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Stirring the Flames
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2025-07-24 02:10:58Cassian wasn’t a morning person, but today, he was radiant.
Clad in his plush white robe, a silk sash tied carelessly around his waist, he lounged on the terrace of the penthouse with a steaming cup of espresso. The city shimmered below, unbothered by his stunts or scandals. For once, so was he.
His phone buzzed on the table beside him.
“Taryn,” he greeted, taking a slow sip.
“You’re awake early. That’s new,” she said with a dry tone.
“I’m reborn, remember?” he replied, smirking.
“Well, your rebirth has sent half the board into panic mode,” she said. “I’ve already gotten three calls and a very passive-aggressive email from PR.”
“I’m impressed. Usually, it takes at least two press scandals to get them that riled.”
“You want me to send Julian an invite too?”
Cassian hesitated just for a second then smiled like a knife.
“Absolutely. Front row. Let him stew in the irony.”
“Got it. And what exactly are you wearing to this... gala of redemption?”
“White velvet. Custom. I want the photographers to question if I’m holy or unhinged.”
Taryn snorted. “And Rowan?”
Cassian’s smile faltered, just slightly. “Charcoal gray suit. No tie. Open collar.”
“Oh?” she teased. “Since when do you pick Rowan’s outfits?”
“Since he started making me look presentable.”
“You two are getting... close.”
Cassian leaned forward. “You’re fishing.”
“I’m noticing,” Taryn said gently. “You hated him when he arrived. Now, he’s not only in every room you’re in, but standing up for you to your father?”
“He’s... complicated.”
“You’re not exactly simple yourself.”
Cassian chuckled. “We make a good mess.”
“Just be careful,” she warned. “If this gala backfires, you’ll need more than charm to clean it up.”
Cassian hung up and turned toward the hallway.
Rowan leaned against the doorway, arms crossed.
“How long were you standing there?” Cassian asked.
“Long enough.”
Cassian tilted his head. “Still not running?”
Rowan’s voice was low. “Still not afraid.”
Elsewhere in the city, Julian ward was seething.
His penthouse was spotless but deadly quiet. A single email glowed on the massive screen in his home office:
INVITATION: THE WESLEY FOUNDATION REBIRTH GALA
He read the name over and over again.
Cassian Wesley.
Smiling. Confident. Wearing white like an angel fresh from sin.
Julian clenched his jaw and walked to his bar. He poured whiskey not because he needed it, but because destruction always tasted better with ice.
He stared at the invite.
“So, you want to play, Cass?” he murmured. “Fine. Let’s play.”
He picked up his phone and dialed.
“Move the timeline up,” he said when the other end picked up.
There was a pause.
“It’ll be messy.”
Julian smiled coldly. “Then make it glorious.”
He ended the call, his eyes still fixed on the screen.
“I’ll see you at the gala, darling.”
Back at the penthouse, Cassian stood by the window, arms crossed as the city stretched before him like a chessboard.
He heard his phone buzz again.
Cassian picked it up and blinked at the name.
Preston.
He considered ignoring it. Instead, he answered.
“Father,” he said, light and unreadable.
“Do you enjoy making enemies out of allies?” Preston snapped.
Cassian smiled. “I enjoy cleaning up your mess. The gala is good PR.”
“You invited Julian ward?”
“Everyone deserves a second chance, don’t you think?”
“You’re treating this like theatre.”
“It is theatre,” Cassian replied. “And the company needed a new lead.”
Preston’s voice dropped. “Is this your way of declaring war?”
Cassian turned toward the skyline. “No, Father. This is me taking back control of my narrative. Finally.”
There was a pause.
“Just be careful what doors you kick open, Cassian. Some things don’t go back in the box.”
“Maybe they shouldn’t.”
He ended the call and turned to Rowan.
“Are you sure about this?” Rowan asked.
“No,” Cassian said, walking past him. “But for once, I’m not running either.”
The gala loomed.
So did the war.
And Cassian Wesley was ready.
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