Chapter 25
Cassandra
Heat blasts through the vents, circulating between the car seats and underneath the floorboards, but my cold runs bone-deep, chilled beneath the surface.
An ache pulses against the skin of my forehead where Mikhail’s doctor stitched me up.
I feel like I’ve been run through by a train.
The press of hot air merely bounces off my skin, teasing the outer layer. I’m still cold.
Glistening white hues of snow-powdered trees fly by the window one by one as we glide down the familiar road upstate.
I don’t know who’s driving. I don’t care.
All I want to do is crawl under a burning stream of water and cry whatever tears are left, then layer every fucking blanket I own onto my bed before curling up under the covers and passing out.
Some buried, infantile part of my mind implores me to call Mom to come pick me up and hold me, to take me away to some new place where we can both start fresh and make better choices about the men we let into our lives.
We could start a mother-daughter bakery and spend each day laughing, throwing flour in each other’s hair, sharing all our secrets as we had in the past, and shouting our favorite songs against the wind beating past our rolled-down windows.
The jolt of the vehicle turning onto my street cracks my fantasy, and it shatters before me like the endless fall of snow that pelts the windshield. That version of my mother is comatose, battered and bruised from a hard life and a controlling man. There’s no rescue coming. For either of us.
I stare at the purple fingermarks against my own pale arm, the bruise glinting in the glow of the passing streetlights.
In silence, the driver swings into my driveway and comes to an ominous stop.
I guess that’s my cue.
Around my shoulders still lies the thick blanket Mikhail wrapped over my arms, and I use one hand to clutch it tighter to my chest as I reach for the handle on my right.
The door swings open slowly, resisted by the several feet of fresh, crisp snow layered on the street. Reluctantly, I slip my open toes—bared by my poorly chosen stiletto heels—into the drift, ice crunching down as I rise to my feet. Cold seeps into the appendages.
Step by soggy step, I trek toward the house.
Early morning rays of light paint the stormy sky in blue and purple streaks, and little flakes stick to the strands of my hair, melting down into my scalp. Numbly, I rifle through my purse for the keys and unlock the door.
Wet footprints trail behind my steps to the bathroom door, articles of clothing flying down in my wake.
With the faucet cranked all the way to the left, I step under the burning stream and allow my hair to flatten in wet strands around my face, the last remnants of my makeup from the night before pouring down the drain.
When I finally crawl under the covers of my bed, my skin is raw, hair stuck to my face, and the morning sun creeps high through the cracks between my drawn curtains.
After wallowing in bed for two days, I should be well-rested and emotionally recovered.
At least, that’s what I tell myself. In reality, the nightmares have gotten worse since returning from Mikhail’s, and I haven’t gotten more than four hours of uninterrupted sleep for the past two nights.
I still forced myself out of bed on the first ring of my 8 AM alarm this morning, unwilling to continue the monotonous cycle of self-pity.
And anyway, I’ll be damned if I let some demented millionaire’s misguided punishment fuck with my final semester grades.
Setting the coffee to brew, I sit down at the desk and open my notebook to a fresh page, starting a list for the day.
One step after the other, Cass.
Soon enough, I’m hacking through my budget analysis homework, completely absorbed in finishing each task as thoroughly as I can manage.
I love the clean repetitions between each case study, but my favorite part of these is the problem-solving: the assessment of each individual client’s needs and timeframe, and working to shift the budget to favor different priorities.
Completing a task as straightforward and applicable as this one makes the world seem so much simpler than it actually is.
Years can be planned in a matter of minutes, and plans can be molded into whatever shape best fits the company’s needs.
Yeah, sure, it sounds boring, but I find that many people don’t appreciate the privilege of being “boring.” I shake my head, thinking of how horrifyingly eventful my life has been lately.
Case in point. I can’t wait to find a job and make good money someday, maybe move into the middle of the woods so I only need to see another human every few—
A knock sounds at the door. My heart jumps into my throat.
I’m pretty sure my roommate is still fast asleep in her room, and Sophia never shows up at my place before texting me first. Maybe she has an emergency?
I tiptoe toward the door. Some easily avoided part of my mind must be aware of the chance that it’s in fact not my best friend on the other side of the door, because I snatch up my can of bedazzled mace from the side table before I approach the entrance and crack the door open—
Which I immediately slam shut.
“Cassandra, please. I just want to talk.”
I press my body against the wood, anger pumping through my veins. I cannot believe he had the nerve to come here!
“Cass, just open the door. Please.”
I crack the hinge once again and glare up at Mikhail’s revealed face.
His eyes are dark and haggard, like he hasn’t been sleeping, his skin dull and pale.
He looks worse for wear. Most notably, an angry red stripe stretches from cheek to cheek, the lingering proof of my attack bringing sick joy to my wounded soul.
“Leave,” I growl, low and guttural. I try to slam the door shut again, but his foot slides into the gap, jamming the door open.
“Please, Cass, please just listen to me for one minute.” His voice is begging, steeped in anguish.
“And then you will leave?” I ask, raising a brow.
“Yes,” he promises. He’s close. So close that I can smell the woodsy spice of his cologne that makes me want to crawl into his arms and accept all the excuses he’ll surely produce. To forget that awful night ever happened. The urge makes me hate him all the more.
“Fine. Speak.”
There’s a beat of silence, like he wasn’t sure he’d get this far with me, but eventually he senses the urgency in my mood and responds.
“I’m so sorry, Cassandra. I…don’t know where to start.
My organization was given false evidence that you were an infiltrator.
That you fabricated your way into my life and drew me in to steal vital information from me.
I had only intended to keep you in the holding cell while I investigated the claims, and once I realized my mistake… ”
I absorb his words in confused reluctance, each claim sounding more fucked up than the last.
He takes a small step forward, leveling my gaze.
“I had no idea, Cass, or I would never have left you in there, even then, as angry as I was.”
I squint my eyes.
“Had no idea?”
“That you were scared of being locked in places. I had no idea you would panic like that. I just had to keep you safe from any efforts of retaliation until I could figure out what to do next.”
I release a cruel laugh, shaking my head. I’m not sure how he even managed to recognize my claustrophobia, but what a fucking joke. Sorry, baby, if I knew you had issues, I never would have locked you in my kill room.
“And I suppose you expect me to believe this? That even if this were true, it would suddenly make everything right between us again?”
“No. I don’t expect you to believe me. I don’t expect you to even forgive me.”
“Then what the hell do you expect me to do with this information, Mikhail?” I yell into his face.
His brows fold down with an expression that would look a lot like shame if I didn’t know any better.
“I just needed you to know. To understand how sorry I am that I hurt you. I think you matter to me more than anyone else in my life.”
“We barely know each other, Mikhail! And every single time I’ve tried to get to know you better, you’ve shut me down.
I don’t even know what you actually do for work—this ‘organization’ that you thought I infiltrated.
” I let out an exasperated sigh. “You have some serious issues you’ve got to take care of.
You need professional help. How the hell can you claim I’m the person you care about the most if you don’t even trust me? ”
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’ll try harder.”
“There’s no need. I have plans that are bigger than being dragged around by you anytime you get into another one of those moods.
I want some fucking security and safety for once in my life, and you will never be that for me.
” I look up at his sad gaze, unimpeded by his ghostly beauty and pitiful stance. “Goodbye, Mikhail. Please leave me be.”
I shut the door and slide down to the floor, overwhelmed by the crushing weight that crashes down on me.
I stare down, listening until the sound of footsteps walking away vibrates through the ground.
Unwillingly, that staggering, all-consuming kiss we shared on the twinkling balcony whips through my memory, teasing the breathless joy it left behind.
Then the scene dissipates, and I remember the stale room.
The closing door. The sound of the lock clicking against my screams.
“Cassandra, please don’t have visitors over this early. I was trying to sleep,” Veronica suddenly yells out from her room, voice muffled by the closed door.
I sigh, rising to my feet with a new type of heaviness strapped to my chest.