed her skin just right. Her voice flowed like silk. "We'll let you know when we do."
Beside her, Christian stood silent—sleek in slate-gray, his hand resting lightly at her waist. Not in affection. Not in possession. Just... positioned. Like a sculpture holding the edge of a frame.
Smile like your name is worth something, she reminded herself. Blink like you've never had to lie.
The cameras clicked again, hungry for the next perfect shot. What they got was a painting in motion—symmetry, elegance, a man and woman curated into something untouchable.
Then Christian leaned in, just enough for his breath to graze her cheek like a blade slipping between ribs.
"Lift your chin," he murmured. "You're not prey today."
Click.
That photo would be viral before the hour ended. A billionaire and his flawless bride-to-be. Beauty. Power. The illusion of love. It didn't matter if the world believed it.
It only mattered that no one questioned it.
The shoot wrapped. Their team melted away. No more questions. No more flashes. Just silence as they stepped into the back of the Rolls.
The car door shut. The hum of the city disappeared.
Cassie sat tall, legs crossed, her fingers resting gently on her thigh. Christian said nothing. Didn't look at her. But his leg brushed against hers—just enough to be noticed, not enough to be acknowledged.
She shifted slightly. He didn't.
"You're very convincing," she said coolly, eyes forward. "Almost makes me think you've done this before."
Christian turned his head, his expression unreadable. "I don't pretend. I orchestrate."
Then, without warning, he reached out and tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. Not rushed. Not tender. Precise. Controlled.
It was nothing—barely a touch. But it landed heavy. Like a note held too long in a silent room.
Cassie pulled back, but her body had already felt it. The warmth. The weight. The quiet assertion of power.
Control didn't always shout. Sometimes it just stood close enough to feel like a leash.
Neither of them spoke again until the car slowed in front of the estate.
The Masters house was beautiful. Majestic. But it welcomed like a museum. Polished and proud. Dead behind the eyes.
Cassie walked in ahead of him and disappeared into the suite they'd given her—one of many wings she still couldn't quite navigate without help. She kicked off her heels with the kind of grace that looked effortless. Pulled out her earrings. Unfastened the ring.
The diamond felt heavier now. She rolled it in her palm like something alive. Sharp, like it might bite back.
She crossed to the closet—immaculate rows of designer gowns, silk scarves, expensive bags. Organized by color, by style. Not lived in. Curated.
She almost missed it—the drawer that stuck slightly on one side.
Curiosity tugged.
Behind a stack of folded scarves, hidden like a forgotten photograph, was a small, worn-out children's book. The edges were frayed. The spine, barely holding. A relic among gold-threaded fabric and Chanel clutches.
Cassie turned it over in her hands.
The Hero with Quiet Hands.
She knew this book. Hadn't thought about it in years, but she'd loved it as a child. It was about a boy who saved his village without weapons—by listening, by sacrificing, by staying in the shadows.
Inside the cover: initials—C.M.
The pages were scribbled in with small, tight handwriting. Underlines, tiny notes in the margins. Someone had read this more than once. Had studied it.
She flipped to a dog-eared page. The sentence was underlined three times:
"A boy who learns silence too early becomes a man who forgets how to scream."
Cassie stared at the words.
Christian Royal didn't forget things. He buried them. But this? This was something he hadn't buried deep enough.
She didn't mention it. She just set the book gently on the nightstand and moved to the mirror.
Her reflection stared back, distant and glossy.
Perfect foundation. Glossed lips. Smooth waves of chestnut hair. The diamond ring sparkled from where she'd left it beside the book.
She began undoing it all.
One earring, then the other. Bobby pins out. The zipper on her gown whispered down her spine, and the fabric slid to the floor like silk falling off a hanger.
Her bare skin looked paler than usual in the light. Not fragile. Just... exposed.
She reached for a tissue and wiped off her lipstick. Used her thumb to smudge away the eyeliner. Piece by piece, she peeled away the version of herself that smiled for cameras.
Everyone had seen her today.
But not a single person had actually looked.
She hesitated, then—quietly, almost like a test—whispered her name.
"Cassie."
It came out low, unsure. Like a secret she was checking to see if she still owned.
And then she saw him.
A shadow in the mirror. Christian, standing silently in the doorway like he'd been there for minutes. Watching. Not surprised. Not sorry.
"You're trespassing," she said, not bothering to cover herself.
He stepped forward, shrugging slightly. "It's my house."
Her eyes narrowed.
"You're learning," he said, voice even. "You'll have the performance perfected soon."
Cassie turned her body just enough to meet his gaze, still fully bare, completely unflinching.
"I'm not the performance," she said. "You are."
Christian's mouth twitched—almost a smirk, but not quite. Something else. Something sharper. Like recognition.
"You've got fight," he said. "But remember—this world chews up anything soft."
She didn't answer. Just stepped toward the vanity, picked up a comb, and ran it slowly through her hair.
Not because she needed to. But because she could.
In that moment, with her back to him and her skin bare under the lights, she held the silence between them like a sword.
He didn't say anything else. Didn't slam the door or throw out a final jab.
He just left.
Soft footsteps down the hall. No drama. No warning. Just... gone.
And that was what made it worse.
He didn't need to slam the door.
He was the door.
Later, she stood in front of the mirror again.
No makeup. No dress. No diamond.
The children's book sat quietly beside the ring, both pieces of a man she couldn't decipher and a future she hadn't asked for.
She looked at her reflection.
Not the surface. Not the polished version.
Just her.
And the woman in the mirror?
She didn't look like someone's bride.
She looked like a blade still waiting to be drawn.