Chapter 6
A pearl-headed pin pierced the thin skin just below my rib.
I sucked in a breath—a sharp hiss of pain—but I didn’t pull away. “Pardon, mademoiselle!” exclaimed the seamstress, a small woman with glasses perched on the tip of her nose and fingers calloused from years of handling silk. “I’m so sorry, I...”
“It’s fine, Madame Leclaire,” I cut in, studying my reflection in the triple mirror. “Pain is the only thing that’s made me feel real this week.”
There was a bitterness in my voice I couldn’t hide. Five days since the attack. Five days since I’d seen dead men’s blood on my fiancé’s hands. Five days since the reality of my new life as “property to be protected” had settled like an anchor in my chest.
The atelier smelled of fresh peonies and old money.
The air conditioning was set to a temperature that preserved the fabrics but froze the skin.
I stood on a circular velvet podium, surrounded by layers of tulle, satin, and Chantilly lace, feeling less like a bride and more like a purebred being groomed for auction.
My eyes drifted from my pale reflection to the back of the room.
Cassian was there, of course. He occupied the gold damask Louis XV sofa as if it were an iron throne. He didn’t belong in this world of feminine softness and pastel tones. He was a blot of black ink on a white canvas. Dark suit, legs crossed, his face lit by the blue glow of the tablet in his lap.
He hadn’t looked at me when I entered the fitting room. He hadn’t looked at me when I emerged in the first dress—a puffy princess gown that made me look like a wedding cake. He’d just waved a dismissive hand, rejecting it without lifting his head.
His indifference was a dull blade, sawing at my patience.
He’d saved me, yes. I owed my life to his efficient brutality. But gratitude had an expiration date, especially when the savior acted like a bored jailer.
“Not this one either, Madame,” I said, starting to unbutton the bodice of the current dress—a mermaid gown that barely let me breathe.
“But mademoiselle, the fit is perfect...” the seamstress lamented.
“It’s boring. It’s safe.” I stepped out of the dress, standing in just my nude-colored undergarments. “I want the other one. The one you said was ‘inappropriate.’”
Madame Leclaire’s eyes widened, and she cast a nervous glance at Cassian in the back of the room. “The one from the summer collection? Signorina, it’s very... revealing. For a ceremony at the Cathedral... the Father won’t approve.”
“The Father works for us,” I replied dryly. “Bring the dress.”
I wanted a reaction. I needed a reaction.
Since the incident in the car, Cassian had returned to “machine mode.” He organized security, managed my father’s business, and treated me with a distant courtesy that made me want to scream.
I wanted to see the man who’d held my face with bloodstained hands.
I wanted to see the fire, even if it was anger.
Madame Leclaire brought the dress. It was a scandalous work of art.
Almost entirely made of transparent lace and illusion tulle, with strategic embroidery covering only what was absolutely necessary.
The back was bare down to the tailbone. The slit rose to the hip.
It wasn’t a wedding dress. It was a declaration of war.
It was the dress of a woman who refused to be tamed.
I slipped into it. The cold silk slid over my skin like water. I looked in the mirror. Dangerous. Vulnerable, yes, but in an aggressive way. “Perfect,” I whispered.
I stepped out of the fitting room. The click of my heels on the parquet floor echoed through the silent atelier. I walked to the center of the room, stopping ten feet from where Cassian sat. I waited.
He finished reading the email. Swiped his finger across the screen. Locked the tablet. Only then, with calculated slowness, did he raise his eyes.
His gaze started at my feet. Traveled up my legs where the slit exposed them. Passed over my hip, where transparent lace revealed bare skin. Rose over the plunging neckline that dipped to my navel. And finally, met my eyes.
There was no shock. No blush. Only a subtle darkening in those gray irises. His pupils dilated, swallowing the color, transforming his eyes into black pools. He stayed silent for ten seconds. Ten agonizing seconds while I felt my heart pound against my exposed ribs.
“You think this is a nightclub, Solaia?” His voice was low, deep, vibrating in the silent air.
“I think it’s my wedding,” I replied, chin raised defiantly. “And since I’m the one walking down the aisle, I decide what to wear. I like this one. It’s... modern.”
Cassian set the tablet aside. He stood. The movement was fluid, predatory. He buttoned his jacket with one hand as he walked toward me. Madame Leclaire retreated into the shadows, sensing the shift in the room’s atmosphere.
He didn’t stop at a respectful distance. He invaded my personal space, stopping so close I could feel the heat radiating from his body. I had to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.
“Modern,” he repeated the word as if it were an insult. “No. This is desperate.”
I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. “Desperate?” I hissed. “It’s haute couture, Cassian. You wouldn’t understand—your suits all look the same.”
He ignored my comment. He began circling me slowly, like a buyer evaluating a sports car—or a flaw in the bodywork. A shiver ran up my spine when he stopped behind me. I could see him in the triple mirror. He was a dark tower behind my pale, exposed figure.
“You’re trying to provoke me,” he said, his voice a whisper right behind my ear. It wasn’t a question. “You want me to lose control. You want to prove you have some power over me using the only currency you think you possess: your body.”
My hands clenched into fists at my sides. “Maybe I just want to feel beautiful.”
“You’re naked, Solaia,” he countered, brutally honest.
His hand rose. Through the mirror, I saw those long, strong fingers hover over my bare back.
He traced the line of my spine, inches from my skin, never touching.
The heat from his hand was palpable. The hair on my arms stood on end.
My body betrayed my mind, leaning imperceptibly toward the touch that never came.
“This dress tells the world you’re for sale,” he continued, his voice hoarse. “It says any man with enough money can see what should be private. It says you have no respect for the position you’re about to occupy.”
“I didn’t ask for this position!” I spun to face him, breaking the mirror’s spell. “I didn’t ask to be the ‘Consigliere’s Wife.’”
We were chest to chest now. “You didn’t ask, but you are,” he said, unyielding.
His gaze dropped to my neckline, lingering there with an intensity that made my nipples harden against the thin lace.
“And as my wife, you represent my authority. You’re not walking into that church looking like a mistress. ”
“You’re a backward chauvinist,” I spat.
“I’m a pragmatic man.” He stepped forward, forcing me to back up until my legs hit the velvet podium. “This dress is a security risk. It’s too easy to tear. Too easy to remove.”
He brought his hand to the thin strap on my shoulder.
He didn’t pull it. He just hooked his finger under it, testing the resistance.
The gesture was possessive, terrifying, and—God help me—exciting.
“One pull, Solaia, and you’d be exposed to five hundred guests.
Do you want to be respected, or do you want to be consumed? ”
I was breathless. His proximity, the scent of sandalwood, and the implicit threat in his voice scattered my thoughts. I wanted him to pull the strap. I wanted him to prove he wasn’t made of ice.
But he released the strap. He stepped away, the mask of indifference falling back into place like a vault door closing.
He turned to the rack of dresses that Madame Leclaire had set aside. With precise movements, he slid through the hangers, ignoring the sparkles and plunging necklines, until he stopped at one I hadn’t even noticed.
He pulled it out. Pure silk, heavy, ivory-colored. High collar, long fitted sleeves, a closed back with an endless row of pearl buttons. It was architectural. It was severe. It was majestic. A dress for a queen, not a Disney princess.
“This one,” Cassian ordered, handing the hanger to the seamstress who materialized beside him.
“But… it’s so covered up, Monsieur,” the seamstress tried to argue, glancing at my shocked expression.
Cassian looked at her, and the woman fell silent immediately. “It’s elegant. It’s untouchable.” He turned to me. “Put this one on, Solaia.”
“And if I don’t want to?” I challenged, crossing my arms over my nearly bare chest.
Cassian adjusted his glasses. “Then you’ll get married in the orange prison jumpsuit I’ll have brought in. Your choice.”
He returned to the sofa, picked up the tablet, and crossed his legs, ending the discussion.
I stood there, boiling with rage. He had won. Again. But as I walked back to the dressing room, feeling the weight of his gaze on my bare back—a gaze he thought I didn’t notice, but one that burned—I realized something.
He didn’t reject the other dress because it was ugly. He chose the covered one because the first had affected him. I saw his pupils dilate. I saw the tension in his jaw when he talked about “ease of access.” He wanted to cover me up not just for the world, but to hide the temptation from himself.
A small, wicked smile curved my lips as Madame Leclaire helped me out of the lace. “All right, Cassian,” I whispered to myself. “You win this battle. But the war… the war is just beginning.”
I put on the silk dress. It covered every inch of my skin, from neck to wrists. I looked in the mirror. I looked untouchable. Cold. I looked like his wife.
I stepped out of the dressing room. Cassian looked up. For a fraction of a second, his scrolling stopped. He said nothing. He just nodded once in approval. But I saw the way his eyes traced the curve of my hip under the silk that fell like water.
“Wrap it up,” he said to the seamstress. “We’re leaving.”
He stood and offered his arm to escort me from the atelier.
I took it. The muscle beneath his suit was hard as steel.
I was trapped by him. Controlled by him.
Dressed by him. But for the first time, I felt that maybe, just maybe, I could find the cracks in this man’s armor.
And when I did… I would make the Ice burn.