Chapter 8 – The Offer

It had been three weeks since the Foundation Gala.

Since Elise walked out of the ballroom without a glance back, leaving Cassian on the balcony with nothing but her perfume on the air and the hard truth of his want.

She hadn’t seen him since.

But the tension hadn’t faded — it had thickened. Every room she entered buzzed with his absence. Every invitation she declined from his side only made the whispers louder. D’Amaro Holdings hadn’t made a public statement, but insiders speculated. Was she already slipping through his fingers? Or had she never belonged in the first place?

—

Then, one evening, a black envelope arrived at her door. No signature. No message. Just a date, a time, and a rooftop bar that wasn’t listed on any public registry.

She didn’t RSVP.

She showed up.

Fifteen minutes late — not to be rude, but because it mattered that Cassian feel the weight of waiting.

The rooftop was cold and private, wrapped in black glass and silver shadows. No servers. No security. Just Cassian, sitting at a table with two tumblers and a folder between them.

He stood the moment he saw her.

She was in black — not demure, but sharp. A long-sleeved dress that clung like smoke, high-necked in front, scandalously bare in back. The fabric moved with her like wind obeying a command, parting subtly at the thigh as she walked with predatory grace. Her skin gleamed where exposed — honeyed bronze kissed with moonlight.

Cassian’s expression didn’t shift, but the subtle twitch of his jaw, the flare in his nostrils — they betrayed him. His eyes dragged over her, punishing himself for looking, unable to stop.

“You’re late,” he said.

“You invited me,” she replied. “I didn’t accept.”

“But you came anyway.”

“I was curious.”

He nodded, jaw tight, and gestured to the chair across from him.

She didn’t sit.

“What is this?”

“A proposal.”

She moved forward, hips swaying beneath the fabric, and opened the folder.

Inside: ownership transfers, shell routes across Eastern Europe, keys to influence hidden behind ten different offshore layers. Her name — Elise Caro — printed clean across the paperwork. Cassian’s signature already inked at the bottom.

It wasn’t symbolic. It was dangerous.

She closed the folder. “Why me?”

His voice was low. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Her pulse skipped. Her face didn’t.

“You don’t trust me.”

“I can’t afford to. But I trust how you think. And that’s more dangerous.”

Elise sat — finally — her movements slow, choreographed. One leg crossed over the other, fabric shifting to reveal toned thigh, bare and deliberate.

Cassian’s gaze flickered down.

Just once.

But it landed like a blow.

He poured her a drink. His fingers trembled slightly as the whiskey hit crystal.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve been watching.”

“That’s worse.”

“I missed this,” he said.

She tilted her head. “Missed what?”

“The way you turn everything into a weapon.”

“I learned from the best.”

He broke eye contact first, a flicker of his gaze toward the exit betraying a desire for escape he'd never admit.

“Is this your way of bringing me back into the fold?”

“It’s not about ownership.”

“Then what?”

“I want you at my side. Not as decoration. As someone who understands how deep this world goes.”

She leaned forward, the neckline of her dress taut, sensual, shadowed.

“You already have enforcers.”

“I don’t need someone to follow orders. I need someone who doesn’t flinch when the blood hits the floor.”

Their eyes locked.

“Matteo doesn’t know?”

Cassian shook his head. “He’ll find out eventually.”

“And when he does?”

“He’ll deal with it.”

She smiled faintly. “That’s very diplomatic.”

“It’s not diplomacy. It’s a warning.”

He reached for his glass again — then stopped.

Because her foot, bare within her stiletto, brushed up the inside of his calf.

The movement was slow. Intentional. A test. Her toes flexed — sliding, pressing — leaving warmth behind.

Cassian’s breath caught. He inhaled sharply, held it, then let it go through his teeth.

“You want me close,” she said, voice barely above the wind. “But you don’t know what to do when I am.”

His hand clenched around the glass. Tendons rigid, knuckles white.

“Tell me,” she whispered. “Is it worse when I’m distant… or when I let you look?”

Her foot traced higher.

Cassian exhaled again — longer, sharper.

“Careful,” he muttered.

“Why?”

“Because if you keep doing that, I’m going to drag you onto this table and make you forget whose name you’re supposed to be wearing.”

Elise smiled. Slow. Dangerous.

“But I haven’t said yes.”

“You will.”

“Confident.”

“Desperate.”

He said it like a secret.

Elise leaned in, her finger circling the rim of her glass. “Desperate men do reckless things.”

“I’m already doing one,” he said.

Their gazes held.

“Say I agree,” she murmured. “What exactly do I get?”

“Access. Autonomy. Power. Immunity.”

“And?”

His voice dropped. “Me.”

That made her pause.

He meant it.

“I’m not interested in men who want to save me.”

“I’m not trying to save you.”

“Then what?”

Cassian’s voice was steady. But only barely.

“I want to build something with you that no one can burn down.”

Elise’s pulse fluttered, soft and sharp.

She rose from her seat, walked slowly around the table, and came to a stop behind him.

Her hand slid down his shoulder, across his chest — teasing, deliberate — until she felt his breath catch and his muscles tighten beneath her palm.

He didn’t move. He didn’t dare.

“You still think this is about love,” she whispered at his ear.

“It’s about obsession,” he admitted.

She smiled.

“Then let me show you how to suffer.”

She stepped in front of him, climbed onto the table — knees parting the slit of her dress, high enough to show smooth thigh and the whisper of skin just below it.

Cassian looked up at her like a man about to sin.

“Elise—”

She placed a finger to his lips.

“You’ll get nothing tonight,” she whispered. “But you’ll think about it every time you see me.”

Then she slid off the table, heels clicking like the sound of a verdict.

She walked to the edge of the rooftop. Wind played with her dress. She didn’t look back.

She didn’t need to.

The contract remained unsigned.

But he was already hers.