Chapter 8 - A Stranger Named Cassian

"Eva Monroe's Point Of View''

I found myself gazing at my reflection in the soft glow of the vanity lights, trying to suppress a wince at the woman looking back at me. The dress I wore was a rich emerald green, sleek and undeniably pricey, designed to make a statement I never really wanted to make.

Diamonds framed my neck and ears—cold, unfamiliar weight pressing into my collarbone. Nothing about me felt like mine anymore. Not even the lipstick someone else picked.

"You're all set," the stylist exclaimed, stepping back with a sense of accomplishment, as if she had just created a work of art.

Cassian didn’t bother to knock when he walked in. He never did. His gaze swept over me from head to toe, pausing—not in a creepy way, just...taking it all in. It was as if I were a rare artifact he was trying to understand.

"You look—" He stopped himself.

"What? Expensive? Or like a well-dressed hostage?"

His mouth twitched. "Unexpected."

I rose from the chair and smoothed my dress, spine straight. "You said gala. You didn’t say masquerade."

He offered his arm. I didn’t take it.

The car ride to the gala stretched long and quiet. Outside, camera flashes already sparked across the entrance. Inside, I counted my breaths. Three in. Four out.

Cassian watched the window like he was trying to escape through it.

"What's the cause tonight?" I asked.

He tilted his head just a bit, enough to catch a glimpse of me. "Cancer research. Or endangered wildlife. Does it matter?"

"Only if you plan to make a speech. Or auction off a tiger."

A low, genuine laugh escaped him. Sharp, startled. It made me blink.

Cassian's laughter was as surprising as spotting lightning during a snowstorm.

"You’re not what I expected," he remarked.

I arched my brow. "Let me guess. You thought I’d be a trembling, wide-eyed social climber?"

"I thought you'd be manageable."

My lips twisted. "You’re not exactly a breeze yourself.”

The car came to a stop at the curb, and just like that, the cameras sprang into action. Outside, a throng of reporters jostled for position, their voices blending into a chaotic symphony. Questions about the Morelli estate. About Cassian’s latest deal. About the girl on his arm.

He reached for my hand without warning. Not gentle—strategic. A claim made in front of the flashing lights.

I leaned toward him just before the door opened. "Smile pretty. Or they'll think you kidnapped me."

Another laugh. Briefer this time. But real.

Inside the gala, the chandeliers sparkled like intricate spiderwebs, and every face seemed meticulously crafted. I spotted politicians, celebrities, and wealthy tycoons mingling about. All orbiting each other with drinks in hand and secrets in their smiles.

Cassian kept me close. Too close. His hand rested gently on the small of my back, almost like a silent warning.

"Just try not to disappear on me tonight," he whispered.

"Why? Afraid I’ll steal the spotlight?"

"Afraid you’ll steal the silverware."

I choked on a laugh. It surprised me that he remembered. That he was still trying to understand the girl who once hid in linen closets and memorized the sound of her mother’s sobs.

We danced once. Just once. Because the cameras expected it. His hand in mine, our bodies moving to a waltz that didn’t suit either of us.

"Do you miss it?" I asked, eyes fixed on the glittering room.

"Miss what?"

"Who you were before all of... this.”

His fingers tightened just slightly. "There’s nothing to miss. He didn’t survive."

The song ended. He didn’t let go immediately.

Once we were back in the car, a hush fell over us. I took off the earrings, one by one, feeling the weight of the moment.

My lobes throbbed from the weight.

"You’re quiet," I said. "That usually means you’re planning something. Or regretting something."

He stared ahead, jaw tight. "Both."

I waited. When he didn't explain, I turned toward the window.

"Why did you laugh?" he asked suddenly.

I blinked. "What?"

"Outside the gala. When you made that joke. You made me laugh. That doesn’t happen."

"You should do it more often. It might keep people from thinking you were carved from stone."

He tilted his head, voice low. "I’m not made of stone, Eva. Just scar tissue.”

I wanted to ask what that meant. But there was something about the way his eyes darkened that made me pause.

As we pulled up to the estate, the staff was already at the door, opening it for me before I even had a chance to reach for the handle. Like clockwork. Like control.

Cassian lingered behind me as I stepped out.

"Do you still think I’m manageable?" I asked.

He didn’t answer. At first, I didn’t notice. But as I started to walk away, I could feel his intense gaze on me.

“No,” he said, his voice steady. “I think you’re dangerous.”

I turned back to him for one last look—only to see his hand pressed against his chest, his face drained of color, and his knees giving way. Cassian crumpled onto the marble floor.

And in that moment, for the first time since I’d met him, a wave of genuine fear washed over me.

"Cassian?" I whispered. But he didn’t answer.