Every king hides something. Sometimes it wears heels and knows your name.
The studio was freezing.
Not just air-conditioned cold—but calculated. Every inch of this place was made to keep people sharp, tense, under control. Cassian would call it "optimized." I just called it uncomfortable.
I sat still while a stylist dabbed concealer under my eyes, muttering something about balance and tone. I wasn't really listening. My mind was somewhere else.
Back in the elevator.Back in his gaze.Back in the space between last night and what I didn't let happen.
My phone buzzed in my lap.
Blocked number.
"You're prettier when you're quiet."
My breath caught.
Not because of what it said.But because of how it felt.
Like whoever sent it had seen me when I wasn't quiet at all.
But it wasn't Dante.
He didn't text cryptic threats. He was the threat.
Still—my fingers curled tighter around the phone.
The door opened.
"Miss Vale?" the assistant poked her head in, eyes wide. "Someone's here to see you."
"I didn't schedule anything," I said, already half-standing.
But it didn't matter.
She walked in before I could protest.
And she—was perfect.
Tall. Tan. Hair the color of champagne and lies. A designer bag slung casually over her arm like she didn't just walk into enemy territory.
"Sorry to interrupt," she said, voice like velvet with a razor edge. "I just thought it was time we met."
My throat dried.
"Who are you?"
She smiled. Not friendly. Not kind.
"I'm the woman Cassian wakes up next to."
I blinked.
She held up her left hand.
A diamond.
Sharp enough to draw blood.
"I'm his fiancée."
Silence.
"Don't feel bad. He always has one like you. The project. The fantasy. The mess he thinks he can fix until it bleeds gold."
The room spun. Not like in the movies—slow and dramatic. No. It jolted. Cracked. Like my world had just been sucker-punched through a pane of glass I didn't know existed.
The entire room seemed to hold its breath. The stylist backed away. The assistant pretended she'd never even opened the door.
"You're lying," I said.
"Am I?"
She stepped closer. The scent of her perfume hit me—expensive, clinical, intentional. A woman who knew how to be unforgettable.
"Don't worry. He likes to keep things separate. Clean lines. You weren't supposed to find out. Yet."
I stared.
She looked back like she wasn't just standing in front of me—but above me.
"You think you're special?" she said, tilting her head. "You're just the newest story he tells himself. A phase."
I wanted to scream. Hit something. Call him.
But she was already turning.
At the door, she paused.
"If you meant more than a secret, he would've told you about me."
Then she was gone.
No goodbye.
Just that fucking scent, and a silence I couldn't escape.
I looked in the mirror.
Half my makeup done. Mascara smeared from nothing. Or maybe everything.
I didn't cry.
I didn't fall apart.
But something cracked.
Quiet. Deep. Final.
And when I walked out of that room, I didn't feel like a lover anymore.
I felt like a liability.