Chapter 2

The airport terminal gleamed under fluorescent lights as Cassian strode through the sliding glass doors, his pulse beating faster than it had in years. He hadn't slept. He hadn't eaten. He had barely registered the drive across the city, his hands gripping the steering wheel of his black Rolls-Royce with a tension that had nothing to do with traffic.

She was here.

After eight years. After all the silence, the distance, the ache he had learned to bury beneath board meetings and quarterly reports. Vanessa was finally back on the same soil as him.

He spotted her before she saw him.

She stood near the baggage claim, a vision in cream-colored cashmere, her dark hair longer than he remembered, falling in waves past her shoulders. Sunglasses pushed up on her head. A single leather suitcase at her feet. She looked exactly the same timeless, effortless beauty.

Then she turned, and their eyes met.

"Cassian."

Her voice. God, her voice. It hit him square in the chest.

She crossed the distance between them in quick, graceful steps, and before he could speak, she rose on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Her lips were warm. Her perfume was familiar. Everything about her was familiar.

"You came," she said softly, pulling back just enough to look at him. "I wasn't sure you would."

"Of course I came."

The words left him before he could measure them. He meant them.

Vanessa smiled, and it was the same smile that had undone him at eighteen. She touched his arm, light and possessive all at once.

"I've missed you," she said.

Cassian swallowed. "Let me get your bag."

He lifted her suitcase, his hand brushing hers in the exchange, and led her out into the morning sun. He opened the passenger door of the Rolls-Royce himself something he hadn't done for anyone in years and watched her slide into the leather seat.

The drive out of the airport was quiet at first. Cassian focused on the road, hyperaware of her presence beside him. She gazed out the window at the city skyline, a small smile playing on her lips.

"It's changed," she murmured. "But it still feels like home."

"You've been gone a long time."

"Too long." She turned to look at him, her dark eyes unreadable. "Tell me about your life, Cassian. How is your wife?"

The word hung in the air between them.

Wife.

Cassian's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "Clara is fine."

Vanessa tilted her head. "What's she like? I've only ever seen pictures. She's beautiful. Quiet-looking."

"She's quiet," he agreed. The word came out flatter than he intended.

Then Vanessa's expression shifted. A small furrow appeared between her brows. She pulled out her phone, glanced at the date on the screen, and let out a soft gasp.

"Oh my God. Cassian." She turned to him, genuine distress in her voice. "Today's your anniversary. Isn't it? The fourth?"

He said nothing. His hands tightened on the wheel.

"Cassian. Why are you picking me up from the airport on your anniversary? You should be with your wife." She placed a hand on his arm, her touch gentle, concerned. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realize. You should have said something."

"It's fine."

"It's not fine. I feel terrible. She must be so upset."

He glanced at her then, at the worry creasing her forehead, and felt a surge of something close to gratitude. Here was Vanessa, barely off a plane, already thinking of someone else's feelings. Already trying to do the right thing.

"Clara understands," he said. "She knew I was coming. She's not upset."

"Are you sure?"

"She's very understanding." The words came easily. They were the same words he always used. Clara was understanding. Clara was patient. Clara didn't make scenes. It was one of the things he appreciated about her. One of the few things.

Vanessa shook her head slowly. "I should call her. I want to thank her. It's incredibly thoughtful of her to let you come. Most wives wouldn't."

She was already reaching for her phone.

"Don't," Cassian said.

She paused, fingers hovering over the screen. "Why not?"

"It's not necessary. Clara won't expect a call."

"But I want to. It's the least I can do."

"Vanessa." He said her name with quiet finality. "Don't bother. She's probably busy with something. It's fine."

Vanessa studied him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she slipped her phone back into her bag.

"If you're sure."

"I'm sure."

A beat of silence. Then Vanessa shifted in her seat, crossing one long leg over the other.

"I booked you a hotel," Cassian said, steering the conversation. "The Four Seasons. The penthouse suite. You'll be comfortable there while you get settled."

Vanessa made a small, dismissive sound. "A hotel? Cassian, I've been living out of hotels for weeks. Paris, London, Dubai. I'm tired of room service and lobby flowers." She turned her gaze on him, soft and imploring. "I want to feel like I'm home. I want to be somewhere real."

"You'll stay in my penthouse, then. I'll have it prepared for you. It's empty most of the year anyway."

"The penthouse in the city?" She shook her head. "All alone in that glass tower? I'd rattle around like a marble." She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice was gentle. "Let me stay at your house. With you and Clara."

Cassian's brow furrowed. "You want to stay at the house?"

"Is that strange?"

"It's... unorthodox."

Vanessa laughed, a light, musical sound. "Unorthodox? Cassian, we've known each other since we were practically children. Clara is your wife. I want to get to know her. I want us to be friends." She leaned slightly closer. "Please? Just for a little while. Until I find my own place. I promise I won't be a burden."

He should have said no.

He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he should have said no. That there was a line here, a boundary, a thing his wife would be entitled to refuse. But Vanessa was looking at him with those eyes, and he had never been able to deny her anything. Not then. Not now.

"Fine," he said, the word pulled from him like a thread. "You can stay at the house."

Cassian pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. A valet appeared to take the car. He handed over the keys without a word and walked around to open Vanessa's door.

She stepped out into the night air, her eyes sweeping the estate with quiet appreciation.

"It's exactly as I imagined," she said. "Gothic and beautiful. Very you."

He didn't respond. He was already walking toward the front door.

The house was quiet when they entered. Too quiet. The usual hum of staff moving through the halls was absent. The lights in the foyer were dimmed. And there, in the living room just beyond the marble entrance, sat Clara.

She was wearing a simple nightgown. White. Unadorned. Her blonde hair was loose around her shoulders, and her face was bare of makeup. She looked younger like this. Softer. And exhausted.

She rose to her feet as they entered, her hands folding in front of her, a hostess's posture even in her own home.

"Welcome back," she said. Her voice was steady. "I asked the maids to clear the dinner. I wasn't sure when you'd return."

Cassian opened his mouth to speak, but Vanessa moved first.

She walked toward Clara. Her heels clicked against the marble floor. She stopped just inches from Clara, her head tilting as she looked her up and down.

"Would you be a dear," Vanessa said, her tone light and pleasant, "and fetch me a glass of water? The flight was exhausting, and I'm absolutely parched."

Clara did not move.

The silence stretched.

Cassian stepped forward quickly. "Vanessa, that's—"

"I know who she is," Vanessa interrupted, still looking at Clara. Then she laughed, a tinkling, embarrassed sound, and pressed a hand to her chest. "Oh, wait. Oh my God." She turned to Cassian with wide, apologetic eyes. "This is your wife?"

"Yes," he said, his voice clipped. "This is Clara."

Vanessa spun back to Clara, her expression melting into something that looked almost like genuine remorse. "I am so, so sorry. I didn't recognize you. From the pictures I saw, you looked... different." She gestured vaguely at Clara's nightgown, her bare face, her loose hair. "You looked like one of the household staff. I feel absolutely terrible."

A beat of silence.

Clara's expression did not flicker. She smiled a small, controlled curve of her lips that did not reach her eyes.

"Think nothing of it," she said. "I'm not offended."

Vanessa's shoulders relaxed. "You're so gracious. Truly. Cassian told me you were understanding." She reached out and touched Clara's arm, a brief, almost condescending pat. "I can already tell we're going to be great friends."

Clara said nothing.

Vanessa turned back to Cassian, her expression brightening. "I was just telling Cassian in the car I'd love to stay here for a little while. Just until I find a place of my own. Get my bearings back in the city." She looked over her shoulder at Clara. "You don't mind, do you?"

Clara's lips parted.

Cassian spoke first.

"Of course she doesn't mind," he said. "Clara is very accommodating. She won't object."

Clara's mouth closed. Her eyes moved from Vanessa's face to her husband's, and something flickered there.

"I knew it," Vanessa said warmly. She linked her arm through Cassian's with the ease of long familiarity. "You've done well for yourself, Cassian. She's lovely."

"I'll have the guest suite prepared," Cassian said, already pulling out his phone to text the housekeeper. "You'll have everything you need."

They began to walk toward the staircase, Vanessa still holding his arm, speaking in that light, melodic voice. They passed Clara like she was invincible.

Clara stood alone in the living room.

She did not cry.

She had already done her crying that morning.

Instead, she looked toward the staircase, toward the empty space where her husband had disappeared with another woman, and let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

Six days now.

Six days, and she would never have to smile through an insult again.