Chapter 10
The sunlight didn't enter the room; it assaulted.
I opened my eyes and immediately shut them, letting out a groan that seemed to come from someone else. A jackhammer was pounding away inside my skull, right behind my left eye. My mouth tasted like stale cotton and regret.
I rolled over, reaching for the familiar comfort of my goose down pillow, but found a surface too firm, too cold. The sheets didn't smell like lavender the way mine did. They smelled like... nothing. Absolutely nothing. An olfactory void more disturbing than any bad smell.
The memory of last night hit me like a slap in the face. The wedding. The drinking. The humiliation in the living room. I don't touch drunk children.
I sat up in bed, ignoring the dizziness that made the room spin.
I looked down. I was still wearing the silk wedding dress, now wrinkled, twisted around my legs like an expensive shroud.
One of the sleeve buttons had come loose and left a red mark on my skin.
I felt dirty. Not dirt-dirty, but dirty with shame.
I stood up, my legs trembling. The room was vast, painted in shades of lead gray and ice white. No pictures on the walls. No family photos on the nightstand. No books, no clock, no clutter. The bed, even though I'd slept in it, looked barely touched.
I walked to the attached bathroom. It was a Carrara marble laboratory. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, lit by merciless LEDs. Mascara ran down my cheeks. Lipstick was smeared on my chin. My hair was a tangled bird's nest. I looked like the aftermath of a party no one wanted to clean up.
I washed my face with ice-cold water, scrubbing my skin until it hurt, trying to scrub away the sensation of Cassian's hands—or rather, the absence of his hands. The memory of how he'd looked at me with disgust was worse than the hangover.
“Pull yourself together, Solaia,” I ordered the mirror. My voice came out hoarse.
I left the bedroom. The hallway was long and silent. My bare feet made a muffled sound on the hard floor. I followed the smell. It was the only living thing in this place: the strong, dark, bitter aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
The living room and kitchen were open concept, separated only by a black granite island that looked like a sacrificial altar. The glass walls showed Chicago bathed in gray morning light, indifferent to my suffering.
And there he was.
Cassian was leaning against the island, reading a newspaper—physical paper, folded with military precision.
He was already dressed for war. Impeccably tailored navy blue suit, starched white shirt, silver silk tie.
His hair was perfectly in place. He looked like he'd slept in a cryogenic capsule, not a bed.
He didn't look up when I entered. “There's aspirin on the counter. And water.”
I looked at the island. A glass of sparkling water—bubbles rising lazily—and two white pills were arranged on a square paper napkin. Was it thoughtful? No. It was efficiency. He needed my headache gone so it wouldn't stop me from following orders.
I swallowed the pills dry and drank the water in one gulp. The carbonation burned my throat but woke up my stomach.
“Good morning to you too, husband,” I muttered, my voice dripping with defensive sarcasm.
Cassian slowly folded the newspaper and set it aside. He picked up his espresso cup. Finally, he looked at me. His gaze was a scanner. He catalogued the wrinkled dress, the bare feet, the washed but still pale face. No warmth. No “how did you sleep?”
“Breakfast is in the fridge, if you can manage to operate a door,” he said. “But I suggest you shower first. You smell like a distillery.”
I felt the flush creep up my neck. “I'm not hungry.”
“Irrelevant. You need to eat to metabolize the remaining alcohol. I don't want you passing out and causing another incident.”
I walked to the refrigerator. It was a stainless steel beast with double doors.
I opened it. The interior was... depressing.
Perfectly aligned rows of Voss water. Hermetically sealed glass containers with what looked like grilled chicken and broccoli—probably prepared by some invisible, soulless chef.
Organic eggs. And nothing else. Not a jar of jam.
No juice. No cheese that wasn't low-fat.
It was the refrigerator of a functional sociopath.
I closed the door with a little more force than necessary. “Do you live here or just store yourself here between missions?” I asked, turning to face him.
Cassian set down his cup. The sound of porcelain against granite was a dry click. “This is a controlled environment, Solaia. I suggest you adapt.”
He pushed off from the island and walked toward me. I stopped breathing for a second. His presence sucked all the oxygen from the room. He stopped at a safe distance—safe for him, not for me.
“Since you're awake and functional, let's establish the rules of engagement,” he said. His voice was calm, professional. He could have been discussing mergers and acquisitions.
“Rules?” I crossed my arms, trying to hide the tremor in my hands.
“Rule number one: Security.” He raised one finger. “You don’t leave this penthouse without Franco as your escort or someone I personally designate. The doorman has orders not to let you through the lobby alone. The elevator requires a biometric code you don’t have.”
My mouth fell open in shock. “You locked me in here? This is false imprisonment!”
“This is asset protection. Everyone out there wants your head to send me a message. You’re not going to make their job any easier.”
“Rule number two,” he continued, ignoring my indignation. “Privacy. My office”—he pointed to a closed door—“is off-limits. My files, my computer, my phone… if you touch them, you’ll regret it. What happens in Family business stays out there. In here, I want silence.”
“Silence,” I repeated bitterly. “Of course. The Ice King needs his peace.”
“Rule number three: Coexistence.” He stepped forward, invading my space, forcing me to tilt my head back to look at him.
“You live here, Solaia. But don’t try to turn this into your dollhouse.
Don’t rearrange the furniture. Don’t bring people over.
Don’t throw parties. We’re roommates forced together by a contract. Nothing more.”
I felt a pang in my chest. Nothing more. He was drawing a line in the sand. Him on one side, polished and powerful. Me on the other, messy and subordinate.
He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a black card, heavy and metallic. He held it out to me.
I looked at the card. American Express Centurion. Issued to Solaia Varro. The surname engraved on the metal felt like a cruel joke.
“What’s this?” I asked, not taking it.
“Your allowance,” he said, the word dripping with condescension. “The limit is technically nonexistent. Buy clothes. Buy shoes. Buy makeup. Buy whatever you need to keep yourself occupied and out of my way.”
I looked at his face. He wasn’t being generous. He was paying me to be invisible. He was giving me toys so the child wouldn’t cry.
Anger, hot and liquid, replaced the shame. I took the card from his hand. The metal was warm from his body. “You think you can buy my silence, Cassian?”
“I know I can buy anything, Solaia. It’s just a matter of price.”
He checked his watch. “I have to go. The driver will bring your things from your father’s mansion this afternoon. Try not to destroy anything before I get back.”
He turned and walked toward the private elevator. “Cassian!” I called.
He stopped but didn’t turn around. “What?”
“I’m not an employee you can fire if you don’t like my performance,” I warned. “I’m your wife. And if you think I’m going to sit here in the dark, waiting for you to come back… you didn’t know my father as well as you thought.”
Cassian turned his head slightly to the side. I could see his profile, the sharp line of his jaw, his glasses catching the light. “Your father is dead, Solaia. Learn to survive without his shadow.”
The elevator doors opened. He stepped in. The doors closed.
I stood alone in the silent apartment. The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound.
I looked at the black card in my hand. Looked at the gray room. At the black leather sofa that looked uncomfortable. At the white walls that screamed sterility. At the utter lack of life.
He wanted silence. He wanted me to be a ghost who spent money and looked pretty at social events. He wanted rules.
A slow smile began to form on my lips. It wasn’t a happy smile. It was the smile of someone who’d just discovered where the matches were kept.
I walked to the window and looked at the city below. “You want coexistence, Cassian?” I whispered against the cold glass. “Fine. Let’s coexist.”
I spun the card between my fingers. I was going to use that unlimited plastic. Oh, I was going to use it. But not to buy clothes or shoes to keep myself occupied.
I looked at the black sofa. Imagined it covered in hot pink velvet. I looked at the white wall. Imagined a chaotic, colorful abstract painting hanging there. I looked at the empty refrigerator. Imagined it stuffed with greasy food, sweets, and forbidden wines.
If I was trapped in a cage, I was going to make damn sure that cage was the loudest, brightest, most irritating thing Cassian Varro had ever seen. He thought he’d brought home a doll. He was about to discover he’d brought home a fire.
I headed to the bedroom to take a shower. The headache was still there, but now it had company. Determination.
The Cold War had begun. And I was going to paint the battlefield neon.