ChapterThree
Cassie sat at the far end of the long dining table, legs curled under her robe, fingers absentmindedly tracing the condensation ring left by her untouched water glass. The morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows in soft gold shafts, too clean and bright for how she felt inside. Everything looked too still, like the house was holding its breath.
Across from her, Arthur placed a leather folder on the polished mahogany with the care of someone setting down a dinner bill, not the contract that would shatter what was left of her life.
He didn't look at her. Just reached for the French press, poured his coffee into the porcelain cup, stirred it twice like always, and took a sip.
"It's done," he said without inflection. "You're expected Friday."
The words landed heavy between them. Like lead. Like finality.
Cassie stared at the folder. There was no monogram. No family crest. Nothing decorative or ceremonial. Just cream-colored paper and black ink spelling out the end of her freedom.
Her heartbeat thundered against her ribs. She didn't say anything at first. Her throat was tight, her mouth dry, but when she finally spoke, her voice was cold and hard.
"You're giving me away like property."
Arthur didn't flinch. He adjusted the gold cufflink on his wrist with calm precision.
"I'm preserving what's left of this family."
Cassie barked a bitter laugh. "With a sale. That's rich."
Still no reaction. He took another sip. "Christian Masters made the offer himself. He asked for you by name."
She blinked. That cracked something inside her.
Cassie shoved her chair back, the legs screeching against the marble floor like a warning siren. "Why?" she snapped. "Why me?"
Arthur stood too, but slower. Calmer. Like he had all the time in the world. ""He believes you're a suitable match," he said evenly. "Polished. Presentable. You'll give his name the refinement it lacks."
He didn't say the rest, but Cassie heard it in the silence—Christian had power. Money. Empire. But not legacy. Not the kind that came with her bloodline. He didn't just want a wife. He wanted a crown that smiled back.
Her mouth dropped open in disbelief. "So that's what I am now? A press release with good posture?"
He didn't respond.
Cassie's voice rose, shaking now. "You didn't even try to ask what I wanted."
He looked her straight in the eye then—finally—and it was worse than if he hadn't. Because there was nothing in his gaze. Not love. Not regret. Just cold, businesslike detachment. The kind that signs away a daughter and then gets back to a quarterly report.
"You're the only asset we have left," he said flatly.
She froze.
And then she walked out before she did something unforgivable.
Charlotte's room had always been too pink. Too soft. A cotton-candy fantasy Cassie had never understood. But right now, it felt like the only place in the house not trying to eat her alive.
Her younger sister sat curled on the window seat, knees hugged to her chest, hair falling over her face. She wore socks with little strawberries on them, and Cassie suddenly remembered buying them for her last Christmas, in a moment of weakness at Saks.
Charlotte didn't say anything. She just held out an old photo—one of them at the beach as kids. Cassie's arm around her, grinning so wide her eyes had nearly disappeared.
Cassie took it, her hand trembling.
"He didn't even meet me," she said, her voice so low it felt like a thought more than a sentence. "Didn't ask. Didn't care. Just signed me over like I'm a damn shipment."
Charlotte looked at her carefully. Her voice was barely audible. "Will you be okay?"
Cassie didn't answer. She didn't even nod. Because she didn't know how to lie anymore.
In the hallway just beyond the open door, Victoria stood like a statue—immaculate makeup, pearls around her throat, one hand resting lightly on the banister. Watching. Not speaking. A ghost wrapped in satin.
Then she turned and disappeared down the stairs.
Back in her room, the contract waited like a predator.
Cassie sat on the edge of the bed and opened it. Not slowly. Not dramatically. Just flipped through it like someone reading her own autopsy.
Page after page of ink and silence. Terms. Conditions. Legalese that turned her into a commodity. Her eyes landed on a clause:
The bride agrees to uphold public appearances as a united front.
She gave a small, humorless laugh. The kind that didn't reach her eyes. The kind you let out because the alternative is screaming.
She wouldn't cry. Wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her break. Tears were something they could weaponize. Emotions made it easier for them to call her dramatic or unstable or fragile.
No. Not this time.
She picked up her phone. Scrolled past dozens of names that felt fake now. Until she saw one that wasn't.
Maddie.
They hadn't talked in almost a year. A falling-out that had more to do with Cassie retreating than anything Maddie had done. Pride had built a wall Cassie couldn't climb back over.
But tonight? Pride wasn't worth a damn.
She tapped the message box, thumb hovering for a long beat.
Then she typed:
I need one night. Before I belong to him.
She hit send.
The shower was long. Too long. She didn't rush. Let the water burn over her skin until her fingertips wrinkled, until the steam made her forget where she was. Like maybe, if she stood there long enough, she could rinse away everything—her last name, her father's greed, the feeling of being owned.
The mirror was fogged up when she stepped out, but even blurred, her reflection didn't lie. Tired eyes. Hollow cheeks. Shoulders held too tight.
She dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt—simple, comfortable. The kind of outfit that didn't scream Kensington or daughter of the elite. Just Cassie. Whoever that still was.
Downstairs, Rosa met her at the door, apron dusted with flour. Her brows pinched with concern.
Cassie leaned in and kissed her cheek. Said nothing. She didn't owe anyone here an explanation.
And then she walked out.
The house behind her might as well have been a tomb.
Maddie picked the spot—a rooftop bar in Tribeca with neon drinks and music that hummed through the floor. The city lights flickered behind them like stars on speed.
Cassie spotted her right away. Combat boots. Winged eyeliner. That same lopsided grin that had gotten them kicked out of high school prom after-party for climbing the hotel rooftop.
"Look what the heiress dragged in," Maddie said, sliding a drink across the table.
Cassie took it without a word and tossed it back. "I want to forget."
Maddie didn't ask. Just flagged the bartender for another round. No judgment. No questions. Just the kind of understanding you don't need to explain.
They danced. They drank. They laughed until their stomachs hurt and their makeup smeared. It was like being seventeen again—stupid, wild, free.
And for a moment, Cassie remembered what it felt like to belong to herself.
Later, Maddie caught her between songs, breathless. "So who is he?"
Cassie's smile slipped. "Christian Masters."
Maddie froze. "As in... Masters Global?"
Cassie nodded once.
Maddie gave a low whistle. "Jesus. And you're marrying him?"
Cassie didn't answer. Just stared out over the skyline like maybe it held the answer.
It was 2:04 a.m. when she stepped out onto her own balcony. The city was still pulsing below, alive and indifferent. The wind cut through her like it knew what was coming.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
Unknown number.
Friday. 9 a.m. Car will be waiting.
She stared at it. Let the chill seep into her bones.
Then, under her breath, she whispered, "You should've met me first, you bastard."
She deleted the message.
And this time, when she stepped back inside, she didn't look back.