Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Luna
After Cassian left, the silence felt wrong.
I didn't get up right away. Just sat there, listening to the lock click shut, then his footsteps in the hallway. Close, then distant, then gone.
The air in the room was still thick enough to choke on. That mix of expensive tobacco and liquor, plus his signature scent, cold and aggressive, hung in every corner like it owned the place.
I slumped against the headboard, exhausted, my fingers unconsciously working over that heavy sapphire. It caught the morning light with an icy gleam, just like Cassian's eyes when he looked at me, possessive as hell, but empty of love.
"You're mine, Luna."
His words still echoed in my ears like some grand illusion. I stared at the stone on my finger, heart still racing. Was I pathetic?
Just hours ago, I'd been gutted by the lipstick on his neck. But now, after one brutal kiss, one night of fucking, one possessive declaration, I was already making excuses for him.
The house was empty except for me.
I looked down at the box in my hand.
Maybe he really was just drunk, Luna. Right?
I told myself lightly, forcing a casual shrug.
A woman like Sloane, it had to be that scheming bitch's doing. That climber who'd do anything to claw her way into my husband's inner circle.
I tried not to replay that scene, convincing myself over and over.
I tried to remember how tightly he'd held me earlier, that feral need to merge me into his bones. I told myself the ring had been in that box for a month. He'd been planning to give it to me all along, right? He'd explained. He'd sworn. He'd even shown panic I'd never seen before.
I took the ring out of the box and slipped it on, holding it up to the light.
Perfect fit.
So perfect it left me speechless, because it meant he'd measured my finger or memorized some detail. And that wasn't something I expected from Cassian, the man who didn't remember birthdays, who only noticed you if you were directly in his line of sight.
Forget it. Stop thinking.
I got up and washed my face.
Cold water splashed against my skin, clearing my head for a moment, thoughts crystallizing.
I decided to believe him.
At least for now. At least for today. I needed to give this marriage a chance to keep going.
Not weakness—a conscious choice. I didn't have enough information to make an irreversible decision, and Cassian's explanation made logical sense.
His attitude was unlike anything I'd seen in three years. And he'd given me that ring.
Add it all up. It was worth one more shot.
I'd try again.
Alright. Time to get ready for tonight's gala.
I washed up, redid my hair, and threw my wrinkled clothes in the washer. Their state made me think of the frantic encounter with Cassian, heat creeping into my cheeks, weakness pooling low in my belly.
Setting everything else aside, Cassian's bedroom skills left me boneless just thinking about them.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, hitting the plants on the balcony. Light caught the edges of leaves, clean and quiet, as if nothing had happened today.
I made myself a simple lunch, cleaned the kitchen, and then went to the bedroom to prepare for tonight.
Then the doorbell rang.
"Coming, just a second."
I answered, humming a light tune as I headed for the door. At this hour, it had to be Cassian sending over the evening gown.
The moment I opened the door, my good mood died.
Sloane Reed. Her again.
She stood at my door like nothing had happened, black ponytail pulled high, now wearing a charcoal suit, a professional smile on her lips. That efficient, competent posture, as if last night's half-naked woman never existed.
I didn't want to see her. Not now.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. King," she said evenly, with that manufactured smile. "I'm here to help you prepare your styling and gown for tonight."
"Cassian sent you?" I tried to project authority, but my nails were already digging into my palms.
"Mr. King was concerned about you stressing over tonight's gala, so he specifically instructed me to personally select and prepare your look." As she spoke, she pushed past me, directing people to wheel in two racks of gowns. The metallic hangers scraped loudly in the quiet living room.
I watched her without speaking, running through all the reasons I could slam this door shut again.
There were plenty.
But this was Cassian's arrangement. His specific instruction.
If I sent Sloane away now, I'd be telling Cassian I hadn't accepted his morning apology, that I didn't trust him, and shoving us back to square one.
So I stood there silently, watching Sloane move through that pile of silk and lace, nausea churning in my gut.
"How about this one?" Sloane held up a plunging, backless black silk gown. Under the light, the fabric caught with perfect luster.
"This cut hides your thick waist nicely. Very popular with middle-aged society wives."
Thick? Middle-aged? Me? Was she talking about me?
I frowned, swallowing my disgust, and walked over. The moment my fingers touched the fabric, my face went white.
At the neckline, a faint streak of foundation, barely visible unless you looked carefully. Worse, when I took the dress, I caught a smell. Sloane's sickly-sweet, cheap fruit scent now clung aggressively to what should have been my gown.
"These clothes have been worn." I stared at her, voice shaking with cold fury.
Sloane paused, then her lips curved into a knowing smile. She didn't even try to hide it and just leaned in close, lowering her voice near my ear. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I wasn't sure of your size, so... I tried them on first. You don't mind, do you?"
She paused, looking me up and down with subtle mockery.
My blood froze solid in that second.
"Enough. Take this garbage and get out of my sight!" I ripped the dress away, nails white with pressure.
"Ma'am, this is Mr. King's arrangement. If you don't cooperate, I'll have trouble explaining..."
"I said, get out! Now!" Rage stripped away my composure. I screamed, grabbed the pile of clothes, and hurled them to the floor.
Sloane backed up two steps. "I apologize for that. Someone will collect these unsatisfactory gowns later."
She walked to the door, then glanced back with a look that said jealous, abandoned wife.
I wanted to abandon Crawford family elegance and slap that look off her face. But I couldn't.
All I could do was curl up next to that mess, slowly steadying my breathing.
Calm down, Luna. You still have a gala to attend.
The clock struck five. Cassian's driver had arrived.
The Stephen family was hosting the gala at a new venue downtown, a club I'd never visited.
Black luxury cars lined the entrance like a silent announcement of the price of admission.
I stepped out of the car and slowed on the steps, adjusting my expression to something unhurried and graceful.
Relax, Luna. You've done this a thousand times.
I pushed through the glass doors, leaving the cool night breeze behind.
The moment I entered the ballroom, bright lights swallowed me whole.
I tilted my head up. A massive crystal chandelier hung from the center ceiling, countless crystal drops refracting light across walls and floors, making the whole space shimmer with moving, fragmented brilliance—pure opulence, like standing inside a breathing jewelry box.
Curved columns flanked both sides in three rows each, alcoves between them filled with fresh flowers. Their subtle fragrance mixed with perfume and champagne, and near the edges, large bronze-colored steel panels.
I glanced at my reflection as I passed. The woman in the mirror was tall, spine straight, dress simple but not without charm. I didn't like fussy styles. This dress was from two seasons ago, maybe dated, but I could compensate in other ways.
But approaching the crowd, I felt eyes on me.
"Is that Luna Crawford? The Crawford daughter? Cassian's wife?"
I switched my clutch to the other hand and straightened my spine further.
The voices came from my left rear. Two women, one deliberately lowered but just loud enough to reach me.
"What is she... what is she wearing today?" The other voice lifted with that gleeful mockery. "That dress, is it from two seasons ago? Or three?"
My fingers tightened on the clutch. They'd recognized me.
"How tacky. I really don't understand why Cassian chose her." The lowered voice rose slightly, both sets of eyes burning into my back.
"Well, she's from the Crawford family. I heard she used to be a ballet dancer, but looking at this..."
I kept walking. They weren't the point of this gala. Before seeing Cassian, I needed to adapt.
While searching for Cassian, I passed near a column where a couple stood—business associates of his. The husband was James Taylor, and his wife, Laura, wore a champagne-colored gown from the latest Paris collection, covered in dreamy, delicate sequins.
I stopped. "Mr. Taylor, Mrs. Taylor, how nice to see you both."
James nodded politely, while Laura's gaze swept across my dress and paused.
"Oh, Luna, it's been ages. We missed you at the last two galas."
"I wasn't feeling well recently." I smiled graciously and raised my glass in toast. "You look even more beautiful."
"Thank you, you too. We'll catch up later." She sipped her wine lightly, then took James's arm and brushed past me.
I heard her voice, tinged with pity. "Poor woman. James, have you noticed how Cassian treats Luna lately?"
James made no sound. Probably shaking his head.
"Last gala, Cassian brought that secretary of his. And giving Luna an outdated dress this time, so unseemly..."
They moved away, crowd noise swallowing their words.
Standing in the lights, I suddenly felt dizzy. Last gala? When?
I steadied myself against the wall, breathing deep. I couldn't lose it here.
I straightened my spine—a dying swan clinging to the last shred of dignity—and scanned the crowd for Cassian, finally spotting him in the most prominent booth.