ChapterTen
She woke to silence.
Not the peaceful kind—the kind that echoes. The kind that fills every corner of a room and presses on your chest. An absence so loud it becomes something else entirely.
Cassie blinked against the bright wash of sunlight flooding the bed. Gold light stretched over white silk sheets like it had been painted there, too harsh for morning softness. She turned her head, slow, almost cautious. The other side of the bed was still untouched.
Not just empty—untouched.
The pillow was smooth. The duvet unwrinkled. No trace of a man who had set her body on fire just hours before. No scent. No warmth. Not even the ghost of a crease left behind.
It looked like no one had ever been there at all.
She sat up, the sheets slipping off her body, the cool air licking across her skin like judgment. Her thighs ached faintly. Her lips were still tender. But her chest—that hollow, gnawing place just beneath her sternum—was worse. That was where the real pain lived.
There was no sign of him.
No soft rustle of movement from another room. No distant murmur of a phone call, no footsteps. Nothing.
She stood barefoot on the cold marble floor, wincing slightly as the chill sank through her. Her robe hung carelessly across a chair in the corner, but she didn't rush for it. Instead, she walked slowly through the penthouse, letting the silence wrap around her like ice water.
The place was too clean. Too perfect. Not a single coffee mug left out. No papers. No jacket carelessly thrown over a chair. Not even a smudge on the gleaming counters.
Like a showroom, not a home.
Like she'd been dropped into someone else's fantasy and then forgotten.
She made her way to the kitchen. A breakfast spread had been set out like an offering—perfectly arranged fruit, glistening berries and precision-cut melon. A carafe of orange juice. A delicate porcelain cup of black coffee.
But the coffee had gone cold.
She stared at it for a long moment before picking it up, then set it back down with a sharp clink, louder than necessary. The porcelain rang against the marble like a challenge.
Untouched.
Prepared, but untouched.
Just like her.
Her pulse skittered, that low thrum of something she didn't want to name curling through her. She padded through the rest of the penthouse, checking rooms like she was chasing a ghost.
Office? Locked.
Media room? Empty.
Gym? Pristine.
There wasn't a single sign of use anywhere. Not even a damp towel. No heartbeat. No presence.
It wasn't just that he was gone.
It was that he had never intended to stay.
Cassie stood in the center of the living room and breathed once. Just once. Deep and steady. She wouldn't break. Not over him.
By noon, she had showered and dressed. Brushed out her hair until it shone like armor. Her makeup was sharp. Her dress, black silk, hugged every curve with deadly intent. Off the shoulder, slit to the thigh. A woman's war paint.
She didn't do it for him.
She did it because she could.
Because survival looked better in heels.
The elevator dinged.
She didn't move.
Not out of fear.
Out of control.
Christian walked in with the same effortless arrogance he wore like skin. Charcoal suit. Tie loose. Bluetooth headset in one ear, tablet in one hand.
"…reschedule the board briefing. No, I don't want his assistant—I want Lang himself. He needs to remember who sets the terms."
His voice was calm, clipped. Ice over steel. He walked straight past her like she was a ghost.
Not a look. Not a pause.
Cassie didn't flinch.
Not even when he hung up with a swipe and poured himself water from a decanter like they weren't in the same room. Like she hadn't been in his bed last night. Like she wasn't still marked from his hands.
The silence was unbearable.
She let it stretch.
Then she broke it.
"That's it?" Her voice was low. Measured. But there was steel threaded through it.
Christian didn't look up. He sipped his water, still calm. Still cold.
"What else would there be?"
She exhaled a short, bitter laugh.
"Last night. You can't just erase it."
He turned slowly. Deliberate. As if even the motion of acknowledging her took effort.
"I'm not erasing it," he said, voice sharp and smooth all at once. "I'm closing the chapter."
That hit harder than a slap.
"You left a collar on the vanity like I was some—some obedient dog," she snapped. "You told me to beg. You—"
"I punished you."
Flat. Precise.
"You accepted it."
He stepped closer. Not touching. Just invading. The air shifted between them, tense and electric.
"That's all it was."
Cassie's heart stuttered. Her breath caught—but she didn't let it show.
She searched his face, desperate for something. Anything. A flicker of what she'd seen last night. A crack. But his eyes were mirrors again. Strategy. Control.
No trace of the man who'd whispered things into her skin like they meant something.
"You're not even pretending to care," she said quietly. "This fake engagement. This whole performance—was it just a game to you?"
Christian tilted his head, eyes unreadable. "You're not a fantasy, Cassie. You're a clause in a contract."
And just like that, she felt the ground shift.
A paper cut would've hurt less.
He turned his back on her, disappearing into that locked office without a single backward glance.
She stood there for a full minute before she moved.
No tears.
No dramatic collapse.
Cassie Kensington didn't crumble. Not even when her heart wanted to.
She walked back to the bedroom, her heels sharp against the marble like gunshots. She pulled open the vanity drawer.
The black box was still there.
Exactly where she left it.
She didn't open it.
She didn't need to.
She could feel it.
Heavy. Coiled. Waiting.
"Wear this when you're ready to submit," the note inside had said. "I'll know."
She hadn't submitted.
Not last night.
Not now.
Not ever.
Cassie stared at herself in the mirror. Her reflection looked flawless—hair smooth, lips painted, posture perfect.
But she knew better.
That woman in the glass? She wasn't the same girl who had walked into this penthouse, playful and dangerous and burning for control.
This woman?
She had learned.
Learned that silence can be sharper than words. That indifference can wound deeper than pain. That not touching, not speaking, not acknowledging—was its own kind of cruelty.
That night, as the city lights flickered across the windows, she stood alone in the dark. Robe knotted at her waist. Bare legs glowing in the low light. Her arms folded, not for warmth, but defiance.
New York glittered outside—a million little stars of glass and neon.
Cold. Beautiful. Brutal.
Just like him.
Just like her.
The collar remained in the drawer.
Untouched.
But never forgotten.
He hadn't spoken about it. Hadn't looked at her. Hadn't touched her.
That was his punishment.
No pain.
No rage.
Just… removal.
He erased himself from the space they'd shared, leaving behind a silence so thick she could choke on it.
Cassie Kensington had grown up in a house with high ceilings and hollow walls. A home that looked like royalty but felt like frostbite.
She knew how to survive cold.
She knew how to turn pain into posture.
She pressed her fingers to the glass, staring at the city's chaos. Her reflection shimmered there, half-woman, half-ghost.
"I walked into the fire," she whispered, steady as steel. "So don't flinch at the burn."
And she didn't.
Not even when she saw the shadow of the collar glinting behind her in the vanity mirror, waiting.
Waiting for the moment she broke.
Or rose.