Cassidy #3
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
The question slips out quieter than I intended.
Evander stills, his eyes raking over my face, his scent souring.
Then he exhales softly, fingertips brushing slightly higher against my waist.
“Cassidy, I—”
“Well,” a familiar, amused voice interrupts smoothly beside us, “this already looks far more interesting than the auction speeches.”
I startle slightly as we both turn. Evander’s scent darkens as he takes Frankie in, whereas I’m kind of surprised by the disappointment.
Frankie stands at the edge of the dance floor holding two champagne flutes, his dark eyes openly amused.
“May I cut in?” he asks, but without waiting for an answer, he passes me one of the glasses of champagne and half-tugs me off the dance floor.
I stumble slightly as Frankie tugs me with him, barely managing not to spill the champagne he’s placed into my hand.
Behind us, Evander doesn’t follow. I glance back before I can stop myself.
His expression is dark enough to make my stomach drop, all the warmth from a moment ago stripped away beneath something sharp and furious.
Oh. He’s angry.
Furious.
Just a moment ago we were—it doesn’t matter, Cassie.
He’s entitled to be angry at me. Even if I’m silly enough to let it hurt.
The thought hurts more than it should, and I turn back around quickly, tightening my fingers around the delicate stem of the glass.
Maybe I should’ve said no.
Maybe I should’ve stayed with him.
Maybe I’ve said something to somehow make things worse between us.
I glance his way, but he’s gone now, and my face falls.
“You all right?” Frankie asks lightly, guiding me away from the dance floor and towards the auction displays. “You looked a bit trapped there.”
“Did I?” I ask, forcing a small laugh, as I give him my full focus.
“Little bit.” He grins at me over his shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ve rescued you.”
Rescued.
The word should probably feel comforting. Instead, my skin prickles strangely.
Because I hadn’t felt trapped. Not even a little bit. I felt… treasured.
As if he genuinely wanted me there. And I liked that far more than I should have.
He was intense, yes. Overwhelming. Far too confident. Far too much.
But he’d also been warm.
Steady. Comforting.
His scent felt like home, like the most relaxing, safe thing I’ve ever been around.
Even more so than my parents.
And now, being away from him, it’s different. The room feels colder in a way I hate that I notice, and my chest feels tighter with anxiety.
Even my exhaustion feels harder to ignore, like it’s now fully seeping into me again.
Frankie stops beside a display of framed fashion sketches, each one lit beneath soft golden spotlights. “Pretty impressive, isn’t it?”
“It’s beautiful,” I say automatically, trying to muster up some genuine enthusiasm.
“Visaro sponsored this section.” His chest lifts slightly as he says it. “My team handled the styling for the promotional shoot.”
I smile, although it’s more of a grimace. “That’s amazing, Frankie.”
“I’m senior now,” he adds, too casually for it to be an offhand comment. “Youngest senior stylist they’ve promoted in years, apparently.”
I glance around the room, trying to spot my mum, or… anyone I know. But there’s nobody.
And I’m being unfair to Frankie.
“That’s brilliant, Frankie,” I say, placing my hand on his arm and squeezing gently. “Really. You should be proud of yourself.”
Frankie worked extremely hard at university. He was talented even then, always polished and confident in a way I found both intimidating and reassuring during first year.
He’d helped me when everything felt too big. I owe him a lot.
So, I smile in all the right places as he talks about Visaro, about campaign direction, about how impossible clients can be when they want luxury without understanding taste.
I ask the right questions and laugh when I’m supposed to. I prompt for more and keep up the facade, no matter how drained I am and how much I wish I could leave.
He’s my friend, and he deserves my attention.
Frankie gestures towards another auction lot, still talking, but I only catch half of it.
Something about Milan and a difficult model. He was indispensable and saved the entire day.
Or something.
“That must’ve been stressful.”
He smiles, pleased. “It was, but you know me. I thrive under pressure.”
I used to admire that about him. I still do, in a way.
But now, all I can think about is Evander noticing I was waiting for a fight and choosing not to give me one.
Isaac quietly encouraging me to eat without making me feel small.
Silas making me laugh when I’m nervous.
Harlan watching me like he’s furious I exist in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Frankie was my friend.
A good one. A safe one.
But Evander wasn’t safe at all, and the others… well, they were becoming something I didn’t know what to do with.
I’m not ready to bond with Evander. I don’t know if I ever will be. He deserves better, deserves someone who can handle living without breaking down.
But part of me… the selfish, greedy part, wishes I could run back to the dance floor—or to the table—and find him.
“Cassidy?”
My mum’s voice cuts gently through Frankie’s story, and relief loosens something in my chest before I can stop it.
I turn to find her standing a few feet away, phone in one hand, concern softening her expression.
“There you are,” she says. “I was about to come and rescue you from the networking.”
Frankie laughs easily. “I was being charming, Mrs Hargrove.”
“You always think you are,” Mum says, smiling.
He presses a hand dramatically to his chest. “Absolutely wounded.”
I manage a small laugh, and my mum’s eyes narrow as she moves to my side. She wraps her arm around me, gently drawing me from Frankie’s side as her scent washes over me.
“I’m heading home soon, sweetheart. Would you like to come with me, or would you rather stay, and I can arrange for someone to pick you up later?”
For a second, I almost look back towards the ballroom.
But the exhaustion sitting beneath my skin is too heavy now, and the thought of finding everyone again feels impossible.
“I’ll come with you,” I say, trying not to sound too relieved.
Mum beams at me like she expected that answer. “All right, darling.”
I say goodbye to Frankie, letting him kiss my cheek even though my attention has already started drifting.
We move through the ballroom slowly, but I don’t see Evander.
Or Isaac.
Or Harlan.
Part of me is grateful. Part of me aches in a way I don’t want to examine.
Just as we reach the entrance, I glance back one last time.
Silas stands across the room near one of the towering floral arrangements, champagne glass loose in his hand, dark eyes already fixed on me.
The intensity of his stare should probably unsettle me. Usually, it does.
Tonight, though, something about it feels different, and it’s almost relieving to have his eyes on me.
It’s as if he cares enough to see me leave, to see me safe.
I hold his gaze for half a second too long before Mum touches my elbow gently.
“Ready?”
I nod and let her lead me out. The car ride home is quiet.
Mum works on her phone most of the way, her thumbs moving quickly over the screen as city lights slip past the window in gold and silver streaks.
I rest my head against the glass and let the night wash over me.
The music.
The laughter.
Evander’s hand at my waist. Isaac’s wink.
Harlan’s unreadable stares.
Silas watching me leave.
By the time we get home, I’m too tired to pretend I’m not ready for bed. My parents don’t push it, and after a few quick goodnights, I escape to my room.
I make it upstairs on autopilot, wash my face, change into soft pyjamas, and gather the familiar things that usually help settle me.
Blankets. Pillows.
The cardigan that smells faintly like my parents’ scents. A book I don’t intend to read but want just in case.
I arrange my nest carefully, tucking everything into its proper place until the shape feels right.
Safe. Soft.
Mine.
Then I crawl into the centre of it and pull the blankets around myself.
For a moment, I wait for the usual relief to come.
It doesn’t.
The nest is warm. Comfortable. Perfectly arranged. It smells like home.
And still, somehow, it feels entirely wrong.
My throat tightens as I stare into the darkness. Because this time, I know exactly what’s missing.
Or should I say—who.
Maybe more than one person.
I close my eyes before the thought can become a name.
I’m not ready for that. Not yet.
Even if my traitorous body says otherwise.