8. Cassian
CASSIAN
Aweek goes by. Seven days of checking my phone like some desperate college kid waiting for a text back.
Seven days of Amara's face floating through my thoughts at the worst possible moments.
During contract negotiations, in the middle of presentations, while trying to sleep in my too-empty penthouse.
She's haunting me, I see her even in the shadows that cling to my walls, and it drives me fucking crazy that I can't have her here with me where she belongs.
I've used my resources. Not in a creepy way, I tell myself, though the line's blurrier than I'd like to admit.
Sapphire Studios' public press materials list Amara as lead artist. A few strategic calls to contacts in the real estate world, cross-referenced with recent lease agreements in Brooklyn and Queens, and I narrow down possibilities.
One address keeps appearing in relation to her name.
Crown Heights. Fourth floor walkup. Not far from Prospect Park.
I'm getting dressed when the buzzer sounds.
Casual but put together: dark jeans, white button-down with the sleeves rolled, leather jacket that I picked up at some luxury airport boutique years ago.
I'm not trying to intimidate her. I just want to talk.
Maybe propose a collaboration between Black Lake and Sapphire Studios, the very thing that my dad has been clamoring for. It's not stalking, nothing of the sort.
The buzzer sounds again, more insistent this time.
I check the security feed on my phone. Raylin stands at the entrance of my building, hands on her hips, staring directly at the camera like she knows I'm watching.
My shoulders sag. Goddammit.
I consider ignoring her. I've done it before.
Pretend I'm not home, let her stand there until she gives up and leaves.
But the thing annoying thing about Raylin is that she doesn't give up.
She'll call, text, show up again tomorrow, make a scene in public if that's what it takes to get my attention.
I buzz her in.
She arrives at my door three minutes later, dressed in athleisure and expensive jewels that have no business being brought along to an 8AM pilates class.
Her hair is pulled back, her makeup is minimal but flawless, and she carries a smile that isn't genuine at all, considering the way I've been leaving her on delivered this past week.
"Good morning," she sings, breezing past me into the penthouse without waiting for an invitation.
I close the door. "What do you want, Raylin?"
"Is that any way to greet a friend?" She wanders toward the kitchen, trailing fingers along the marble countertop. "I was in the neighborhood. Thought we could grab brunch."
"Can't, I have plans."
"Cancel them."
"No."
Her smile falters. She turns to face me, head tilted in a way that's supposed to look curious but reads as condescending. She taps her sharp nails loudly on my kitchen appliances. "Come on, Cassian. You've been distant lately."
"That shouldn't surprise you, sweetheart," I say, adjusting the sleeves of my leather jacket. "I've been busy."
"With what? That art collaboration your father wants?"
"Among other things."
"I could help, you know. I have connections in the art world. Gallery owners, curators, collectors who owe me favors. I could move mountains to help you." She moves closer, reducing the space between us to something uncomfortably intimate. "We'd make a good team, Cassian. We always have."
It's hard not to roll my eyes. I step back, creating distance. "We were never a team."
"We could be."
"I'm not interested."
"In my help? Or in me?"
"Both."
She hums softly. Then, she crosses her arms over her chest as she looks me up and down.
"This is about her, isn't it?" Raylin's voice drops, losing the saccharine quality. "Amara."
I don't answer. There's no need to. My silence confirms everything.
"Are you serious right now?" She pinches the bridge of her nose, and laughs dryly. "She abandoned you, Cassian. Disappeared without a word. And now this bitch comes along six years later and you're what? Chasing after her? Are you really gonna be that fucking pathetic?"
"Watch your mouth, Raylin. It's unbecoming."
"You're making a fool of yourself over someone who clearly doesn't give a damn about you."
My eyes narrow at her. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"I know she left you and I stayed. I know I've been here, supporting you, waiting for you to finally see what's right in front of you." Her voice rises, years of frustration spilling over. "But you won't, will you? Because you're still hung up on some girl from college who got bored and moved on."
"Get out."
Her fists clench. "Cassian."
"I said get out."
We stare at each other. Her chest rises and falls with quick, angry breaths. I watch emotions cycle through her expression before it settles on a quiet fury. Her darkening eyes say it all.
"You're really going to throw away everything we could have? For her?"
"There's no 'we,' Raylin. There never was. That's something you invented in your head and convinced yourself was real." I move toward the door, open it. "Amara is the love of my life. Now that she's back, I'm not losing her again. I don't know what your problem is. This was bound to happen."
"What?"
"I was never going to choose you as long as Amara is around."
Her cheeks turn red. She scrambles to grab her purse from where she'd dropped it on the couch, and stalks toward the door with her upper lip curled and her spine rigid.
"You're going to regret this," she hisses. I can see it's taking a lot of her effort not to slap me in the face.
"I don't think I will."
She stops in the doorway, turns back with eyes that glitter with unshed tears. "She doesn't want you, Cassian. If she did, she wouldn't have left. You're going to figure that out eventually, and when you do, don't come crying to me."
"I won't need to."
She leaves. She grabs the edge of the door and slams it hard enough to rattle the frame. I stand there for a long moment, silence settling back over the penthouse like dust.
My phone is in my pocket. I pull it out and check the time. Ten AM. Early, but not unreasonably so.
The address in Crown Heights waits in my notes. I grab my keys and my wallet before heading out the door.
This is about business, I remind myself.
Black Lake needs cultural relevance. Amara's work is exactly what my father wants, and Sapphire Studios is the perfect partner.
This is a legitimate work task. I repeat that to myself as I go downstairs to the parking garage, find my car, and pull up the directions to her address.
The lies we tell ourselves to justify what we already know we're going to do anyway.
Crown Heights looks different in daylight.
Tree-lined streets, brownstones with stoops where people sit drinking coffee, kids playing on sidewalks while parents watch from windows.
It's residential in a way Manhattan never is, alive with actual community instead of just blank-faced bodies moving past each other.
I find her building easily. Four stories, red brick, fire escape zigzagging down the front. The entrance is unlocked. Inside, mailboxes line one wall, names written on faded labels. Campbell, 4B.
I climb the stairs slowly, giving myself time to reconsider. This is insane. Showing up unannounced at her home, having somehow tracked down her address through methods she'll rightfully find invasive. She'll be furious and threaten to call the police, probably.
But somehow, that doesn't faze me. I keep climbing.
Fourth floor. The hallway carries the aroma of someone's cooking, cumin and garlic. Music thumps faintly from one of the apartments. I find 4B at the end of the hall.
My hand hovers over the door. Last chance to turn around, to handle this through proper channels, to respect her request for space and approach this like a rational adult instead of someone who's spent six years carrying her photograph in his wallet.
I knock.
Footsteps approach. Light, quick, too small to be Amara's. The door opens a crack, held by a chain lock.
A small face appears in the gap. Brown skin, curly hair, hazel eyes that stop my heart mid-beat.
"Hello?" The voice is timid. A child. Five years old, maybe six. For a second, I think I got the address all wrong. "Who are you?"
"June!" That's Amara. "What are you?—?!"
"Sorry, Mommy! I thought it was the pancakes you ordered for us!"
My eyebrows furrow together as I take in the sight. I can't speak. Can't move. Can't do anything except stare at those eyes in a face that's too young. Nothing about this makes sense.
The door closes briefly. The chain rattles. Then it opens fully, and Amara stands there in an oversized paint-stained shirt, curly hair loose around her shoulders, mouth falling open as she registers who's on her doorstep.
The little girl peers around her leg, gripping Amara's shirt with one small fist.
"Mama, who is it?"
Mama.
The word echoes in my skull. Mama. This child just called Amara mama.
My gaze drops to the girl, then back to Amara. Her expression is frozen, caught between panic and resignation.
The air between us rewrites itself completely.
Because I know. Looking at that small face, those eyes, the features that mirror mine in ways that can't be coincidence. I know exactly what Amara's been hiding. I know why she left. I know what she's been protecting.
And nothing will ever be the same again.