The Four Seasons ballroom glitters with the kind of wealth that pretends violence doesn't exist beneath the surface.
Cassian's hand burns against my lower back above the emerald silk he chose this morning, laying it across the bed without a word. The dress leaves my shoulders bare, plunges low enough in the back that I can feel every callus on his fingers, every deliberate stroke of his thumb against my spine.
I catch myself touching my throat where his lips were during our last confrontation—ghost touches that left marks and burned like brands.
And still, I provoked him this morning. Asked him if Ivy missed sharing his bed. If he missed other women choking on his ego. Watched something dangerous flash in his eyes before he simply walked away.
I always provoke him now. It's become a game I'm not sure I want to win.
"Senator Lopez," Cassian says smoothly, all civilized monster in his custom tuxedo. "Have you met my wife?"
The senator's eyes drop to my neck before rising to my face, and I realize with hot shame that everyone can see it. The faint marks from where Cassian's mouth was last night, barely visible but there if you're looking.
And everyone is looking.
That's why he chose this dress. Not to display my beauty but his ownership.
"The Castellano princess," Lopez says, and Cassian's hand tightens imperceptibly on my waist. "Your father must miss having you around. I heard he's been... restructuring certain alliances."
Translation: my marriage shifted the power balance, and not in Father's favor.
"I doubt he's noticed I'm gone." The words come out sharper than intended, but Cassian's thumb resumes its stroking, and I realize it's approval.
He likes when I show teeth.
"Esther has a gift for cutting through bullshit," he says, his voice warm with something that might be pride. "It's refreshing, isn't it?"
Before Lopez can respond, Ivy materializes from the crowd like smoke given form. She carries two champagne flutes balanced in perfectly manicured fingers, her smile sharp enough to draw blood.
"You look absolutely stunning, darling." Her eyes rake over me, calculating and cold. "Cassian always did prefer his women delicate."
Delicate. Like the wives before me who broke so easily.
She extends one glass toward me, bubbles rising in golden effervescence. "Dom Pérignon, 1996. Your favorite, isn't it?"
Something shifts in Cassian's body—subtle, just a fractional tensing of muscles. The second I reach for the glass, his hand intercepts smoothly, fingers wrapping around the delicate crystal stem.
"Thoughtful as always, Ivy." His smile doesn't reach his eyes as he brings the champagne to his own lips. "Though I thought you'd remember—Esther prefers whiskey."
He drinks deeply, maintaining eye contact with Ivy over the rim while his free hand continues stroking my spine. When he lowers the glass, his pupils are slightly more dilated than they should be.
Ivy's smile freezes, just for a microsecond. "Of course. How silly of me to forget."
But her knuckles have gone white around her own glass, and there's murder in her eyes when she looks at me.
Cassian smoothly transitions back into conversation with Lopez, but I notice things now. The way Rafael has moved to intercept the server who served our table, guiding him discreetly toward the kitchen exits.
The server never returns.
A few minutes later, Cassian excuses himself to the restroom with the same casual grace he does everything. But I catch the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, the way his pupils have dilated further.
When he returns five minutes later, his color is slightly off, and there's blood on his cufflinks that wasn't there before—small spots, barely visible against the black platinum unless you're looking for them.
Poison. The champagne was poisoned… and he knew it. He drank it anyway rather than let me.
But why?
The auction proceeds with obscene normalcy.
Cassian bids fifty thousand on a painting he doesn't even glance at, his hand never leaving my back. But I feel the slight tremor in his fingers, see how his men have repositioned around the room's exits.
A new waiter approaches with a tray of drinks. Cassian waves him off, but when the young man insists, Cassian pulls him close with a grip that looks friendly but makes the waiter's face drain of all color.
Whatever Cassian whispers makes the boy flee toward the kitchens like the devil himself is chasing him.
He'll never serve drinks at events like this again. Might never serve anything again.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer calls. "Our final item—a week at a private villa in Tuscany."
"A hundred thousand," Cassian says casually.
Multiple gasps ripple through the crowd. The auctioneer nearly drops his gavel. "Going once... going twice... sold to Mr. Greyhaven for one hundred thousand dollars!"
"A hundred thousand for a week in Tuscany?" I murmur as applause erupts around us.
His lips brush my ear. "For a week alone with you where no one can poison you, shoot you, or interrupt us? Worth every penny."
Heat floods through me despite everything. Despite the poison, the violence, the woman in red watching us with murder in her eyes.
In the Bentley afterward, Cassian finally lets his control slip. He loosens his tie with hands that shake slightly.
"The waiter?" I ask, my voice smaller than I intend.
"Dead." His voice is rough, strained. "Bathroom stall. Apparent drug overdose. Very tragic. His family will be compensated generously."
I should be horrified. Should be sick at how easily he says it, how matter-of-factly he discusses murder. Instead, I'm watching the way he breathes—controlled but careful, like each breath costs him something.
"Why didn't you let me drink it?"
He turns to look at me fully, and something raw flickers across his face—something vulnerable and honest that I've never seen before.
"Because I'm a selfish bastard who'd rather die than watch you suffer."
"That doesn't make sense. You could get another wife. A more obedient one. One who doesn't fight you at every turn."
"There is no other wife." His hand reaches across the space between us, fingers tangling in my carefully styled hair with desperate gentleness. "There's only you."
The words hit me like physical blows, stealing my breath.
"That night… I wasn't playing a role, Esther. I was just... me. The man underneath all this." He gestures vaguely at himself, at the blood and the violence. "And you saw me. Really saw me. Not the monster, not the legend. Just me."
"So you got rid of my sister's baby and bought me?" The words come out harsher than I intend, but I need the anger.
Need something to protect myself from whatever this feeling is blooming in my chest.
"I protected you the only way I know how." His thumb strokes my cheek. "Violently. Completely. Without mercy for anyone who hurts you."
The weight of that truth fills the space between us.
He took poison for me. Killed for me. Is sitting here letting me see him weak, trusting me not to destroy him for it.
"Someone wanted me dead tonight," I say.
"Let them try again." His thumb strokes my neck now, feeling my pulse race. "I'll kill anyone who tries to take you from me."
"Even if I wanted to leave?"
His eyes darken, and for a moment I see the beast everyone fears. Then it softens into something worse—vulnerability.
"Even then. Especially then. I'd burn the world before I let you go, princess."