12. Cassie
— ? —
Cassie
Elliot’s company is nothing like Charles’s.
Where Charles’s building was all chrome and glass and corporate intimidation, Elliot’s feels almost human.
The lobby has actual plants, real ones, not the fake shit Charles always insisted on because it was “lower maintenance.” The receptionist smiles when she sees Elliot, and not the forced smile of someone being paid to be pleasant.
A genuine smile, like she actually likes her boss.
“This is Cassie,” Elliot says, introducing me. “She’s going to be working with me for a while.”
“Nice to meet you!” The receptionist, her nameplate says JAMIE, extends a hand. “Let me know if you need anything. Getting settled in a new place can be overwhelming.”
“I will. Thanks.”
We take the elevator up to the executive floor. The doors open onto a space that’s modern but warm, all natural light and clean lines and artwork that actually looks like someone picked it because they liked it, not because it cost a fortune.
“Miranda.” Elliot stops in front of a desk where a silver-haired woman is typing furiously. “This is Cassandra. She’ll be working with us for a while.”
Miranda looks up. Her eyes are sharp, assessing, and I feel like I’m being evaluated by a particularly judgmental cat.
“Charles Wallace’s wife,” she says. It’s not a question.
“Soon to be ex-wife.”
“Hmm.” She stands, circles me like she’s examining livestock. “You have experience?”
“Five years of managing Charles’s office. His calendar, his clients, his entire operation.” I keep my voice steady. “I know this industry. I know how to make things work.”
“She’s also the reason half of Charles’s clients stayed loyal to him,” Elliot adds. “They liked her better than they ever liked him.”
Miranda’s eyebrows rise. “Is that so?”
“I can give you references if you need them.”
“I don’t need references.” She stops in front of me, arms crossed. “I need someone who can handle pressure. Who won’t fall apart when something goes wrong. Who can manage Elliot’s impossible schedule without losing her mind.”
“I managed Charles Wallace for five years without strangling him. I can handle anything.”
Miranda stares at me for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, she laughs.
“I like her,” she tells Elliot. “She can stay.”
The rest of the morning is a blur of orientation.
Miranda walks me through systems and protocols and the thousand small details that keep a company this size running.
It’s a lot to absorb, but I find myself settling into it, finding the rhythm, remembering why I used to love this work before Charles sucked all the joy out of it.
Around noon, Miranda leaves me alone in my new office, a small but comfortable space with a window overlooking the city, and I take a moment to breathe.
I’m doing this. I’m actually doing this.
A knock at my door makes me look up. Elliot is leaning against the frame, arms crossed, watching me with an unreadable expression.
“How’s it going?”
“Good. I think.” I gesture at the stack of files on my desk. “There’s a lot to learn.”
“You’ll figure it out.” He steps inside, closes the door behind him. “You have good instincts.”
“You barely know me.”
“I know enough.” He moves closer, stopping beside my chair. “I know you handled Charles for five years without losing your mind. I know you walked into my office yesterday and laid out a plan for revenge that was both brilliant and terrifying. I know that last night.”
“We probably shouldn’t talk about last night here,” I interrupt. “Glass walls.”
He glances at the window. “Good point.” But he doesn’t move away. Instead, he leans against my desk, close enough that I can smell his cologne. “I have a meeting in ten minutes. Dinner tonight?”
“Here?”
“There’s a place I like. Small, private. Good food.” His eyes meet mine. “Unless you’d rather stay in?”
The implication in his voice makes heat curl in my stomach. “Dinner sounds good.”
“Good.” He pushes off the desk, but pauses at the door. “Cassie?”
“Yeah?”
“You look good behind that desk.”
He’s gone before I can respond, leaving me staring at the empty doorway with my heart pounding.
***
The day passes faster than I expected.
By five o’clock, my brain is full and my feet ache and I want nothing more than to collapse on a soft surface. But I also feel something I haven’t felt in years: satisfaction. The deep pleasure of work well done, of challenges met, of being competent at something that matters.
“Ready to go?” Elliot appears in my doorway, jacket slung over his arm.
“More than ready.”
The restaurant he mentioned turns out to be a tiny Italian place tucked away on a side street I’ve never noticed before. Inside, it’s all dim lighting and checkered tablecloths and the smell of garlic that makes my mouth water.
The owner greets Elliot like family, complete with handshakes and rapid-fire Italian I can’t follow. Then his eyes land on me, and his face breaks into an enormous smile.
“And who is this beautiful lady?”
“This is Cassie.” Elliot’s hand finds the small of my back. “She’s with me.”
“With you?” The owner’s eyebrows shoot up. “But your wife.”
“Is no longer in the picture.”
“Ah.” He nods sagely. “Women. They break our hearts.”
“Actually, this one put mine back together.” Elliot squeezes my waist. “Can we get the usual table?”
We’re seated in a corner booth, private enough to feel intimate. The owner brings wine without being asked, along with promises of “the good stuff” for dinner.
“He’s quite a character,” I say once we’re alone.
“Antonio? He’s been feeding me since I was twenty-three and broke and living off ramen.” Elliot pours the wine. “I used to come here because it was cheap. Now I come because the food’s incredible.”
“That’s sweet.”
“Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”
I laugh, and the sound surprises me. When was the last time I laughed like this? Genuine, unforced, actually happy?
“So,” Elliot says, setting down the bottle. “Tell me about yourself. The real stuff, not the resume version.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything.” He leans back, wine glass in hand. “Where did you grow up? What did you want to be when you were a kid? What’s your favorite movie, your worst habit, your biggest fear?”
“That’s a lot of questions.”
“We’ve got time.”
So I tell him. About growing up in a small town outside the city.
About wanting to be a veterinarian until I realized I fainted at the sight of blood.
About majoring in business because it seemed practical, not because I loved it.
About meeting Charles at my first job out of college and being swept up in what felt like a fairy tale.
“I was so young,” I say, swirling my wine. “Twenty-two. I thought I knew everything, but I didn’t know anything. Charles was older, successful, charming. He made me feel special. Important.”
“And then?”
“And then we got married, and slowly, piece by piece, he took it all away.” I meet Elliot’s eyes.
“He didn’t do it on purpose. I don’t think he’s capable of that kind of deliberate cruelty.
He’s just... selfish. Self-absorbed. Everything is about him, always.
And after a while, I stopped existing as my own person.
I was just an extension of him. His assistant. His wife. His accessory.”
“That’s not love.”
“No. It’s not.” I set down my glass. “Your turn.”
“My turn?”
“Fair’s fair. I told you about my tragic backstory. Now you tell me yours.”
So he does. About being the bastard son of a wealthy father who never acknowledged him publicly.
About growing up with his mother, watching her struggle to make ends meet while his father lived in luxury across town.
About clawing his way through college on scholarships and sheer stubbornness, then building his company from nothing.
“I wanted to prove them all wrong,” he says. “Everyone who said I’d never amount to anything. Everyone who looked at me and saw a mistake. I wanted to be more successful than any of them, and I wanted them to know it.”
“Did it work?”
“Depends what you mean by work.” He stares into his wine.
“I’m rich. I’m successful. My name is in all the right papers and my face is on all the right magazine covers.
But I spent so long chasing success that I forgot to build a life.
I wake up in an empty house. I eat alone.
I come home from work and there’s no one waiting for me. ”
“That’s why you married Celine?”
“Partly. I also wanted my family to finally accept me.” He laughs, bitter. “Joke’s on me. They’re just as cold now as they ever were. And now I’m stuck in a marriage with a woman who never loved me to a family who never wanted me.”
“Not for long,” I say. “The divorce.”
“Will take time. But yeah.” He looks up, meets my eyes. “Not for long.”
The food arrives, interrupting the moment. Antonio wasn’t lying, it’s incredible, rich and savory and unlike anything I’ve ever tasted. We eat in comfortable silence, passing dishes back and forth, sharing bites of things the other hasn’t tried.
By the time we finish, I’m stuffed and warm and happier than I’ve been in years.
“Ready to go home?” Elliot asks.
Home. The word lands strangely. I don’t have a home anymore. I walked out of the house I shared with Charles and I’m never going back.
But when Elliot says it, when he means his house, his bed, his life that I’ve become part of, it doesn’t feel strange. It feels right.
“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go home.”
The charity gala is four nights later.
I’ve spent the intervening days learning Elliot’s business, fielding calls, and trying not to think too hard about what’s happening between us. We’ve fallen into a rhythm: work during the day, dinner together at night, falling into bed and learning each other’s bodies in the dark hours before dawn.
It should feel rushed. Reckless. Instead, it feels inevitable. Like we’ve been building toward this for longer than either of us realized.
But tonight isn’t about us. Tonight is about making a statement.
Margot, the stylist Elliot apparently has on speed dial, arrived three hours ago with a team of hair and makeup artists. Now I’m standing in front of a full-length mirror, staring at a woman I barely recognize.
The dress is deep sapphire silk, fitted through the bodice, with a neckline that shows more cleavage than I’ve shown in years and a slit up the thigh that makes my legs look endless.
My hair is pinned up in an elegant twist, my makeup dramatic but sophisticated, smoky eyes, red lips, cheekbones highlighted until they could cut glass.
I look powerful, I look dangerous.
I look like someone Charles Wallace could never deserve.
“Ready?” Elliot appears in the doorway.
He’s in a black tuxedo that fits him perfectly, emphasizing his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His hair is swept back, his jaw clean-shaven, his green eyes bright with something that looks a lot like hunger.
“You look incredible,” he says.
“You’re not so bad yourself.”
He crosses the room, stops in front of me. His hand comes up to cup my jaw, his thumb tracing my cheekbone.
“Whatever happens tonight,” he says quietly, “remember that you’ve already won. You got out. You took control. Nothing Charles says or does can change that.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“I’m working on it.” I take a breath. “Let’s go show them what they’re missing.”