THE RED SCARF

Cassian’s private Grecian villa

The villa was impossibly silent. Bigger than anywhere Lyanna had ever imagined herself living, it exhaled the kind of wealth that didn’t need to announce itself.

The marble floors shimmered beneath her bare feet, and every step echoed like she was walking through a mausoleum for the living.

She had tried to unpack. Folded her clothes into drawers lined with lavender paper. But it hadn’t helped.

The walls still felt like strangers, every painting glaring at her like she didn’t belong.

She slipped from her room just past seven, barefoot and dressed in a simple silk slip, nothing showy. Nothing Cassian could accuse her of using to “tempt.” Her hair was pulled into a knot at her nape, not out of vanity, but control.

The villa unfolded like a palace. Glass cases held ancient vases and silver blades she didn’t recognize.

The corridors were lined with portraits, men and women with sharp eyes and sharper smiles. People who had never been told no in their lives. Cassian's ancestors, probably.

She wandered until the house grew quiet enough that it felt like the world had forgotten her.

Eventually, she found a terrace that overlooked the Aegean Sea.

Lyanna stepped into the moonlight, resting her hands on the iron railing. The sea moved like silk stretched to the horizon, glowing under the early stars. She let the wind tousle her hair, trying to forget the ache behind her eyes.

And then, a voice behind her 

“Mrs. Ward.”

She spun, startled.

A woman stood in the shadows of the archway. Tall. Dressed in black. She looked more like a widow than a maid. Elegant in that cold, unreadable way that Cassian must’ve hired deliberately. She held out an ivory envelope, sealed with wax.

Lyanna hesitated. “From who?”

The woman gave a polite bow and left without a word.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened the envelope.

There’s a gala tonight. Be ready by 9:00 PM. Main hall. A gown has been arranged.
… C.W.

No explanation, no emotion. Just command.

She muttered a curse under her breath and looked up, but the woman was already gone, like a ghost who had only ever existed to deliver that message.

Just before 9:00 PM.

The gown was a deep garnet, the kind of red that made you think of wine, blood, or ruined innocence.

It clung to her waist and hips like it had been tailored to worship her. The neckline dipped dangerously close to immodest, and the slit up her thigh whispered sin with every step. Her makeup had been done for her. Not by choice.

A silent stylist appeared at her door an hour earlier and, without a word, turned her into someone she didn’t recognize. 

Her lips were dark. Her lashes heavy. Her face older, colder. There was no jewellery. Just bare skin. Her throat felt painfully exposed. She looked in the mirror and didn’t see a girl anymore. She saw a bargaining chip wrapped in silk.

She stepped into the main hall, and the world hushed.

The chandeliers above spilled gold onto the marble floor, and a sea of strangers in tuxedos and ballgowns turned to look. She didn’t need them to speak to know what they were whispering.

The wife. The bride. The contract girl.

She kept walking. Head up. Spine straight. Every heel-click echoing like a challenge.

And then, she felt the room shifted.

Cassian Ward had arrived. He stood by the platform, mid-conversation with a man in a navy suit.

He wasn’t laughing. He never laughed. But something about the way his shoulders squared made him the centre of every orbit.

He wasn’t dressed like the others, no bowtie, no glitter. Just a sharp black suit, crisp white shirt, and a wine-red tie. Her gown’s exact shade, not a coincidence. Never with him.

CASSIAN’S POV

She appeared like a knife slipped between silk.

I barely heard the foreign minister's voice anymore, i only saw her.

Lyanna.

Walking into my world with that quiet, stubborn fire she always tried to smother. She didn’t know what she looked like. That was the dangerous part.

She didn’t know the power she carried when she wasn’t trying to perform. Most women in this room had spent thousands to look effortless.

Lyanna walked in like she’d been born to ruin men. And she didn’t even realize.

Her hair swept back, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat. Her skin glowing under chandelier light. The dress clinging to her like it had asked for permission first.

Her dress.

She looked exactly as he’d instructed the designer, dangerous in red. Not soft. Not sweet. Unforgettable.

She didn’t look at me at first.Which was amusing to watch.

She pretended like I wasn't there.

But the moment our eyes finally locked, I know she felt it too, the gravity between us, that charged silence. That magnetic burn neither of us could ignore.

I don’t believe in fate. But I believe in possession. And in this room of wolves, I need the world to know, She’s mine.

Even if she didn’t want to be.

Even if she hated him for it.

I didn’t realize when I left the diplomat mid-sentence and walked toward her. Each step measured. Deliberate.

People moved out of my path. They always did. But tonight, I only wanted one thing in my orbit.

Her.

She stopped moving when I reached her.

Not in fear or in awe.

Just that same steady defiance.

She didn’t lower her eyes. Didn’t smile.

I felt myself harden slightly at the sheer insolence of it, those fucking eyes…at the way her pulse flickered beneath her bare throat.

She had no idea what she did to him.

GENERAL POV

He Just looked. Then, quietly… 

“Good. You wore the dress.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t want to feed his control.

He reached into his jacket. Pulled something out, a red silk scarf. He held it between his fingers like it was a crown. Or a leash.

“Tilt your chin.”

She blinked. “No.”

“Lyanna,” he said, softer, but with that blade beneath the velvet. “Tilt your chin.”

Her breath hitched. But she obeyed. He stepped closer. Slid the scarf around her throat, his fingers grazed her skin, slow, confident, proprietary.

The silk felt cool against her flushed skin.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Marking you,” he said, knotting it loosely.

“So they don’t forget that you’re mine.”

Her jaw clenched.

“Excuse me?”

“If you’re going to play the part of my wife,” he murmured, “you should look like it.”

“You’re treating me like a trophy.”

“No,” he corrected smoothly. “A trophy doesn’t breathe. You...you burn.”

He leaned in, just enough for only her to hear.

“And that’s what makes this interesting.”

She didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Her body betrayed her, her breath became shallow, her pulse rapid.

She turned away and walked to the bar, leaving him in the centre of his kingdom. But his gaze followed her, She felt it. Heavy on her back. As if he owned her spine.

By midnight, the party blurred around her. Polished laughter. The clink of crystal. She barely noticed. All she could feel was the silk at her throat and the way her skin still buzzed where his hands had been.

She downed her third glass of wine and slipped away before anyone noticed.

He didn’t follow.

But she knew he’d seen her leave.

At 2:00 AM she still couldn’t sleep. The scarf sat on the chair like a ghost and she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, mind a hurricane.  she texted Nina.

LYANNA: You awake? 

NINA: Girl, it’s 2AM in Greece. You better be drunk or dying.

LYANNA: I’m married to a devil. Does that count?

NINA: Devil hot or devil crazy?

LYANNA: …both.

They texted back and forth until her fingers slowed. Nina didn’t ask too many questions, she just stayed present, offering half-jokes and digital hugs until Lyanna’s walls started to slip.

When the silence returned, it was heavier, the sleep came in waves... Shallow… and uneasy.

And then…

Cassian, in her dream.

Standing behind her in shadow. Hands cool on her arms. Voice warm in her ear.

He said her name like it meant something. Touched her like she wasn’t breakable.

She turned into him. Mouth parted.

His fingers slid along her skin, slow, reverent.

She moaned softly. “Cassian…”

She woke with a gasp. Sheets tangled around her thighs.

Her lips still tingled.

Her throat was bare, but still felt wrapped.

She sat up, pressing her palm to her heart.

“What’s wrong with me?”

Unable to rest, she pulled on a robe and moved to the balcony. The sea was still again, gleaming in early sun. And there he was.

Cassian.

Standing shirtless on the lower terrace. Speaking into a phone. Russian, sharp, clipped. He turned. Looked up Straight at her. He didn’t wave nor smile, he Just stared.

The sunlight painted his skin like bronze. His body is carved in sharp, perfect lines. And Lyanna felt it. Not fear, Not hate.

But hunger.

Deep and quiet and blooming like fire beneath her ribs.

She hated him.

But she wanted him more.

Even if it destroyed her.