Chapter 8 – Cassandra
I woke up feeling like someone had taken a sledgehammer to my skull and decided to keep swinging for good measure.
My eyes cracked open slowly, reluctantly, like they knew better than to face whatever fresh hell awaited me. The light streaming through unfamiliar windows stabbed straight through my retinas, and I groaned, pressing my palms against my temples in a futile attempt to hold my brain together.
Where the fuck was I?
I blinked hard, forcing my vision to focus, and found Drew sitting in a chair beside the bed. Not lounging. Not relaxed. Just watching me with those steel-gray eyes, like I was a bomb he was trying to figure out how to defuse.
His arms were folded across his chest, his expression unreadable, and for a second, I wondered if I’d hallucinated the entire night. The whiskey. The tears. The way he’d held me like I was something worth protecting instead of something that needed to be contained.
But no. The ache in my chest told me it had been real. Too fucking real.
“Morning,” he said, and his voice was careful. Controlled. Like he was trying not to spook a wild animal.
I looked down at myself, and my heart slammed against my ribs hard enough to bruise.
The sheet was pooled around my waist, covering my bare legs but not much else.
I was still wearing my dress from last night—wrinkled, twisted, hiked up to my thighs—but the way the fabric clung to me made it clear I’d been sleeping hard.
Vulnerable.
Exposed.
I launched myself out of the bed too fast, driven by pure panic and the desperate need to reclaim some semblance of control. The room tilted violently, my knees buckled, and I would’ve hit the floor if Drew hadn’t moved.
He was fast. Faster than I’d expected. His hands caught me before I could collapse, one wrapping around my waist and the other pressing against my back, steadying me with a grip that was firm but not restrictive.
We stood there, frozen, his chest against mine, his breath warm on my face.
A breath-stealing pull sparked between us like static electricity waiting to ignite.
His hand on my waist burned through the thin fabric of my dress, and I could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my own erratic pulse.
My lips parted. His eyes flicked down to my mouth. He leaned in—just a fraction, just enough that I could feel the shift in the air between us—and then he stopped.
Pulled back.
Stepped away.
The sting of rejection hit me harder than it should have. Harder than I wanted to admit. Was he always this hot and cold, or was it just with me? Did I repulse him that badly when I wasn’t falling apart?
“Here.” He handed me a glass of water and two pills, his expression carefully neutral. “For the headache.”
I took them without argument, swallowing them dry before drinking the water in three long gulps. My throat felt like sandpaper, and my stomach churned ominously, threatening to revolt against the remnants of last night’s whiskey.
“Bathroom’s through there,” Drew said, nodding toward a door on the far wall. “Take your time.”
I didn’t respond. Just walked toward the bathroom on unsteady legs, feeling his eyes on my back the entire way.
The bathroom was pristine. Clean white tiles, expensive fixtures, everything organized with the kind of precision that screamed control freak. I splashed cold water on my face, letting it shock some clarity back into my system, and stared at my reflection in the mirror.
I looked like hell. Hair tangled, mascara smudged beneath my eyes, lips swollen from crying. The girl staring back at me was a mess—raw and exposed and completely stripped of the armor I usually wore.
I hated her.
Hated that I’d let Drew see her. Hated that I’d broken down in his car like some fragile thing that needed saving. Hated that he’d carried me here, put me in his bed, and watched over me while I slept off my self-destruction.
But underneath the hate was something else. Something worse.
Relief.
Because for the first time in years, I hadn’t woken up alone. Hadn’t had to pull myself together in isolation, pretending the weight on my chest wasn’t slowly crushing me. Someone had seen me at my worst and hadn’t walked away.
And that terrified me more than anything Vance could threaten me with.
I gripped the edge of the sink hard enough to make my knuckles ache and forced myself to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. The way Father Vincent had taught me when I was twelve and convinced the world was ending.
Get it together, Cass. You don’t get to fall apart. Not now. Not when everything’s riding on you keeping your shit together.
I washed my face properly this time, scrubbing away the evidence of last night’s breakdown, and tried to remember exactly what I’d said to Drew. What I’d admitted. Whether I’d compromised everything I’d been working toward.
The memories were hazy, fragmented. His voice in the parking lot telling me I wasn’t driving. My tears soaking into his jacket. The desperate kiss that had tasted like fire and regret.
Had I said anything about Vance? About the intel I’d been feeding him? About the fact that I’d spent the last two years systematically betraying the organization that had given me everything?
I didn’t think so. But I couldn’t be sure.
And that uncertainty was going to eat me alive.
***
When I emerged from the bathroom, Drew was in the kitchen. I could hear the quiet sounds of movement—cabinet doors opening, the hiss of a gas burner igniting, the clink of dishes being set on the counter.
I followed the sounds and found him cracking eggs into a pan, his movements efficient and practiced. He’d changed into a fresh shirt, charcoal gray and fitted, and his hair was damp like he’d showered while I was unconscious.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said, leaning against the doorframe because my legs still felt unsteady.
“I know.” He didn’t look up from the stove. “But you need to eat something, and I’m not letting you leave until you do.”
There was no point arguing. Not when my stomach was already growling at the smell of cooking food, betraying just how empty I was.
I moved into the kitchen, intending to just sit at the counter and watch, but Drew handed me a knife and a cutting board with a tomato on it.
“Make yourself useful,” he said, and there was the faintest hint of amusement in his voice.
So I did. Cut the tomato into slices while he finished the eggs, and when he moved to grab plates from the cabinet above the stove, I reached for the salt at the same time. Our arms brushed. Just a brief contact, nothing significant, but it sent heat racing up my spine anyway.
He paused. So did I.
We stood there in the middle of his kitchen, close enough that I could smell his soap and feel the warmth radiating off his skin, and the air between us felt charged. Dangerous.
“Cassandra,” he said quietly, and there was something in the way he said my name that made my breath catch.
“Don’t,” I whispered. “Don’t say whatever you’re about to say.”
Because I knew—instinctively, viscerally—that whatever he was thinking would crack me open again. Would make me vulnerable in ways I couldn’t afford.
His jaw tightened, but he stepped back, creating space between us. “Eggs are done.”
We ate in silence. Well, mostly silence. Drew asked if I wanted coffee. I said yes. He poured two cups and added cream to mine without asking, which meant he’d been paying attention to details I didn’t even realize I’d revealed.
The food helped. Settled my stomach, cleared some of the fog from my head. By the time I’d finished, I felt almost human again.
Almost.
“Thank you,” I said finally, pushing my plate away. “For not letting me drive. For bringing me here. For not being an asshole about it.”
“You don’t have to thank me for basic decency.”
“In my experience, basic decency is pretty fucking rare.”
Drew studied me over the rim of his coffee cup, and I could see him weighing his words. Deciding how much to say. How far to push.
“What happened last night?” he asked finally. “In the car. What were you running from?”
Everything. Nothing. The weight of my own lies crushing me from the inside out.
“Does it matter?” I deflected.
“Yes.”
The certainty in his voice made something twist in my chest. Like he actually cared. Like the answer mattered to him beyond professional curiosity or familial obligation.
I wanted to tell him. Wanted to unload every secret I’d been carrying, every piece of truth I’d been hiding, and let him decide whether I was worth saving or worth destroying.
But I couldn’t. Because telling him would put him in danger. Would make him complicit. Would force him to choose between me and the family he’d known his entire life.
And I already knew how that choice would end.
“I was just drunk,” I said, keeping my voice light. Dismissive. “Stressed about work. Rafael noticed I made mistakes, and it threw me off. That’s all.”
Drew’s eyes narrowed slightly, like he could see straight through the bullshit I was selling. But he didn’t call me on it. Just set his cup down and leaned back in his chair.
“If you’re in trouble,” he said carefully, “I can help.”
“I’m not.”
“If someone’s threatening you—”
“No one’s threatening me, Drew. I’m fine.”
The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, but I kept my expression neutral. Bored, even. Like this entire conversation was tedious and unnecessary.
He watched me for a long moment, and I could see the frustration building behind his eyes. The desire to push harder, to break through my defenses and drag the truth out of me.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he stood, collected our plates, and walked them to the sink. “I need to shower and get to the office. You can stay here as long as you need. There’s clean clothes in the guest room if you want to change.”
“I should go.”
“Cassandra.” He turned to face me, and the intensity in his gaze made my breath catch. “Stay. Please.”