ChapterSeven
The car eased to a stop in front of towering iron gates. They didn't creak—they whispered open, like a secret Cassie had carried too long, finally letting itself out.
She sat still in the backseat, hands folded neatly in her lap, wrists taut with restraint. The Masters estate loomed ahead, rising out of the landscape like it had been carved from shadow and glass. Not a home. A fortress. The kind of place meant to be seen from a distance, admired like a painting, but never touched.
The driver stepped out and opened her door. Cassie didn't move until he nodded, and even then, her movements were measured. Deliberate. Her heels struck the marble path with the sharp click of someone who refused to be fragile.
There was no breeze. No scent of blooming flowers, no laughter from unseen rooms. Just cold, polished silence stretching in every direction.
She adjusted the collar of her coat—not for warmth, but as a shield. A small, silent rebellion in wool.
Inside, the foyer was a cathedral built for wealth. Double-height ceilings stretched above her like a sky designed by architects. A staircase of pure glass curved upward with quiet arrogance. Art clung to the walls—impressive, but emotionally vacant. The air smelled faintly of varnished wood and something colder, something like chilled metal.
Cassie's eyes followed the staircase.
At the top, Christian stood. He didn't walk down to greet her. He didn't smile. He simply watched, one hand resting lightly on the railing like it belonged to him. Like everything here did.
"Welcome," he said, voice smooth as poured liquor. "To your new beginning."
She didn't reply. She stepped inside instead.
No warmth met her.
Just light—precise, curated light that fell across the marble like a spotlight on a stage. Everything about the house was theater.
Christian moved with a calm that was almost clinical, leading her through the house as if unveiling an exhibit. She walked beside him without speaking, her gaze flicking across each cold corner. Cameras tucked inside sculptures. Lights that flickered on when they moved. No family photos. No worn furniture. No life.
They reached a door on the left. He opened it with a slight tilt of his head.
"Your suite."
The room inside was elegant and large—almost too large. Pale silver curtains floated by the windows, barely moving. Ivory sheets were folded tight on the bed. A private terrace stood just beyond sliding glass doors. It all looked perfect.
Too perfect.
Cassie stood in the doorway but didn't cross the threshold.
"And yours?" she asked, her tone cool but curious.
Christian didn't blink. "Other side of the estate. I find distance… civilizing."
She raised a brow. "I find it suspicious."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "We're off to a great start."
They stood there a moment longer, something electric sparking between them and dying just as quickly. Her heart thudded—not from fear, but from adrenaline. The kind that coils under your skin before a leap.
This wasn't a marriage.
It was a chessboard.
And Christian had just played the first move.
The study was colder than the rest of the house—not in temperature, but in spirit. Cool-toned wood lined the walls, blending with leather chairs and a gleaming desk that looked untouched by time. A fireplace flickered quietly behind a panel of glass, its fire real but restrained.
On the desk sat a contract.
Thick. Leather-bound. Waiting for her like a crown waits for a queen—except this crown had weight.
Christian crossed the room and stood behind the desk, resting one hand on the back of a chair.
Cassie didn't wait for instruction.
She sat.
He slid the contract toward her without ceremony. "This," he said, "is the cost of your last name."
Her fingers grazed the edge of the leather cover before she opened it.
The paper inside was heavy, textured, expensive. The kind you didn't touch without knowing you'd just agreed to something. She flipped through the pages slowly, her face unreadable.
Affection Clause: Public affection must be maintained at all times. This includes hand-holding, light touches, and verbal expressions of care.
Image Rights: All public-facing events, interviews, and appearances are to be managed and approved by Masters Corp PR.
Secrecy Clause: Under no circumstances may the nature or origin of the marriage be discussed. Not publicly. Not privately.
Financial Clause: A termination fee of $10 million will be owed to the injured party should either side break the contract.
Cassie reached the last page, then looked up at him. "Ten million?"
His voice didn't change. "Call it motivation."
She tilted her head. "And what exactly do I get?"
Christian's expression didn't waver. "Your father's debt—erased. Your name—intact. Your reputation—restored. Access to a life most people only dream of."
He paused, gaze locked on hers.
"And all you have to do is play your part."
Cassie closed the contract gently.
She didn't say anything.
She stared at it, then opened it again.
The pen was already there—placed with care, like he'd known she would sign.
Her fingers wrapped around it. Her grip was steady.
No trembling.
No second guesses.
She signed in one fluid motion. Elegant, clean, final.
She set the pen down.
Christian was watching her, eyes unreadable. "You didn't ask for edits."
Cassie leaned back in the chair, lips curving faintly. "I like surprises."
His gaze sharpened, studying her as if trying to find the edge she'd hidden.
But whatever he was looking for, she didn't give it.
She stood, brushing invisible lint from her skirt. "That's it?"
"For now."
"Am I allowed to see the grounds, or does the affection clause chain me to your side already?"
"You can explore," he said. "Just don't stray too far."
Cassie smiled, a slow, razor-thin smile. "Wouldn't want to break the illusion."
She turned and walked out on her own.
The hallway was lined with mirrors—gilded and large, reflecting every movement, every shift in posture. But these weren't ordinary mirrors. They weren't for vanity. They were for watching.
Cassie paused midway down, her hand resting lightly on the edge of a frame. Her reflection stared back at her. A woman with softly curled hair, dressed in cream silk. Her posture perfect. Her lips composed.
But her eyes—
Her eyes looked like a girl who'd buried herself and signed a contract in her place.
Cassie didn't flinch.
At the far end of the corridor, another reflection came into view.
Christian stood there, arms crossed, silent. Watching her through the glass. Not directly, but from behind. A man studying the art he owned.
He didn't speak. Neither did she.
But something passed between them in the quiet.
Not heat.
Not tenderness.
A kind of promise.
A kind of threat.
Let him believe he'd won. Let him believe this was his game.
Cassie turned without a word, her steps measured and silent.
She had no intention of being anyone's pawn.
She hadn't signed her name to surrender.
She'd signed it to burn the gameboard down.