Chapter 4-THE ROOM WITH THE LOCKED DRAWER

The storm broke at midnight.

Not the kind that thundered outside, but the one Anais had been holding in her chest since Irene walked out the door.

She lay in bed, listening to the quiet. Cassian wasn’t home yet. He hadn’t texted. Hadn’t called. He rarely did unless it served a purpose. Still, part of her had thought maybe—just maybe—after the morning they’d had, he might—

No. That wasn’t who he was. Not anymore.

Maybe not ever.

She got out of bed and walked barefoot to the study.

She didn’t turn on the lights. The city glowed through the massive windows, casting long shadows on the wood floors. His desk sat in the middle of the room—matte black, surgical in its neatness, untouched by warmth.

Anais hesitated.

Then she walked behind it and sat in his chair.

The leather was cold.

She ran her fingers along the edge of the desk. It felt like him—expensive, smooth, distant. She opened the side drawers, half-expecting them to be locked, but they weren’t. Pens, papers, contracts.

Then her eyes landed on the bottom one.

Locked.

Of course.

Cassian didn’t lock things unless he had something to hide.

She crouched, checked the edges. It wasn’t a digital lock—just an old-fashioned keyhole. Her fingers hovered there.

She wasn’t sure what she expected. Proof of betrayal? Evidence of another life?

No. That was too easy.

Cassian wasn’t messy like that. If he was hiding something, it wouldn’t be obvious.

Still, the drawer mocked her. The lock sat like a secret with teeth.

She stood, suddenly restless, and paced toward the bookshelves lining the far wall. They were more for aesthetics than function. A curated selection of classic titles, bound in leather and arrogance.

And then she spotted it.

A photo.

Tucked behind a copy of The Art of War.

She pulled it out with trembling fingers.

It was a picture of them. From their engagement party. She hadn’t even known he kept it.

Her smile in the photo was soft, unsure.

His was absent.

She remembered that night.

The way his mother had kissed her cheek too hard.

The way his father had clinked a glass and said, “Welcome to the firm, not the family.”

She slid the photo back.

This place was a museum of the man he let the world see—but not the man himself.

And still, she couldn’t stop digging.

Cassian returned at 1:07 a.m.

She heard the door open, then the sound of his coat being hung up, his steps slow and measured across the hardwood floors. She didn’t move.

He found her in the study.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice low.

“Irene came by.”

He stiffened.

“And?”

“She warned me,” Anais said. “About the board. About the whispers.”

Cassian didn’t reply.

She stood and faced him. “They think I’m going to ruin your succession plan.”

“They think too much.”

“Do you?”

He studied her. “I don’t have time to think about things I can’t control.”

“But you can control me?” she asked, stepping forward.

He didn’t flinch. “You agreed to the contract.”

“So this is about the contract again.”

“It never stopped being about the contract.”

Her throat tightened. “I found the drawer.”

His eyes darkened, just slightly. “And?”

“It’s locked.”

Cassian walked past her and sat on the edge of the desk.

“Some things are better left that way.”

“Why?” she whispered. “What are you hiding from me?”

He looked up at her, then stood slowly and closed the distance between them.

“Nothing you don’t already feel,” he said.

It wasn’t an answer.

It wasn’t a denial.

It was a weight, dropped softly at her feet.

And it hurt more than shouting ever could.

The next morning, Anais sat at the breakfast table while Cassian read the paper.

Neither of them spoke.

The silence wasn’t new—but this time, it didn’t feel cold.

It felt like a wire pulled too tight, ready to snap.

“I want to work,” she said finally.

Cassian looked up, his brow slightly arched. “What?”

“I want to do something. While I’m here. Contribute.”

“To what?” he asked. “The illusion?”

“To my own sanity.”

He folded the paper and leaned back. “And where exactly do you see yourself working?”

“PR,” she said. “Brand direction. Something forward-facing. I know how this company presents itself. I lived in your shadow long enough.”

He studied her.

“No.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“It’s not safe.”

That surprised her. “For me?”

“For the company.”

Her chest burned. “You don’t trust me?”

“I don’t trust them.”

“They already hate me. You said it yourself—this is about control. Let me control something.”

He didn’t answer.

“Cassian,” she said more softly, “if I’m going to be paraded in front of the press, the least you can do is let me be part of what I’m pretending to support.”

A long silence passed.

Then he said, “You’ll shadow Irene.”

“What?”

“She’s head of strategy now. She’ll assign you something minor. No board exposure. No direct press. Internal projects only.”

It wasn’t what she wanted.

But it was a start.

“Fine,” she said. “Thank you.”

Cassian looked at her, unreadable. “Don’t thank me. This is still a cage. I just changed the color of the bars.”

Later that week, Anais stepped into the conference room where Irene was waiting.

She looked every inch the executive now—sleek ponytail, slate suit, eyes like storm clouds.

“So,” Irene said without looking up, “you’re shadowing me.”

“Apparently,” Anais replied.

“You understand what that means?”

“That I get to sit next to the power and pretend I have any?”

Irene almost smiled. “You’ve learned sarcasm.”

“I had time.”

Irene handed her a file.

“This is the real reason Cassian let you in,” she said. “A small branding overhaul for one of our subsidiaries—TruForm Technologies. They’ve got investor eyes on them for the first time. Board wants it quiet, clean, handled.”

“Why me?”

“Because they don’t think you’ll matter if it fails.”

Anais stared at the folder. “And if it doesn’t fail?”

“Then they’ll hate you more.”

She worked late.

The project wasn’t glamorous. It was spreadsheets, concept designs, branding templates.

But it was hers. And for the first time since stepping back into this life, Anais felt like she wasn’t just a prop in someone else’s narrative.

She stayed in the office long after Irene left.

She was so focused she didn’t hear the footsteps behind her until Cassian spoke.

“Working late, Mrs. Vale?”

She jumped slightly.

“You don’t announce yourself anymore?” she muttered.

“You’re trespassing in my domain,” he said.

“Correction—I’ve been assigned to it.”

He nodded toward the file in her hand. “Do you know why they gave you that one?”

“Because they think I’m a low-risk failure.”

Cassian didn’t correct her.

Instead, he moved beside her and looked at the board she’d pinned images to—color palettes, logo revisions, tagline options.

He pointed to one. “That one’s wrong.”

“It’s clean,” she argued.

“It’s safe.”

She crossed her arms. “And that’s bad?”

He turned to face her. “Anais, no one remembers safe. They remember bold. They remember broken glass and sharp edges.”

She met his eyes. “Then why did you marry someone who made everything quiet?”

The air thickened.

Cassian said nothing.

But his eyes—cold, sharp, alive—held hers for too long.

“Because I thought quiet meant peace,” he finally said.

“And now?”

“I’m learning it means silence.”

Anais watched him leave.

For the first time in a long time, she realized something.

He was lonely.

Not the kind that came from lack of people.

The kind that came from a life so tightly controlled, no one ever really knew him.

But now she did.

And the question wasn’t whether she’d stay.

It was whether she’d ever let herself need him again.

Because loving Cassian Vale wasn’t just dangerous.

It was ruin in a tailored suit.

And she wasn’t sure she could survive it twice.