THE EX

Morning after the gala, Grecian villa 

She slept like she hadn’t in weeks, curled into the pillow, with her lips parted slightly, hair fanned across the ivory linen. Her back was to him, the silk of her robe riding just low enough to reveal the dip of her spine.

Cassian watched her in silence, one hand resting on the bed, the other brushing against his own jaw.

The room was still tinted by sunrise and gold edges long shadows, a kind of quiet that made everything feel momentarily suspended.

She’d whispered his name last night.

Not out of obligation. Not out of performance.

Out of need.

And for a flicker of time, he’d let himself forget the terms of their arrangement.

Forget who she was. Who he was? Who they were pretending to be?

But it hadn’t lasted. It never could.

Because no matter how soft her voice got, how her fingers tangled in his hair like she wanted something more, he still remembered the contract. Still remembered the debt that brought her to his doorstep. And the woman arriving this morning would remember it too.

Cassian stood, slipped on his watch, adjusted the cuff of his shirt. He glanced back once before leaving the room.

She didn’t stir.

Of course not. He hadn’t given her a reason to.

LYANNA’S POV

Lyanna had convinced herself the night before had been a dream. A vivid, humiliating dream stitched from silk, red scarves, and the illusion of touch.

Cassian’s hands, the way he looked at her at dawn, the way she’d whispered his name like it mattered. She pushed it all down. This was still a contract. Still a lie.

She moved through the silent villa toward the solarium, her robe drawn tight at the waist.

The sunlight filtering through the hallways made the night feel far away, fictional, even. But her chest knew better. Her body remembered too well.

She pushed open the arched glass doors…

And was stopped by the laughter inside. Feminine. Polished. Calculated.

At the breakfast table sat a woman carved from frost and obsidian. Pale skin, crimson lips, a black dress that whispered scandal. Her posture was precise. Her presence commanding.

Vera Demos.

Cassian’s ex. The one the tabloids once swore he'd marry. The one whose name came up whenever power, seduction, or betrayal were mentioned in high society.

And yet here she was, in their home, sipping coffee from delicate porcelain across from her husband. Vera looked up with a smile that had too many teeth.

“Oh,” she said sweetly, voice laced with charm and poison. 

“This must be the wife.”

Lyanna didn’t blink. 

“Yes,” she replied smoothly. “Lyanna.”

Vera’s smile deepened. “How quaint.”

Cassian didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched them with the same blank expression he reserved for boardrooms.

Lyanna glanced at him, then back at Vera.
“And you must be…”

“Cassian’s dear friend,” Vera replied. “We’ve known each other a long time. Long enough to recognize a... transaction.”

The jab landed. Calculated and cruel.

But Lyanna smiled.

“Some women don’t know when to leave the table after they’ve lost the game.”

Vera's eyes narrowed. “Careful, darling. Sharp things break easiest.”

Still, Cassian said nothing.

No correction. No defence.

Lyanna’s fists curled within her sleeves.

“Excuse me,” she said, each word clipped. She turned and left.

When she got back to her room… she slammed the door, tore off the robe, and paced across the marble floor. Her heart thundered. Her throat burned.

She didn’t cry.

She seethed.

So this was her place? An accessory, A pawn, A weapon in a game she hadn’t agreed to play. He let Vera humiliate her. Let her twist the knife, and he said nothing.

She stared at the red scarf draped over the vanity. It made her stomach turn now.

Then she heard a knock, Not Cassian.

Mila, the house keeper with Tablet in her hand. Apologetic expression. 

“He wanted you to see this,” she said.

Lyanna frowned. “What is it?”

“Final confirmation. Cassian closed the Demetrios deal.”

Her pulse jumped. “The shipping consortium?”

Mila nodded. “Vera’s family.”

A beat of silence.

“The marriage. The gala. It shifted leverage. Her family backed down so he claimed their ports.”

It hit all at once. The timing. The dress. The night. Her.

She wasn’t a wife. She was the weapon.

“Does she know?”

“I think she does now.”

That night… Lyanna didn’t eat. Didn’t speak, she just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The villa creaked around her. Ancient. Cold. Silent. Just before midnight, her phone lit up. 

C. Ward

“You weren’t supposed to care.”

She stared at the words. Hovered over the reply.

“Too late.”

She deleted it.

And turned off the light.

Moring came by so quickly, and sunlight crept into the villa like a guilty apology. She moved through the halls without sound. Something in her had shifted. The humiliation had hardened into something colder.

Determination?

She passed the orchard. Reached the greenhouse, veiled by citrus trees and silence. Inside it smelled of earth and jasmine. And in the centre was a desk. Solid walnut. Out of place among the orchids.

She stepped closer. There were Papers. Ledgers. Contracts.

Her eyes caught on one page.

Gray Holdings: $3.4 million

Gray Estate: unpaid debts

Clause: Debt collection via strategic asset 

Asset: L. Gray 

Transaction date: 7 years

Wedding contract, Signed and Finalized.

Her breath caught.

Asset.

A pawn. A payment.

She stumbled back.

Then she heard Footsteps.

She ducked behind a planter just as Cassian entered.

He looked tired. Worn-out with a cigarette in his hand. No trace of last night’s heat in his expression. He approached the desk, slid open a drawer, and pulled out a box.

Velvet. Small.

He opened it.

And Inside it was her mother’s necklace. The one they’d lost in the bankruptcy. The one she thought was gone forever.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then locked it away again.

He turned to leave. For a moment, he paused.

Looked around, his eyes narrowing, scanning the space.

Lyanna didn’t breathe.

And then he left.

Later…

Lyanna paused outside the sunroom, where an older woman was watering a row of violets along the window shelf.

The woman glanced up, pausing. She was in her late fifties, with silver-threaded hair pulled into a bun, her posture strict but not unfriendly.

 “Excuse me,” Lyanna said. “You work for Mr. Ward?”

“I manage the flowers,” she said, not looking up. “And the silence in between.”

“Do you know where he keeps his keys?”

“He doesn’t leave things lying around,” the woman replied. “But there’s a brass key on a chain beneath his shirt. He never removes it.”

Lyanna hesitated. “You’ve seen it?”

“I do his laundry.”

A faint smile. 

“People think power shouts. But in this house, it whispers.”

“What’s your name?”

“Call me Irina.”

Vera was gone before dinner, and Cassian didn’t mention her. But he watched Lyanna the entire meal.

He watched Lyanna over his wine glass like she was the one hiding something. She met his gaze without flinching, her body still, her thoughts loud.

He married her for leverage.

He married her because her father owed him money.

And now he had her mother’s necklace locked in a desk like a stolen heirloom.

She wanted to scream. But she smiled instead

“Do you always keep things in locked drawers?” she asked.

He tilted his head. 

“Or just people?”

A slow pause. “Depends on the person.”

She leaned forward, fingers brushing the stem of her glass. “And what would you do if that person picked the lock?”

He smiled faintly. “Are you trying to provoke me?”

“I’m just wondering what you’d do… if someone learned how to play your game better than you.” He didn’t answer he just stared back at her…

 

“I’m trying to understand you.” She said again

Cassian smirked faintly. “That’s your first mistake.”

After dinner, she stood in front of his bedroom door. Not to knock. Not to speak.

Just to see. She imagined the key on a chain. The necklace in his desk. The ledger with her name written like a price tag. And she made a silent vow.

If Cassian Ward was hiding secrets, she’d find every single one. Even if it meant becoming something, she never thought she’d be.