Shadows of the past

Cassandra’s POV

The ride to the gala feels endless. Outside the Range Rover's tinted windows, the city lights blur into long, glittering streaks of gold and red as my heart hammers violently against my ribs. I keep my hands folded neatly in my lap, attempting to project absolute composure, but the cold sweat slicking my palms gives me away.

“Are you ready?” Dorian asks quietly as the vehicle glides up the circular driveway toward the grand venue.

I nod quickly, forcing a tight, practiced smile. In truth, my stomach is in knots. Panic claws at my throat, a terrifying fear that someone in that ballroom will pierce through my disguise and realize the woman on Dorian’s arm is not who she is.

The valet opens the door. The moment my heels touch the pavement, the atmosphere explodes into a chaotic frenzy of flashing cameras and shouting reporters. Dorian’s arm slides firmly around my waist, grounding me as he guides me past the velvet ropes and up the carpeted stairs toward the grand entrance.

Inside, the ballroom is already humming with high society. The second we step across the threshold, conversations falter. Heads turn in unison. Whispers ripple across the room, following our every step like a rising tide. It feels as though every eye in the room is locked onto us, but I elevate my chin, keeping my posture rigid and hiding my frantic pulse.

“Ah, Mr. Blackwell! It’s been far too long. How was your stay in Asia?” A middle-aged man with a stern jaw approaches us, a subtle smirk playing on his lips as his sharp eyes flick over to me. “And who is this captivating lady?”

Dorian draws me an inch closer to his side. “Charles, this is Isadora Blackwell, my wife.”

Shock registers across Charles’s features before he can mask it. “Wife? You’re married?”

“Yes. My one and only wife,” Dorian replies smoothly, his tone dripping with quiet authority.

I offer a gentle, refined smile, exerting every ounce of power to prevent my nerves from showing.

“Well… wow,” Charles stammers, quickly regaining his composure and extending a hand. “Welcome to the circle, my dear.”

“It’s a pleasure,” I reply softly, placing my hand in his.

As we navigate through the room, more prominent figures approach to offer greetings. Dorian introduces me to each one of them, and the subtle warmth in his voice is convincing enough to make anyone believe our marriage is real. Eventually, we are escorted to a high-profile table near the center of the hall.

I let my eyes sweep across the crowd, scanning for the specific faces I came here to confront. Nudging Dorian lightly with my elbow, I lean in close.

“Where are they?” I whisper under my breath.

“Relax, Cassie. The night is still young. They will be here soon,” he murmurs back, his voice barely audible over the orchestra. I rub my chilled hands together and draw a steadying breath. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I am going to use the restroom.”

“Don’t be long,” he says, giving my hand a brief, reassuring squeeze.

I thread my way through the sea of silk and tuxedos toward the executive lounge. The moment the heavy door closes behind me, I press my forehead against the cool marble tile and release the breath I have been holding. My chest heaves as I try to collect my shattered focus. Careful not to smudge my makeup, I splash a few drops of cold water on my wrist and stare into the gilded mirror.

“You can do this, Cassie. Stay calm.“

After adjusting my hair and smoothing the gold silk of my gown, I take one final deep breath and step back into the dimly lit corridor. I have taken barely three steps when someone turns the corner at speed and we collide hard.

“I’m so sorry—” I gasp, my heel slipping on the polished marble floor.

Before I could hit the ground, a strong arm wraps around my waist, pulling me back onto my feet. My breath hitches as a hauntingly familiar scent of cedar and dark amber hits my senses. Slowly, I lift my gaze, and my entire world freezes.

Staring down at me are the same cold, unreadable green eyes that have haunted my nightmares for four years.

Killian Hawthorne.

Seeing him this close sends a sharp, excruciating ache straight through my chest, dragging up every buried memory I tried to incinerate. His gaze remains fixed on my face, analyzing my features with an intensity that pushes my heart into my throat.

I swallow hard and attempt to push gently against his chest to create distance. “I’m fine. Thank you,” I say, keeping my voice clipped as I try to step back but his grip around my waist does not loosen. He simply stands there, staring down at me with a piercing, dangerous scrutiny.

Please don't recognize me.

I suppress the rising panic and force my expression to remain entirely blank. There is no logical way he can see through this mask. Nothing about Isadora Blackwell resembles Cassandra Romano. I made sure of that. My structure, my voice, my posture,my entire identity was painstakingly re structured for this exact moment.

“So why is he looking at me like this?“

His eyes narrow slightly, as though he is trying to piece together a fragmented memory. My heart hammers against my ribs while I pray he finds nothing.

Then, his low, icy voice cuts through the silence.

“Cassandra?”