Chapter 14
CASSANDRA
Three days before Christmas…
Icheck my phone again.
No updates. Nothing but the last message posted in the hospital portal.
Payment received. Surgery confirmed.
There was no name on the donor note, only some charity foundation with clean paperwork.
I know whose hand is behind it.
Gratitude settles heavy and complicated in my chest. Across town, Clara is undergoing surgery, her heart stopped while they work on it.
I should be there.
But I’m not, because the man who made that payment expects me on his arm tonight. “Girlfriend,” he said in that low voice I want to bottle up and drink.
Smile. Speak only when he wants me to. I owe him. I also want him to be pleased with me.
I stand in the doorway of my suite, smoothing the dress I spent all morning altering.
Christmas scandal has been remade into Christmas precision.
I adjusted the straps, added a whisper of lace at the plunge so it’s audacious without becoming a wardrobe malfunction, nipped the waist a shade, let the hips breathe, and tamed the slit into something that flashes thigh on purpose.
The ribbon is still at my wrist, a neat bow that feels less like a leash these days and more like a promise I’ve chosen to keep.
Damien fills the threshold in a black tux that he looks poured into. Silver at his temples, and that short silver beard that weaponizes his jaw. Dark blue eyes that look like frosted steel.
He stops, staring.
No quip, no lecture. Just that silence that means the system is booting back up after a power surge.
“Turn,” he says at last.
I turn. The recessed lighting moves over me. When I face him again, his mouth is a thin line of control.
“You changed it.”
“I improved it,” I correct because he asked me a question, and precision is a rule.
“The original neckline would have slipped when I breathed. I reinforced the mesh. Took in the waist a quarter inch, released the hips a half, shortened the straps, and added a lace insert at the slit so it reads as deliberate, not desperate.”
His eyes track the seam work. The heat in them makes me remember last night, and the night before, and the night before that. His thumb grazes the bow at my wrist.
“Say it again,” he murmurs, amused. “Deliberate, not—”
“Desperate.”
He leans in and kisses me, the taste of whiskey on his tongue sliding against mine with a perfect certainty. When he pulls back, I’m drunk on nothing but him.
“Remember, tonight I will be introducing you as my girlfriend. Smile. Keep your hand on my arm. Speak only when I say to. If I say quiet, you are quiet. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He offers his arm. “Let’s go.”
The villa ballroom has been transformed into a beautiful winter cathedral.
Glass chandeliers drip light over gorgeous garlands.
A string quartet hides in the balcony, pouring Christmas music over the scene.
A tall tree stands at the far end, ornamented to perfection.
The floor is filled with guests, some notorious, some famous, some a little of both.
I feel eyes on us the second we step in.
My spine goes straight on instinct. Damien’s hand rests at the small of my back.
Girlfriend. The word clicks around the room with the stealth of a rumor.
I keep my smile, mind my posture, and try to stay focused on the rules.
In my head, I’m counting down the hours until Clara is out of surgery.
There’s a man posted by one of the stone pillars.
His posture says plainclothes cop. I haven’t met Alex Durov, but I know that’s him.
He’s staked where he can see doors, elevators, and every smile pretending to be harmless.
His gaze sweeps across the room, landing on Damien, the exits, then me.
He holds for a beat. A cop’s once-over, quick and complete, like he’s taking my measurements for a file.
Damien follows my gaze. “Alex Durov. You’ll meet him soon. He’s a trusted ally.”
“Got it.”
“And his brother, Ivan,” Damien adds, nodding subtly toward the crowd.
I feel him before I spot him. He’s halfway to drunk, leaning on a Velvet Ledger hostess—what my job with Damien was originally meant to be. Another hostess laughs too loudly at something he says. He seems to know how to be charming when he wants to be.
“Ivan is a different matter. Now, eyes forward.”
“Eyes,” I echo, locking them straight ahead.
People come. People go. Names attach to faces I’ve seen and heard before. Damien shakes hands, introducing me with a lift in his tone that reads “mine” to anyone listening. I meet eyes, smile pleasantly, say hello, and nothing more.
Precision. It’s easier than I thought it would be.
We make a slow circuit toward the tree. I smell champagne, perfume, and a hint of cigar that someone slipped through. He rests his hand on mine when a man I don’t recognize stares too long at me. The look Damien gives him is a cold warning. The man seems to instantly remember his place.
The temperature drops ten degrees when I hear, “Darling.”
Raquel Chesterfield steps up to us. Blonde hair falling in perfect waves, tight black dress hugging every curve, ice-blue eyes that know how to find a camera, finding Damien instead. She glides with the confidence of someone used to owning a room.
“It’s been too long,” she tells Damien, lips curving into a lustful grin.
“Miss Chesterfield,” he greets. It’s polite with zero warmth.
“Miss Chesterfield?” she purrs. “Please. Is that any way to speak to someone you used to be so very close with?”
Her gaze flicks to me and narrows, cataloging. Recognition lands—the boutique. The way her mouth curves says she remembers me carrying dresses and steaming sleeves.
“And you,” she says. “I know you.”
“I work at Thierry. We’ve met.”
“Worked,” Damien corrects gently. “She’s on leave.”
“On leave,” Raquel repeats. “Interesting.” Her lashes drop, giving Damien a once-over. “I was just telling somebody the other day how no one can wear a suit like you do.”
Damien’s hand presses at my back. “Cassandra is my girlfriend.”
The word snaps in the air. Conversations nearby hiccup then continue with new volume. Raquel’s smile doesn’t change on the surface, but something behind it does.
“How… sweet. And sudden.”
“Some things don’t require time,” he replies curtly.
She turns the full wattage of her smile on me. “I suppose we should thank Thierry,” she says, eyes sliding over my dress. “They clearly found you something that… works.”
“It does,” I say evenly. “Though I made a few changes.”
Her brow lifts. “Did you.”
“Cassandra is a designer,” Damien explains before she can angle the insult sharper. “She knows her craft.”
The word designer lifts my chin by half an inch. Raquel notices and laughs, then quickly cuts it off.
“You’ve always had excellent taste,” she says to Damien, a compliment that turns into a weapon when it points at me. “You could have had anyone.”
“I have who I want,” he replies. “You can respect that or remove yourself. And if you say another unkind word toward Cassandra, I’ll make the decision for you.”
Those around us hear. Raquel holds his gaze a few seconds, then smiles.
“Of course,” she says sweetly. “Congratulations.” She pivots, her hand touching my arm.
“May I borrow her for a moment?” she asks Damien over her shoulder, voice honeyed.
“No,” he says.
She smiles wider, pretending she didn’t hear. “Just to welcome her,” she coos, already pulling me away.
When we’re out of Damien’s earshot, she hisses, “From one insider to another, a man like Damien eats pretty little liars like you for breakfast. What happens when he finds out you’re just a shopgirl playing dress-up?”
My stomach does a loop. I keep smiling, just like Damien told me to. “Didn’t you hear him? He already knows. And yet, I’m still here.”
For a second, there’s a crack in her expression, then, “Enjoy tonight.” Her gaze skims me again. “See you on the floor,” she says, which sounds like both a threat and a promise. Then she floats away, the bangles at her wrist clinking like coins.
I return to Damien. His eyes find mine first, flick to where Raquel was, then back to me. His hand returns to the small of my back, grounding me.
Across the room, Raquel drifts toward Ivan as if pulled by a tide. He lifts his glass and gives her a sloppy smile. She leans in, laughing at something only the two of them can hear. Alex shifts position by the pillar, reading the room. The strings climb an octave like a warning.
I stand with Damien in the center of the ballroom, the red ribbon on my pulse, the tree lights shining like small crystals, while on the other side of the city, a machine is asking my sister’s heart to wake.