Chapter 24
CASSANDRA
Christmas morning nudges me awake in Damien’s room.
I’m alone.
Last night hums in my body and I smile at the memory.
I pull on a robe and pad into the hall. The villa feels softer today. Through the tall windows, snow falls like lace over the birch trees. Somewhere downstairs, mellow Christmas jazz plays. The air smells like butter, cinnamon, and coffee.
I follow the music to the study. A fire crackles in the hearth. The tree stands tall, bright, and perfect, presents stacked neatly underneath and around it. Not three or four but an avalanche. Boxes of every size, all wrapped in silk ribbons with the exact red of the bow tied at my wrist.
For a second, I just stand there, half laughing, half overwhelmed, the soft light flickering in the glass ornaments.
On the desk, propped against the lamp, sits an envelope with my name.
Merry Christmas, Cassandra.
Enjoy the gifts. Eat. Rest.
I’m out handling business. The house is secure.
Your day is yours.
—D.
Part of me sours. It’s Christmas, and he leaves me alone with a note? Another part reminds me that we have an arrangement, not a relationship.
He’s not my boyfriend. I’m not sure what to call him. Employer? Keeper? Problem I chose? All of the above and something else that doesn’t fit in a box.
I set the note down and breathe, kneeling by the tree. I open a few boxes, gasping at what I find inside.
The ribbons slide off easily, the contents of the first box nearly knocking me flat.
A dress I’ve only ever dreamed about owning from Thierry—emerald satin, cut for my figure alone.
The next one is midnight-blue, sleek and sharp, with sleeves like water and a waistline that’ll make strangers stare.
Then velvet—deep plum, slit to the thigh, corseted.
Black patent Louboutin’s with the signature red soles. A cashmere coat so soft, I stop and nuzzle it against my face. A Birkin, matte black, gold hardware, rich leather unlike anything I’ve ever touched before.
Some women spend years trying to get their hands on one, and here it is, sitting under Damien Kozlov’s Christmas tree like it’s no big deal.
I find a velvet box with a diamond bracelet inside. And last, but not least, a leather sketchbook with thick paper that begs for ink, a fountain pen attached. The note nudges: Create something, Cassandra.
Gratitude lights up my face before I can stop it, with unease sliding right in behind. I think about the gunfire from the other night, the sting at my arm. The gifts feel like a reward and a tether all at once. My fingers trace the bracelet.
The truth is, I’m a little overwhelmed by it all. Grateful, but overwhelmed.
I follow the smell to the kitchen, unable to ignore the grumbling in my stomach any longer.
Alex is at the stove in a dark sweater, posture all cop. He glances over, mouth tipping into a smirk. “Merry Christmas. Hope you’re not disappointed.”
I grab a mug. “Depends. Are you a good cook?”
“I like to think so.” He flips a pancake. “I can do Santa—strawberries for the hat, whipped cream for the beard. Make it festive.”
I laugh before I can help it. “Not necessary. Plain is perfect.”
He plates two and slides them over with syrup and butter. In the morning light, he’s less stoic and more dry humor. I don’t know him, not really, but I like him just fine in this light.
“Why are you here on Christmas?” I ask, then wince at my nosy tone. “Don’t you have people?”
“My people are working,” he says. “Besides, you need breakfast.” A beat. “And eyes on the house.”
I cut into the pancake. It’s perfect—crisp edge, soft middle, butter melting into the seams. “These are fantastic.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” he says, straight-faced. “It might ruin my reputation as a hard ass if it gets out that I make the perfect pancake.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” I say, mouth full. “And thanks. Where’s Damien?”
“Away,” Alex says simply. “He’s coming back tomorrow, I think. Handling business tied to the other night.”
That means no Damien on Christmas. I hate that it bothers me so much, but it does.
“What kind of business?”
“The kind you don’t need on your plate,” he says. “He asked me to escort you wherever you need to go today.”
The word escort sits bitterly. I grip the mug tighter. “The hospital,” I say. “I need to see my sister.”
Alex nods once, a plan already moving in his head. “Ten minutes. We’ll take the back route.”
“Got it.”
I get dressed after breakfast. Once in the foyer, I slip into my coat. The bracelet rubs against my wrist—bright and expensive.
The cold bites as soon as we step outside, the warmth of the SUV like a hug when I climb in.
We slide into traffic buttery smooth, and it’s not long before we’re in the city. Manhattan during Christmas looks soft from a distance and sharp up close.
Halfway up the avenue, something black slides into the side mirror. A dark sedan. Windows heavily tinted. It hangs there for a breath, then inches closer.
It looks eerily familiar.
“Alex.”
“I see it.” We accelerate a little, the city blurring past.
The sedan catches up and cuts in. A hard swerve, too confident. Metal kisses metal—more scrape than smash—the sound reaching my teeth. I clutch the handle, my bandaged arm flaring white hot.
“Hold on,” he says.
He threads us through a narrow gap between a bus and a delivery truck, a lane that doesn’t look like a lane until it is. Horns blare. A cyclist bangs on a hood, shouting a holiday greeting that is not very festive.
The sedan comes again. It taps us on the quarter panel like it’s trying to pick a fight without leaving bruises. Wheels screech, the smell of burning rubber fills the air.
Alex’s hand drops and comes up with a pistol.
He opens the window two inches, winter knifing my face.
He points and fires three fast shots. The sound is a muffled cough, professional and ugly.
The sedan jolts as a tire spits itself to pieces, the car skidding wide and spinning into a snowbank like it meant to park there all along.
Alex speaks into the comm at his collar. “Three shots on a black four-door sedan, eastbound, plate obscured. Disablement achieved. We’re continuing to the hospital. Sweep the side streets two blocks north.”
A voice crackles back. He takes a hard right, then a left, weaving up a side street with wreaths on every stoop and a child in a parka pointing at us like we’re a parade. My heart tries to leave through my throat. I press my palm to my chest.
“Breathe,” Alex says, eyes on the road. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”
“I’m fine,” I say, though my insides are shaking.
He glances at my bandage. “Arm?”
“Stings,” I admit. “I’m okay.”
The phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s a response from my earlier text to the hospital.
Stable. Resting. Okay to visit.
Relief hits so fast, it makes me lean back, head against the seat. The world wobbles, then rights itself. My mouth tastes metallic.
The SUV slides into a narrow alley, one block shy of the hospital’s ambulance bay. Alex kills the lights. We idle in shadow, the hospital’s glow throwing halos on the wet pavement.
“We wait two minutes,” he says. “I want eyes on the corners.”
“Okay.” I touch the bracelet. The diamonds throw dots on the roof liner like tiny constellations. The adrenaline snapback hits hard.
First, the tremble in my hands. Then, the cold sweat at the back of my neck. Then a wave of nausea. My stomach rolls. The faint scent of gunpowder invades my nostrils, making everything worse.
“Alex,” I say, or try to.
He turns fast, placing his hand on my shoulder, steadying me. “Eyes on me,” he says. “Cassandra, look at me.”
“I—” My vision narrows, not to black, but to gray with sparkles at the edges. The bandage at my arm burns, a hot ring like something has started it on fire from the inside. Sweat beads at my hairline. I can’t get enough air.
“Hey.” His voice sharpens in an urgent way that gets my attention. He slides a hand to my wrist and checks my pulse. “Comm check, medical,” he says into his collar. “Possible shock. We’re one block east of the ambulance bay. Get me an ER handoff at the private entrance now.”
I try to say the word sister, so he can catch it. It comes out as a breath, her name barely carried on it.
“You’ll see her as soon as we get you checked out,” Alex says. He tips my seat back a notch and props me upright with his hand so my airway stays open. “You’re okay. Stay with me.”
The nausea spikes. I swallow hard. My body is cold and hot at the same time. The bracelet feels too heavy. I peel it loose before I drop it. Alex catches it and shoves it into the cup holder.
“Breathe,” he says. “In. Out.” He’s driving again before I realize we’ve moved, one hand on the wheel, the other steady at my upper back. The alley spits us out into the short lane to the ER. A guard starts to wave us off, then recognizes the SUV and decides differently.
The world tilts. The engine hum dims. Doors flash and lights move, voices shouting in the distance. I hold onto two names: Clara and Damien.
“Stay with me,” Alex says again.
My eyes close.