The Wolves of the Hamptons

Chapter 5:

The black helicopter landed with a grace Eden hadn’t expected. It stirred the grass into spirals, flattening the tall reeds that bordered the Wolfe family estate like wind brushing the edges of a secret.

Eden clutched her oversized sunglasses and tried not to gape. Below them stretched a coastal mansion so large it made Cassian’s Manhattan penthouse look modest. White columns. Endless windows. A cliffside view of the ocean that looked like a postcard come to life. This wasn’t a house. It was an empire with sea breezes.

Cassian leaned across her. “Try not to look so shocked.”

“I’m not shocked,” she said. “I’m horrified. You have two houses like this?”

He smirked. “Three, actually.”

The pilot touched down on a manicured helipad. Moments later, Eden was stepping onto Wolfe land for the first time—and already felt the eyes watching.

Staff in neat uniforms waited with practiced indifference. A tall man in his fifties, sharply dressed, stepped forward.

“Miss Blake,” he said. “I’m Morgan. Mr. Wolfe’s estate manager. Welcome.”

Eden offered a polite smile. “Thanks. Beautiful place.”

Morgan’s eyes didn’t crinkle. “It has its history.”

Cassian chuckled darkly. “And most of it is terrible.”

They were escorted to the guest wing—which, confusingly, had its own grand staircase and a baby grand piano. Eden’s suite looked like something out of a Regency fantasy. Creams and golds. A chandelier above the bed. A walk-in closet larger than her entire studio apartment.

Cassian stood behind her, arms crossed.

“You okay?”

Eden turned slowly. “Tell me again why we’re here.”

“My father’s turning seventy. Public appearances are expected. And Verena’s showing up with a date.”

“Who?”

“Someone with enough money to be threatening. But not enough power to be me.”

Eden raised a brow. “So we’re here to remind everyone who the real wolf is?”

Cassian’s expression didn’t shift. “Something like that.”

The welcome dinner was brutal.

Not because the food was bad. In fact, the lobster risotto tasted like wealth and refinement. But the atmosphere? Thick with knives. Every Wolfe relative—an odd blend of thin smiles and designer bitterness—stared at Eden like she’d tracked mud into a sacred temple.

Cassian sat tall beside her, hand resting on her leg beneath the table, as if to steady her.

“Eden,” a blonde across the table began, her voice honey-laced poison, “how did you and Cassian meet again?”

Before Eden could answer, Cassian interjected. “Art gallery. She mistook me for a server.”

That earned polite laughter. Even Eden chuckled.

“But she had opinions about Monet’s brushwork and refused to back down,” Cassian added. “That’s when I knew.”

He turned to Eden with such raw sincerity she almost forgot they were lying.

Almost.

“Well,” someone else said, “at least she’s pretty.”

Cassian’s grip on her leg tightened.

Eden smiled, slow and dangerous. “Pretty enough to land the heir, apparently.”

More laughter—this time edged with respect.

Later, on the balcony overlooking the cliffs, Eden pressed her hands to the railing and let the wind cut through her thoughts.

Cassian joined her silently.

“You do realize your family hates me,” she said.

“My family hates everyone,” he replied. “They just hide it better with money.”

She laughed. “Great. So I’m fitting in.”

He leaned beside her. “You handled them well. The Monet story was true, by the way. I was wearing a black suit. You had no idea who I was.”

She blinked. “Wait… that actually happened?”

He nodded. “You argued with me for twenty minutes. Called me a ‘soulless patron of capitalism.’”

Her mouth dropped. “You were that guy?!”

Cassian grinned. “Yes. And I still asked for your number.”

Eden stared at him. “You’re lying.”

He shrugged. “Believe what you want. But I kept the sketch you left behind.”

Her breath caught.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Cassian reached into his jacket pocket and handed her a folded piece of paper. Inside was a pencil sketch—rough but beautiful—of a city skyline twisted into blooming flowers.

“I found this the night we met,” he said. “You dropped it.”

Eden traced the lines with trembling fingers. “You kept it?”

“You weren’t forgettable, Eden.”

She looked up, caught in something far too real. “Neither were you.”

The next morning came too soon. Eden woke to a knock at the suite door. Cassian groaned from beside her—fully clothed, thank God—and sat up slowly.

Morgan stood outside, grim as ever. “Miss Blake, you’re needed downstairs.”

“What for?” she asked.

“There’s been a leak.”

Eden’s blood turned to ice.

In the estate’s drawing room, a group of suited security professionals hovered around a laptop.

Onscreen: security footage. From the Manhattan penthouse. Eden entering Cassian’s master bedroom. Undressing. Nothing explicit—but suggestive enough to stir scandal.

Cassian stood frozen.

Eden stared. “Who the hell got this?”

“A private blog,” Morgan said. “It’s spreading.”

Cassian’s jaw tightened. “Verena.”

“She wouldn’t have access,” Eden said.

“She knows people,” he snapped.

Then, softer, “I’m sorry. I promised you privacy.”

Eden stepped back, shaking. “They’re going to crucify me. I’m just some broke artist with a borrowed dress. They’ll say I slept my way into this.”

Cassian stepped forward. “Then we control the story.”

“How?”

He pulled out his phone. Dialed. “Lora. Get Eden a stylist. Photographer. I want a couple’s shoot in the gardens by five.”

Eden blinked. “You want to glamorize this?”

“No,” he said. “I want to weaponize it.”

She didn’t know whether to be furious or impressed.

Probably both.

The shoot was a spectacle. Eden in a flowing white dress, Cassian in rolled sleeves and stormy eyes. They stood beneath the archways like royalty in exile. Every click of the camera rewrote their story.

Later, as dusk fell over the Hamptons, Cassian posted one of the photos to his rarely used social account.

“When the world watches, give them something worth watching.”

The post went viral.

And Verena—furious, cornered—posted nothing.

That night, Eden stood by the fire, staring at her reflection in the gilded mirror. Cassian walked up behind her.

“You were incredible today,” he said.

“I was furious.”

“Good. That’s when you’re strongest.”

She turned to him. “I don’t want to keep faking this.”

He looked at her. “Then don’t.”

Silence stretched.

Then, slowly, Eden stepped closer. Her voice trembled.

“Kiss me. Not for them. For me.”

Cassian didn’t hesitate.

He kissed her like he’d waited years. Like nothing else mattered but the shape of her mouth and the sound she made when she melted into him.

And when they finally pulled apart, breathless, something had changed.

No more pretending.

Not tonight.